#-1: Wild (Last Week: -3). The winner of the first WMNSS lost this past eight days and is placed ahead of a team that didn't lose this screening week +1 (Note: I always start the new year moving the days of the week so that the first WMNSS ends the 7th, or thereabouts. The last one went up to the 30th of December, so this one encompasses eight days, New Year's Eve to the 7th [with some hedging for games that have finished Saturday afternoon, depending on whether or not I finish the survey overnight or not]). New Year's Eve was the day the Wild embarrassingly lost 4-1 at home to Nashville. But the have ripped off three straight since, and that makes them 7-3 in their last ten. We're so down on them and yet they have had a pretty good stretch this part of the season. In a weak Northwest Division, that could help a lot more than it looks at first. Therefore, I'll throw these substitutes for the North Stars a bone and put them in the top spot.
The feedback of the win over the Bastard Winnipeg Jets is a head-scratcher. The game itself was crazy; the Wild were up 3-1 when the Coyotes scored 13 seconds apart early in the third period. The Wild scored, then the Coyotes tied, then the Coyotes took the lead with three minutes left to go in regulation. But Pierre Marc-Bouchard saved the team from another shameful loss with a slapshot with 26 seconds left.
Tying the game went down to the wire; winning it in extra time was over just like that. PMB fed Cam Barker on a one-timer, and the wild win in OT, 6-5. They may be floating on the afterglow of that wild, Wild win, beating hapless New Jersey (and charter Wild Head Coach Jacques Lemaire) in New Jersey and then Boston in Boston. Very weird fact: The Wild are perfect all-time in Boston; this is their sixth straight win. That's a great, though strange, trend to lord over the current leaders of the Northeast Division.
The Wild themselves are still only third in the Northwest Division, so they still have a ways to go. Tonight (Saturday night) they face the Pittsburgh Penguins without Sidney Crosby (whew!), then immediately come home to face The Team That Was Stolen From Us; they then visit Nashville Tuesday.
#-2: Gopher women's hockey (Re-Entry!). They haven't played in so long, I thought this was a college football team. But they weren't rusty, notching a sweep with wins of 4-0 and 5-1. Of course, this was against MSU-Mankato, and this was at home, but still. Normally, a perfect weekend (capped off by that 5-1 victory that just got done this early evening) means the Gopher women's hockey team would be #-1. But the reason I don't comes to town next weekend: If they can't beat the elite teams, such as UMD, it doesn't matter what cupcakes they beat.
#-3: Gopher men's basketball (Last Week: -4). They finally get a win, a 67-63 win over doormat Indiana (aside: this is the second year of Tom Crean taking over IU. I think a little more progress is expected, and I don't see it) to open their home season. A team that's 21st in the rankings should not be struggling to beat bad squads. This week: at second-ranked Ohio St. tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon, home vs. Purdue Thursday.
#-4: Timberwolves (Last Week: -2). A 1-3 week, but I was at one of those three losses. I got a free ticket to the game Wednesday against Charlotte, and I'm afraid that loss confirms that I should never buy a ticket to see a Woofie Dogs game ever again.
They were up in the first quarter until the Bobcats came back to lead by the end of it. Charlotte then opened up a lead in the second by as many as 16, and the Wolves were behind by several points at the half. Suddenly, and shockingly, the Timberwolves came back to tie and eventually lead in the fourth. But with a few minutes left and them clinging to a four- or six-point lead, I knew there was a good chance they'd lose, or at least lose the lead. And they did, through offensive miscues, defensive breakdowns and the Bobcats getting to the free-throw line.
They didn't lose in regulation; they went to OT. And though it was back-and-forth, Charlotte finally got a three-point/two-possession lead late in the game. On the final play in OT and the Timberwolves down by 3, they looked absolutely befuddled in getting a play set up. Michael Beasley had to throw up a three-point shot. Of course it missed.
So as I kept telling my friend, we saw first a blowout, and then a collapse. We saw two, two, two losses in one!!!
This virtually wipes out the New Year's Day victory over New Jersey. They also lost at Boston (playing without Kevin Garnett) despite having a lead, and home to Portland where they never were in it. A home-and-home with San Antonio, then hosting Flip Saunders and Washington this week.
#-5: Gopher men's hockey (Re-Entry!). I went to the New Year's Day doubleheader. First of all, Bemidji St. won the Mariucci Classic despite having a losing record. Second of all, a college called Union has a top-flight men's hockey team -- and I think they're ranked.
Third of all, the Gophers are an incredibly maddening team. You should see the roster lists for the Gophs and the other three teams in the tournament. The other teams have one, one, and zero players drafted into the NHL. Minnesota's roster is replete with capitalized three-letter notes indicating which team has that player's rights. On the ice, I see the virtuosity on the ice; they can pass the puck with verve and fluidity. But then they turn the puck over in their defensive zone and the opponent, which on Saturday was Ferris St., scores. And so they tie the Bulldogs at 2 ... and this was after a 3-2 overtime loss to the Dutchmen (the nickname for Union College) New Year's Eve. Fuck this team. Seriously, fuck this team. Besides an exhibition against the U.S. Under-18 team last (Friday) night, they're off until visiting North Dakota next weekend.
#-6: Gopher women's basketball (Last Week: -5). The Pam Borton Era is over, or it should be. Two games at home. Lost both. Worst of all, the Gophs coughed up double-digit, second-half leads in both games to lose, the former of which ended in overtime.
Just glanced at the roster. Only seven of the 13 players are from Minnesota. If you're going to lose, why not lose with local kids? Just a thought.
I haven't been to a game in years. I should go, just to check out how this program has deteriortated and how much the crowd, so proud to find a good women's b-ball team, has atrophied. It won't be this week -- they visit Wisconsin and Penn St. Say hello to 0-5 in the Big Ten, ladies.
#-Infinity: Vikings (Last Week: -1). I was about to watch the final game of this disappointing, very disappointing season against Detroit. But Sunday was the last day of this lauded exhibition at the Walker by this local photographer, Alec Soth. I didn't really want to go outside the house, but I was fairly certain the ViQueens were going to lose, so I went out. The exhibition was OK, but coming back I heard that they did indeed lose to the Motor City Kitties, so I did the right thing.
Wow, what a thud. The Vikings, which I predicted would win it all this year, got old fast, and they finish last in the NFC North. Even worse than the Lions. Fucking A. That makes me think this team needs to be blown up, but they still have Adrian Peterson, Sidney Rice, Percy Harvin, Jared Allen, Kevin Williams, Antoine Winfield, Chad Greenway, Ben Leber, E.J. Henderson, and Ryan Longwell. I guess I could settle for an overhaul of the offensive line and the secondary.
Leslie Frazier was the cogent choice. However, he finished leading this interim stint at 3-3. Maybe Owner Zygi Wilf explored a home-run choice, like Bill Cowher or Jon Gruden, and failed. That's OK if he went with the safe option. But if this is the "players' choice" for coach, wouldn't he inspire them enough to notch a better record than 3-3?
Whatever. They're still going to California in two years.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
My Latest Obsession: The Garage Door
I spent most of the fucking day today trying to fix the goddamn garage door. I have no idea how to fix it. I'm still kind of peeved Father is making me do it. He thinks I can just make Chamberlain send an entire new apparatus because we have a ten-year warranty, whatever. But if he's making me do it by my damn self, I'm gonna do this my own damn way. And that damn way consisted of calling the company twice this afternoon to figure out what the hell is going on. I'm not close.
Here are the things I could, and should, be doing instead of fixing this garage door:
I think I'm over this. Or I will be very soon.
Here are the things I could, and should, be doing instead of fixing this garage door:
- Filling out my PCA timesheets. I was sent new ones because of the new year, but I can't find the packet they came in. They're in this bedroom somewhere. ...
- I need to call this guy back. Not a friend -- he was a guy I stared talking to. He seemed cool ... until he told me about his business where he gets to set his own hours and still makes boupcoup bucks and I should totally tell you about it so you can get in on the ground floor, and at no money down!!! Well, he didn't say the no money down part. Anyway, I owe it to him to give him at least a meeting. That was about a month ago. I had time this week ... until the fucking garage door went to shit.
- I haven't been able to fill out a to-do list in my Franklin Quest this month because I haven't been able to swap out my sheets for the months of December still in it, and I haven't been able to do that because I haven't filled out that month's expense sheet yet. Today or tomorrow would've been a good day to do it.
- Write, gotta write ... well, I'm doing that anyway because I have to.
- I could clean up my room ... oh, who am I kidding, I wouldn't've done that anyway.
- Ah, yes ... letters came in a few weeks ago stating that the stock settlement claim forms I helped my parents fill out have been partially and/or completely rejected, and that I have to appeal or else those findings would stand. I totally forgot about them till yesterday, and the due date for mailing back any further information supporting my parents' side is ... uh, was Thursday/yesterday. If I recall correctly, and I do hope I recall correctly, I sent those claim forms in knowing that I did all I could, and I just didn't have the complete information to give the law firm handling this settlement. I might have to go to my storage space to see if I have any of folks' old statements there.
- I could send in My Father's winning sportsbook tickets. He had a lot of winners his last trip to Vegas. I called him with some picks. I didn't see any of them in there, so I think he's the one that has a handle on this betting thing. Anyway, as soon as I'm able to write down the amount of money I expect the casino to return, I'll send them.
I think I'm over this. Or I will be very soon.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
John Mellencamp in People???
I forgot to add something else that contributed to my bad day last night: The ex-stripper to whom I gave my phone number to, the waitress that gave me a handjob a couple times a year ago, she was working again when I popped into My Favorite Stripclub. I tried to flirt with her by reminding her she has my number. But she said, "What? I don't have your number!" And then she said she got yet another new phone over the weekend. And she was stupid drunk. So I don't know what the fuck to believe.
Meanwhile, I have to send this link on People's website about John Mellencamp, whose Human Wheels album is the most underrated record by a major artist in the past quarter-century, seen stepping out in New York with new girlfriend, actress Meg Ryan. After two decades, Mellenamp split with his model-wife, Elaine.
It doesn't surprise me that John Mellencamp has switched girls; he's kind of an asshole when it comes to dumping women. And after she broke her marriage with Dennis Quaid for a torrid affair with Russell Crowe, it doesn't surprise me that Meg Ryan is seeing him. What I'm shocked about: John Mellencamp is in People?!?!?! This is going to be the first and only time he'll ever be in a tabloid. Well I'll be. ...
Meanwhile, I have to send this link on People's website about John Mellencamp, whose Human Wheels album is the most underrated record by a major artist in the past quarter-century, seen stepping out in New York with new girlfriend, actress Meg Ryan. After two decades, Mellenamp split with his model-wife, Elaine.
It doesn't surprise me that John Mellencamp has switched girls; he's kind of an asshole when it comes to dumping women. And after she broke her marriage with Dennis Quaid for a torrid affair with Russell Crowe, it doesn't surprise me that Meg Ryan is seeing him. What I'm shocked about: John Mellencamp is in People?!?!?! This is going to be the first and only time he'll ever be in a tabloid. Well I'll be. ...
Today Was A Bad Day
- Snowed today. Not the pounding blizzards we've had, but the soft, fluffy, even pretty flurries that introduces Christmas scenes in our mind. They're great if you don't have to drive in them. But I did, and I had to shovel it off our driveway, too.
- Woke up early because I needed to talk to my Grandmother's diabetes counselor that she's just not understanding how preparing the shots work. I'm glad to get the counselor to switch to a different vehicle, but I was still tired. I slept for only, like, 2 1/2 hours (although before then I slept for about another 2 1/2 hours around midnight ... hmmm, five total hours the day after I didn't have a particularly long sleep -- what happened to me?), and I needed sleep.
- But, like yesterday, everybody seemed to want to talk to me when I didn't want to be bothered. One final call from someone I left a message for about 20 minutes before I wanted to wake up convinced me my time would be better spent cleaning off the driveway of the dusting of snow we had.
- Grandmother wanted me to fill up her meds, which was cool because I was going to Target anyway to fulfill the wish of this Playboy model. But because of various reasons, I was unable to refill her prescriptions, which means I'll have to go back tomorrow.
- One of the calls I got was from a woman representing a drug study. They say I'm eligible and want me in as soon as possible ... but I can't because I'm in the middle of another drug study. I knew I couldn't, but I wanted to make sure, and my contact in the experiment I'm currently in said hell to the no. Chance for money: Gone.
- Dropped by my aunt, which became a comedy for two reasons: The money Grandmother asked me to give to my aunt became an issue with her because I forgot what Grandmother told me what the money was for; and my aunt still didn't tell me which nursing home my uncle's in. Oh, now I remember I promised you how I may be losing some family members this year: I learned from my cousin (my aunt's daughter) that he suffered a stroke over the summer and is now incapicitated somewhere over the river. I want to visit him, but this means I'll have to wake up in the morning this weekend and visit him with my folks.
- Finally, while dashing out to give a movie pass to a former co-worker of mine at a coffeeshop before heading to the Wolves game with a friend (also former co-worker, who I met at the same place of work as the guy I gave the free movie tickets to), I'm backing out of my driveway. I hit my garage door opener ... and it doesn't close. Goddamn, of course it has to happen now! I spend the next 20, 30 minutes trying to figure out what the hell happened to the garage door opener and then helping My Fucking Father figure out what happened. And that means moments of him telling me to bring the ladder "up to this spot," then yelling at me for wanting to rest it against the Mercedes even though he didn't tell me not to. Or, whining at me for not knowing off the top of my head that his hand motions meant he wanted me to pull up the garage door. Fuck you, Father, because of this I don't think I want to help with your appeal of your IPO settlement rejection. Disrespecting asshole.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Really Dumb Reason Not To Work Out
I need to exercise more. Father seems to agree; I've gone out to work out Monday night and Tuesday (last) night. Have to shake out the winter doldrums. Besides, Dancing With The Stars and America's Next Top Model aren't on during the winter.
I've been running late this week, parking well past 8 when I gave myself a drop-dead time of 8 after which I conclude that it's too late to actually put in any workout worth having, but I guess I don't care anymore. Anway, I was listening to the end of the Wild's victory over the Bastard Colorado Rockies, so after I parked and turned off my car, I sat there and listened. It took about five or ten more minutes, but again, I was late already, so who cares?
So they win and I'm happy, and I get out of the car. My gym bag is in the trunk because I won't ever forget it if it's there. It's really cold, so my car doesn't go into the trunk keyhole, and I have to touch the button inside my driver's-side door. So I push it and the trunk doesn't open. And I still push and it still doesn't open. You're kidding me -- I can't work out now because it's so cold the trunk won't open?
After a couple minutes of pushing the button and trying to use the WD-40 (I have a mini one with the detachable nozzle, and goddamn I hate that when I jam that straw into the keyhole it slips out of the canister hole) and thinking and feeling sorry for myself, I come to the conclusion that there's no use. I can't work out because I can't open the fucking trunk.
What do I do now? Can't go home; I wouldn't know what to say to Father as to why I was back so soon: "Uh, my trunk won't open and my gym clothes are there?" Won't eat -- already did, already too fat. Ooh, titty bar? Tomorrow, I'll go tomorrow. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I decided to go to Uptown and get some tea. It's a walk-around type of neighborhood; I'll just exercise by doing a little window-shopping, in single-digit-degree weather.
Parking was a bitch, and the wind was too. But I was at least warm inside my car -- which got me to thinking. I had the rear defroster on from the community center to Uptown. It should be warmer in the back of the car. So I try the trunk button one more time. And goddamn, sure enough, the trunk opens. It was was warm enough for the latch to unhook. It probably was when I just shut off my car at the gym. But since I stayed in my car to listen to the end of the Wild game, the cold and the wind froze the latch shut. If I just immediately went out to get my bag, I could have, because the warm trunk would have opened. So that's why I couldn't go to the gym: Five to ten minutes of waiting in the car.
The tea place closed at 8; when I drank there it was 11. Dinked around a few places, went into a bookstore. Thought about heading into Cheapo, but I guess I forgot because it was so cold I wanted to get to the coffeehouse and warm myself up. Flavored shot in a white mocha comes to $4.25 with tip. Yeesh, that seems way high, even though it's My Favorite Coffeehouse. At least I finally had the time to put my receipts in order. Got home a quarter to 11, about 15-20 minutes later than I would have.
So I drank coffee instead of exercising, which meant I spent a little more money, got a little fatter, and used up more gas at a time when it's been at three bucks per gallon for an eerily long time and may shoot up to the $3.06 I saw on gas stations on the way to the community center. And all because of five to ten minutes of waiting in the car.
I've been running late this week, parking well past 8 when I gave myself a drop-dead time of 8 after which I conclude that it's too late to actually put in any workout worth having, but I guess I don't care anymore. Anway, I was listening to the end of the Wild's victory over the Bastard Colorado Rockies, so after I parked and turned off my car, I sat there and listened. It took about five or ten more minutes, but again, I was late already, so who cares?
So they win and I'm happy, and I get out of the car. My gym bag is in the trunk because I won't ever forget it if it's there. It's really cold, so my car doesn't go into the trunk keyhole, and I have to touch the button inside my driver's-side door. So I push it and the trunk doesn't open. And I still push and it still doesn't open. You're kidding me -- I can't work out now because it's so cold the trunk won't open?
After a couple minutes of pushing the button and trying to use the WD-40 (I have a mini one with the detachable nozzle, and goddamn I hate that when I jam that straw into the keyhole it slips out of the canister hole) and thinking and feeling sorry for myself, I come to the conclusion that there's no use. I can't work out because I can't open the fucking trunk.
What do I do now? Can't go home; I wouldn't know what to say to Father as to why I was back so soon: "Uh, my trunk won't open and my gym clothes are there?" Won't eat -- already did, already too fat. Ooh, titty bar? Tomorrow, I'll go tomorrow. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, so I decided to go to Uptown and get some tea. It's a walk-around type of neighborhood; I'll just exercise by doing a little window-shopping, in single-digit-degree weather.
Parking was a bitch, and the wind was too. But I was at least warm inside my car -- which got me to thinking. I had the rear defroster on from the community center to Uptown. It should be warmer in the back of the car. So I try the trunk button one more time. And goddamn, sure enough, the trunk opens. It was was warm enough for the latch to unhook. It probably was when I just shut off my car at the gym. But since I stayed in my car to listen to the end of the Wild game, the cold and the wind froze the latch shut. If I just immediately went out to get my bag, I could have, because the warm trunk would have opened. So that's why I couldn't go to the gym: Five to ten minutes of waiting in the car.
The tea place closed at 8; when I drank there it was 11. Dinked around a few places, went into a bookstore. Thought about heading into Cheapo, but I guess I forgot because it was so cold I wanted to get to the coffeehouse and warm myself up. Flavored shot in a white mocha comes to $4.25 with tip. Yeesh, that seems way high, even though it's My Favorite Coffeehouse. At least I finally had the time to put my receipts in order. Got home a quarter to 11, about 15-20 minutes later than I would have.
So I drank coffee instead of exercising, which meant I spent a little more money, got a little fatter, and used up more gas at a time when it's been at three bucks per gallon for an eerily long time and may shoot up to the $3.06 I saw on gas stations on the way to the community center. And all because of five to ten minutes of waiting in the car.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Person Who Should Be Fired: That Bitch At That Coffeehouse
I can't take it any longer. I've had such uniquely snippy service there that, even though I'll probably go there again this year, some time, I have to fuckin' call them out: Spyhouse Coffeehouse in Uptown.
I don't know about these guys ... it's like the combination of surly baristas, bitter espresso and awful esoteric music are all signs that say to a customer, "You suck, and if you patronize our coffeehouse, we'll laugh at you as soon as the door hits you in the ass on your way out." I always come in hoping to enjoy my drink and some alone time without incident, and yet there's usually a small interaction, or some aspect of the store, that sullies my visit.
It was customer service this time, New Year's Eve, the final hours I was desperate to utilize to finish my column (I failed, by the way). My favorite coffeehouse was not open NYE, and neither was the teahouse close by. I needed a place to clear my head and do some work, so I settled on the Spyhouse. I was relieved to see it open; I shouldn't have been.
There were two girls working that night. There's this one girl who's really small and quiet. I think I've snapped at her once before for not being able to speak up, but that has always been me being childish and lashing out because of a real indignity one of her co-workers did to me. But she was the one who took my order, and broke the news that they weren't closing at their customary hour of midnight, but at 10, or in about 45 minutes or so. Shit.
So she goes away to make my mocha, and so this bitch rings me up. To celebrate, this wacky chick is wearing a party hat off one corner of her hat. But underneath that stupid hat and her stupid-ass "2011" glasses I still recognize her as the chick who scolded me for forgetting to ask for whip cream on my mocha. She couldn't have looked more ... ironic in communicating that she was feeling festive. Babe, douchebags hang hats on their side. Wiggers hang hats on their side. You're not making a comment on society; you just look stupid.
So I made up this internal judgement of her when she said my mocha was $3.50. What set me off was when she dumped my change in my hand without even saying thanks. Of course this bitch wouldn't say thanks -- she's in her own little world where donning New Year's Eve glasses at work and putting on a party hat incorrectly makes her the Princess of the Ball!
So that colors my feelings towards seeing the other girl there, the mousy one, make the coffee. I was going to the far end of the restaurant, towards the counter where all the lone wolves open up their laptops and start surfing porn or whatever. From there, I can see the barista and the coffeemaker. Right over the counter where I was were sinks for washing the dishes. And I thought, Well, shit, once you're done with that, why don't you walk down here and give me my coffee? I felt so slighted that I thought that was the appropriate remedy. Now of course that wouldn't happen -- the coffees have always been served up at the front -- and it didn't happen. But I had to deal with this surly cunt, so I wanted my coffee right where I was setting up camp and doing work, dammit!
And the surly cunt, by the way, didn't dispose but threw the papers left out for customers to read into the trash. Looks like somebody has New Year's Eve plans where she can keep wearing the glasses and the hat on the corner of her fucking head! Why throw? Why not just toss? You ddin't want to be there, did you, you cunt, and that's why I was non-existent to you, huh? Bitch, if you don't want to work there, just do what I did, and quit. Quit! And you can go to as many parties looking like a douchebag wigger princess as you like!
Whatever, I have to get back to work. The last thing a man in an agitated state should be drinking is coffee. Anyway, I'm settling in when I see the cord fall of the chair next to me, where I put it, and dangle off the counter. Well, what fucking hell is this bullshit, I ask in my head. And I turn around and The Mousy One was sweeping up around and in front of each of the chairs at the counter to get a head start on cleaning.
And again, it is not something to blow up over, but my anger towards her co-worker friend I transferred to her. I push out my chair, I get up, and I make a big deal out of this:
"What? What?!"
"I ... I'm cleaning. I didn't know it was on that seat."
"Fine-fine-fine." (I pull out my chair to assist her, sarcastically.)
"No, that's fine."
"No, please, I insist. Look, you missed these two receipts on the floor."
"No, that's OK. I have to come back here anyway."
Lady, I've cleaned floors at my parents' store. The first thing you learn is you try and clean the floor once. But the damage was done. She now knows me as the Weird Asshole Who Had A Meltdown And Yelled At Her. I really think The Mousy One isn't that bad when it comes to customer service, but I know that after 10 o'clock close those two would be all, "Hey, what the fuck was the deal with that Asian asshole? Idiot."
The Cunt made sure all of us scattered for places besides the Spyhouse when she unplugged the house modem about, oh, seven minutes before they actually closed. That's never happened at My Favorite Coffeeshop. That's why they're My Favorite Coffeeshop.
So she bumrushed me out. Fine. The Cunt vigorously, yet half-assedly went through washing the cups and silverware (and by this time she, thank fucking God, took off that stupid hat and those stupid glasses). And again, she was at the sink, close to me, and between me and the tub where we're supposed to put our cups and silverware. I was going to put it in that tub, but since she's already there washing, and she so fucking wants us customers out of her hair, why not help her a little bit by giving her the spoon I used to stir my drink? Or, better yet, throw it at her head to show her how goddamn disgusted I was with her bitchy customer service?
But I don't want to be arrested, do I? So I settled for what a compromise I thought up as I was packing up. I stood, hoisted my computer bag over my shoulder, took out the spoon from the paper cup, went by the counter to where The Cunt was still working, and softly tossed -- not threw -- the spoon onto the counter, where it made a racket, but hopefully didn't bounce enough to hit her. Don't know; didn't turn around.
And on my way out I hear that idiot bitch say, "Happy New Year!" Oh, now you're being warm and inviting and talkative? No; she probably detected my hostility (even though I doubt she realized her part in it) and decided to be all hipster/Pitchforky sarcastic on me. Oh, quit, or be fired, or die, bitch. Please!!!
I don't know about these guys ... it's like the combination of surly baristas, bitter espresso and awful esoteric music are all signs that say to a customer, "You suck, and if you patronize our coffeehouse, we'll laugh at you as soon as the door hits you in the ass on your way out." I always come in hoping to enjoy my drink and some alone time without incident, and yet there's usually a small interaction, or some aspect of the store, that sullies my visit.
It was customer service this time, New Year's Eve, the final hours I was desperate to utilize to finish my column (I failed, by the way). My favorite coffeehouse was not open NYE, and neither was the teahouse close by. I needed a place to clear my head and do some work, so I settled on the Spyhouse. I was relieved to see it open; I shouldn't have been.
There were two girls working that night. There's this one girl who's really small and quiet. I think I've snapped at her once before for not being able to speak up, but that has always been me being childish and lashing out because of a real indignity one of her co-workers did to me. But she was the one who took my order, and broke the news that they weren't closing at their customary hour of midnight, but at 10, or in about 45 minutes or so. Shit.
So she goes away to make my mocha, and so this bitch rings me up. To celebrate, this wacky chick is wearing a party hat off one corner of her hat. But underneath that stupid hat and her stupid-ass "2011" glasses I still recognize her as the chick who scolded me for forgetting to ask for whip cream on my mocha. She couldn't have looked more ... ironic in communicating that she was feeling festive. Babe, douchebags hang hats on their side. Wiggers hang hats on their side. You're not making a comment on society; you just look stupid.
So I made up this internal judgement of her when she said my mocha was $3.50. What set me off was when she dumped my change in my hand without even saying thanks. Of course this bitch wouldn't say thanks -- she's in her own little world where donning New Year's Eve glasses at work and putting on a party hat incorrectly makes her the Princess of the Ball!
So that colors my feelings towards seeing the other girl there, the mousy one, make the coffee. I was going to the far end of the restaurant, towards the counter where all the lone wolves open up their laptops and start surfing porn or whatever. From there, I can see the barista and the coffeemaker. Right over the counter where I was were sinks for washing the dishes. And I thought, Well, shit, once you're done with that, why don't you walk down here and give me my coffee? I felt so slighted that I thought that was the appropriate remedy. Now of course that wouldn't happen -- the coffees have always been served up at the front -- and it didn't happen. But I had to deal with this surly cunt, so I wanted my coffee right where I was setting up camp and doing work, dammit!
And the surly cunt, by the way, didn't dispose but threw the papers left out for customers to read into the trash. Looks like somebody has New Year's Eve plans where she can keep wearing the glasses and the hat on the corner of her fucking head! Why throw? Why not just toss? You ddin't want to be there, did you, you cunt, and that's why I was non-existent to you, huh? Bitch, if you don't want to work there, just do what I did, and quit. Quit! And you can go to as many parties looking like a douchebag wigger princess as you like!
Whatever, I have to get back to work. The last thing a man in an agitated state should be drinking is coffee. Anyway, I'm settling in when I see the cord fall of the chair next to me, where I put it, and dangle off the counter. Well, what fucking hell is this bullshit, I ask in my head. And I turn around and The Mousy One was sweeping up around and in front of each of the chairs at the counter to get a head start on cleaning.
And again, it is not something to blow up over, but my anger towards her co-worker friend I transferred to her. I push out my chair, I get up, and I make a big deal out of this:
"What? What?!"
"I ... I'm cleaning. I didn't know it was on that seat."
"Fine-fine-fine." (I pull out my chair to assist her, sarcastically.)
"No, that's fine."
"No, please, I insist. Look, you missed these two receipts on the floor."
"No, that's OK. I have to come back here anyway."
Lady, I've cleaned floors at my parents' store. The first thing you learn is you try and clean the floor once. But the damage was done. She now knows me as the Weird Asshole Who Had A Meltdown And Yelled At Her. I really think The Mousy One isn't that bad when it comes to customer service, but I know that after 10 o'clock close those two would be all, "Hey, what the fuck was the deal with that Asian asshole? Idiot."
The Cunt made sure all of us scattered for places besides the Spyhouse when she unplugged the house modem about, oh, seven minutes before they actually closed. That's never happened at My Favorite Coffeeshop. That's why they're My Favorite Coffeeshop.
So she bumrushed me out. Fine. The Cunt vigorously, yet half-assedly went through washing the cups and silverware (and by this time she, thank fucking God, took off that stupid hat and those stupid glasses). And again, she was at the sink, close to me, and between me and the tub where we're supposed to put our cups and silverware. I was going to put it in that tub, but since she's already there washing, and she so fucking wants us customers out of her hair, why not help her a little bit by giving her the spoon I used to stir my drink? Or, better yet, throw it at her head to show her how goddamn disgusted I was with her bitchy customer service?
But I don't want to be arrested, do I? So I settled for what a compromise I thought up as I was packing up. I stood, hoisted my computer bag over my shoulder, took out the spoon from the paper cup, went by the counter to where The Cunt was still working, and softly tossed -- not threw -- the spoon onto the counter, where it made a racket, but hopefully didn't bounce enough to hit her. Don't know; didn't turn around.
And on my way out I hear that idiot bitch say, "Happy New Year!" Oh, now you're being warm and inviting and talkative? No; she probably detected my hostility (even though I doubt she realized her part in it) and decided to be all hipster/Pitchforky sarcastic on me. Oh, quit, or be fired, or die, bitch. Please!!!
Monday, January 3, 2011
My Latest Time At The Strip Club
I went to this club a couple months ago, but I was afraid of blogging until now.
So I needed to know once and for all if Justine was not going to give me a handjob anymore. I was ready to make the switch now that I have Candice to satisfy my needs, but I was willing to give Justine one more chance.
I went on a Thursday, which may have provided one more wrinkle: Zyra was there. I fulfilled my naughty dream my previous visit when I showed her and Justine my cock at the same time. But I kind of surpised Zyra as she walked in, and she wasn't really, shall we say, happy with my dick. (Meanwhile, Justine seemed infuriated with my move. Once again, if you ask me if I'm an exhibitionist, you have to take the responsibility that I'll prove that I'm an exhibitionist.) Then again, Zyra didn't say she was sad to see my manhood. So since she was there again, I'm going to see if she's a bad girl.
Who saw me first? Either Candice or this new girl was onstage, I don't remember. Zyra walked over and saw me, so I waved at her. She may not have recognized at me at first, but I waved to her again as I walked up to the stage, and I think she finally recognized me. She then walked over to the couches where all the strippers hang out and lounge, and that was where Justine was, eating something out of her Tupperware. She didn't recognize me either, but after Zyra sat down next to her and said something to her, Justine looked at me, smiled, and waved. Is it that dark in there? Was I gone that long?
I tipped onstage; assuming it was Candice, I was glad to see her, but I was told her I wanted to wait before going to the side couches with her. If worst comes to worst, at least I can end my visit by getting off with her help.
---
So Candice or the new girl's set is over and I see Zyra come over. Well, maybe she isn't mad. I'll take her over to the couches and see.
Her dance was hot -- grinding, getting close and shit. I tried to move my hands over her petite titties, but I saw the guy who mans the front pacing up and down the row of beds. When the fuck did that start to happen?
Zyra was so good that she started to get me real hard. I told her that, and she said (I think) "I can tell." You can tell, huh? You can't really tell ... until I take it out. And as she was riding my crotch, I reach into my fly and show her how she made me feel. She didn't touch it. And she didn't recoil in disgust, but she did take the sides of my fly and cover my cock with them. Mental note: She does not get dirty, at least not in the couches.
So I was halfway genuine when we finished our two dances and I told her she was great. I then got up to give her my money and leave, but I was still hard. Maybe she'll just give me a quick yank. So while we were standing up, I take out my pee-pee again. I should've pressed the issue by saying something like, "Do you wanna touch it? Please touch it. Touch it. Touch it!!!" At least then Zyra would say something like, "I would, but only in the VIP." But I didn't. What I actually said was, "Are you offended?"
"With that? No. I don't mind."
"Mind what?"
"Penises."
OK. I didn't know where else to go from that. We had to leave so I put myself away.
---
Justine was next. Glad she was done with lunch. I promised myself I'd give her one more spin on the bed. Maybe she just had a bad night last time, or the heat was on. I really, really wanted things to be back to the way things were.
I look out of the bedroom to make sure there was no stripper as a waitress tonight. There wasn't. Good, because I had the privacy to turn towards Justine, unbutton my pants, and show her my genitals. I remember seeing it look like a flower in bloom, my thistle popping out, nestled in my matted-down cock hair.
To which Justine replied, "Put that away!" and she was angry again. God, what's her deal? She continues to rail on me: "Didn't I tell you to put it away the last time?!" And I couldn't really react. I just stood there, unblinking and silent. I didn't know what to say. This was like all the time my parents yelled at me before they started hitting me.
So I buttoned myself up like she ordered me to and we started out dance. She didn't thrust for my genitals even once. I meekly asked if she wanted to give me a handjob, but she didn't even bother. But she did ask questions that had nothing to do with the dance, but my attitude.
"Are you mad?", Justine asked.
"No, I'm not mad. I just feel. ..."
"Do you hold a grudge?"
"No, I don't. (That's a lie. I'm all about grudges. That's what this blog is for.) Do you?"
"No."
"Well ... I don't hold grudges, but I remember things. Like money. This guy tried to friend me on facebook and I reminded him he owes me thirty bucks."
"That's nothing. My former roommate owes me $500 and I know I'll never get it back."
"Why not?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. I know I'll never see her again. It's fine."
"So if you don't hold a grudge, why won't you give me a handjob?"
"Because you were talking shit about me on the Internet."
"What?!?! No I wasn't!!"
"You weren't? Oh, never mind."
"What do you mean?"
"Forget it."
"Well then, give me a handjob."
(So, I guess this means one of two things. Either she looked at another website and thought the nasty comments she saw about herself were ones I wrote ... or, she stumbled upon this blog. I don't think I was talking shit about Justine ... but I guess I am now. I'll say in my defense that I didn't criticize her until she accused me of critcizing her.)
So the bed dance was completely clean, and I was seething inside. Justine was being outwardly cordial, but I think she knew what she did. So with smiles and farewells, I gave her the $90 I owed her -- no tip -- and she was on her way. We used to leave together. Here, Justine left first, well in front of me. She walked away from a regular, too.
---
So, bewildered as I was, I went to Candice, the surefire ball-drainer.
It was the same thing as before: I could go to the bed, she reaches into her purse and gets her lube. But this time I wanted her to be less business-like and a bit more, um, romantic. So, even though I hate asking strippers to do something because it immediately dispels the magic in the room, I asked Candice to, this time, unbutton my pants for me.
She did. And she paused after she finished. To me, that pause was her way of saying, "Ooh, here comes the pee-pee." And she handled my business, quite forcefully. It felt really, really violent at first, but then something in my vas deferens or something clicked on, and I was ready to gush by the end of the first song.
What's funny was that around the time I was cumming, I saw the guy right outside. I think he caught us! "No," Candice said, "they do that all the time." No they don't. But if we can do this shit even with him walking around making sure nothing happens, well, even better!
She's my new all-time favorite.
---
There were only four girls working this time. The new girl was named Stella, a cute and small brunette with small boobies. I was just sitting down eating my free lunch and/or recuperating from the dick-twister I got from Candice when I saw The Guy whisper something to Stella in the lounge couches. Whenever she wasn't dancing or asking for laps, she was just sitting in her seat, curled up in a book she was alternately looking at and writing in. I like wallflowers, the shy type. They're more genuine. Better that than girls who hustle all the damn time; Stella didn't want to. Honesty's sexy.
But this was a workplace, and apparently The Guy told Stella that she couldn't just sit and doodle in her book, so she got up and started a conversation with me. These are usually contrived affairs that make me wince, but Stella really is a cool chick, and I learned a lot about her. That book she was concentrating on, for example, was a drawing book; she hobbies as a fashion designer. Stella allowed me to look; she's got some awesome designs. Not saying that she's going to be the next Stella in the fashion world, Stella McCartney, but from this untrained eye, she has talent. I hope she and her boyfriend get their money and act together, retrieve their car from the impound lot, and drive over to the fabric place to get some dresses or costumes together to sell to either civilian women or strippers.
I got a dance from her at some point during my visit. She didn't grab my stick, not even close, but knowing that she has a boyfriend, and that she seems really nice, I'd feel bad if I did expose myself. I tried touching her boobies too, but The Guy came around again. How does he know?
So I needed to know once and for all if Justine was not going to give me a handjob anymore. I was ready to make the switch now that I have Candice to satisfy my needs, but I was willing to give Justine one more chance.
I went on a Thursday, which may have provided one more wrinkle: Zyra was there. I fulfilled my naughty dream my previous visit when I showed her and Justine my cock at the same time. But I kind of surpised Zyra as she walked in, and she wasn't really, shall we say, happy with my dick. (Meanwhile, Justine seemed infuriated with my move. Once again, if you ask me if I'm an exhibitionist, you have to take the responsibility that I'll prove that I'm an exhibitionist.) Then again, Zyra didn't say she was sad to see my manhood. So since she was there again, I'm going to see if she's a bad girl.
Who saw me first? Either Candice or this new girl was onstage, I don't remember. Zyra walked over and saw me, so I waved at her. She may not have recognized at me at first, but I waved to her again as I walked up to the stage, and I think she finally recognized me. She then walked over to the couches where all the strippers hang out and lounge, and that was where Justine was, eating something out of her Tupperware. She didn't recognize me either, but after Zyra sat down next to her and said something to her, Justine looked at me, smiled, and waved. Is it that dark in there? Was I gone that long?
I tipped onstage; assuming it was Candice, I was glad to see her, but I was told her I wanted to wait before going to the side couches with her. If worst comes to worst, at least I can end my visit by getting off with her help.
---
So Candice or the new girl's set is over and I see Zyra come over. Well, maybe she isn't mad. I'll take her over to the couches and see.
Her dance was hot -- grinding, getting close and shit. I tried to move my hands over her petite titties, but I saw the guy who mans the front pacing up and down the row of beds. When the fuck did that start to happen?
Zyra was so good that she started to get me real hard. I told her that, and she said (I think) "I can tell." You can tell, huh? You can't really tell ... until I take it out. And as she was riding my crotch, I reach into my fly and show her how she made me feel. She didn't touch it. And she didn't recoil in disgust, but she did take the sides of my fly and cover my cock with them. Mental note: She does not get dirty, at least not in the couches.
So I was halfway genuine when we finished our two dances and I told her she was great. I then got up to give her my money and leave, but I was still hard. Maybe she'll just give me a quick yank. So while we were standing up, I take out my pee-pee again. I should've pressed the issue by saying something like, "Do you wanna touch it? Please touch it. Touch it. Touch it!!!" At least then Zyra would say something like, "I would, but only in the VIP." But I didn't. What I actually said was, "Are you offended?"
"With that? No. I don't mind."
"Mind what?"
"Penises."
OK. I didn't know where else to go from that. We had to leave so I put myself away.
---
Justine was next. Glad she was done with lunch. I promised myself I'd give her one more spin on the bed. Maybe she just had a bad night last time, or the heat was on. I really, really wanted things to be back to the way things were.
I look out of the bedroom to make sure there was no stripper as a waitress tonight. There wasn't. Good, because I had the privacy to turn towards Justine, unbutton my pants, and show her my genitals. I remember seeing it look like a flower in bloom, my thistle popping out, nestled in my matted-down cock hair.
To which Justine replied, "Put that away!" and she was angry again. God, what's her deal? She continues to rail on me: "Didn't I tell you to put it away the last time?!" And I couldn't really react. I just stood there, unblinking and silent. I didn't know what to say. This was like all the time my parents yelled at me before they started hitting me.
So I buttoned myself up like she ordered me to and we started out dance. She didn't thrust for my genitals even once. I meekly asked if she wanted to give me a handjob, but she didn't even bother. But she did ask questions that had nothing to do with the dance, but my attitude.
"Are you mad?", Justine asked.
"No, I'm not mad. I just feel. ..."
"Do you hold a grudge?"
"No, I don't. (That's a lie. I'm all about grudges. That's what this blog is for.) Do you?"
"No."
"Well ... I don't hold grudges, but I remember things. Like money. This guy tried to friend me on facebook and I reminded him he owes me thirty bucks."
"That's nothing. My former roommate owes me $500 and I know I'll never get it back."
"Why not?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. I know I'll never see her again. It's fine."
"So if you don't hold a grudge, why won't you give me a handjob?"
"Because you were talking shit about me on the Internet."
"What?!?! No I wasn't!!"
"You weren't? Oh, never mind."
"What do you mean?"
"Forget it."
"Well then, give me a handjob."
(So, I guess this means one of two things. Either she looked at another website and thought the nasty comments she saw about herself were ones I wrote ... or, she stumbled upon this blog. I don't think I was talking shit about Justine ... but I guess I am now. I'll say in my defense that I didn't criticize her until she accused me of critcizing her.)
So the bed dance was completely clean, and I was seething inside. Justine was being outwardly cordial, but I think she knew what she did. So with smiles and farewells, I gave her the $90 I owed her -- no tip -- and she was on her way. We used to leave together. Here, Justine left first, well in front of me. She walked away from a regular, too.
---
So, bewildered as I was, I went to Candice, the surefire ball-drainer.
It was the same thing as before: I could go to the bed, she reaches into her purse and gets her lube. But this time I wanted her to be less business-like and a bit more, um, romantic. So, even though I hate asking strippers to do something because it immediately dispels the magic in the room, I asked Candice to, this time, unbutton my pants for me.
She did. And she paused after she finished. To me, that pause was her way of saying, "Ooh, here comes the pee-pee." And she handled my business, quite forcefully. It felt really, really violent at first, but then something in my vas deferens or something clicked on, and I was ready to gush by the end of the first song.
What's funny was that around the time I was cumming, I saw the guy right outside. I think he caught us! "No," Candice said, "they do that all the time." No they don't. But if we can do this shit even with him walking around making sure nothing happens, well, even better!
She's my new all-time favorite.
---
There were only four girls working this time. The new girl was named Stella, a cute and small brunette with small boobies. I was just sitting down eating my free lunch and/or recuperating from the dick-twister I got from Candice when I saw The Guy whisper something to Stella in the lounge couches. Whenever she wasn't dancing or asking for laps, she was just sitting in her seat, curled up in a book she was alternately looking at and writing in. I like wallflowers, the shy type. They're more genuine. Better that than girls who hustle all the damn time; Stella didn't want to. Honesty's sexy.
But this was a workplace, and apparently The Guy told Stella that she couldn't just sit and doodle in her book, so she got up and started a conversation with me. These are usually contrived affairs that make me wince, but Stella really is a cool chick, and I learned a lot about her. That book she was concentrating on, for example, was a drawing book; she hobbies as a fashion designer. Stella allowed me to look; she's got some awesome designs. Not saying that she's going to be the next Stella in the fashion world, Stella McCartney, but from this untrained eye, she has talent. I hope she and her boyfriend get their money and act together, retrieve their car from the impound lot, and drive over to the fabric place to get some dresses or costumes together to sell to either civilian women or strippers.
I got a dance from her at some point during my visit. She didn't grab my stick, not even close, but knowing that she has a boyfriend, and that she seems really nice, I'd feel bad if I did expose myself. I tried touching her boobies too, but The Guy came around again. How does he know?
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Watching Sunday Night Football's "Winner"-Take-All Fail
How did I get so tired? So I woke up early to take my sister and brother-in-law to the airport yesterday, then I go home to sleep for a little bit, then watched hockey games all afternoon and evening, stayed up to blog, then went to sleep for a few hours before being woken up by Grandmother this morning.
Then I remembered I still had to finish writing about tonight's Seahawks-Rams game. It's the last game of the NFL's regular season, and the winner of the game would get a playoff spot, and the other wouldn't. Added storyline: Both teams are terrible. The Bastard Cleveland/Los Angeles Rams came into the game at 7-8. The Seattle Seahawks? 6-9. And they were at home. They had a chance to become, I believe, the first team in NFL history to finish below .500 and make the postseason.
However ... the first slate of games didn't enthuse me. And today was the last day of this exhibition about this locally-based photographer at the Walker. The exhibition's gotten rave reviews, and this guy is apparently getting noticed nationally. I think. And I was up. So instead of watching the last woebegotten game of the Vikings' season, I went to the Walker. Is this the first time I chose art over sports? Maybe it was an effort to not get yelled at by my parents to clean the house when they got home.
Anyway, the Vikes lost and the other game was a laugher, so I think I made the right decision. And I didn't feel tired through dinner. But just before tonight's game, I crashed. I remember seeing the Sunday Night Football countdown clock on the screen showing eight minutes until it started. And then I remember nothing.
Then I was woken up by my Grandmother. Just before I slept I told her to wake me when she was ready to eat. So I helped her with her diabetes test and insulin injection (she still can't do it by herself), and then I went back to my bed to see that my TV was still on and that the Seahawks were leading 7-3. And then I remember nothing. I guess I was so tired I fell asleep with the game on, loudly. Twice.
I woke up for good a quarter to 11 to see that the converter turned itself off. And when I turned it back on, the late news was on. And even though it was a boring game, turned out Seattle won and indeed are headed into the playoffs despite losing more games than winning.
I wanted to see that. But I was too goddamn tired.
And to top it all off, I have to race to blog about this because I haven't blogged for the day.
Then I remembered I still had to finish writing about tonight's Seahawks-Rams game. It's the last game of the NFL's regular season, and the winner of the game would get a playoff spot, and the other wouldn't. Added storyline: Both teams are terrible. The Bastard Cleveland/Los Angeles Rams came into the game at 7-8. The Seattle Seahawks? 6-9. And they were at home. They had a chance to become, I believe, the first team in NFL history to finish below .500 and make the postseason.
However ... the first slate of games didn't enthuse me. And today was the last day of this exhibition about this locally-based photographer at the Walker. The exhibition's gotten rave reviews, and this guy is apparently getting noticed nationally. I think. And I was up. So instead of watching the last woebegotten game of the Vikings' season, I went to the Walker. Is this the first time I chose art over sports? Maybe it was an effort to not get yelled at by my parents to clean the house when they got home.
Anyway, the Vikes lost and the other game was a laugher, so I think I made the right decision. And I didn't feel tired through dinner. But just before tonight's game, I crashed. I remember seeing the Sunday Night Football countdown clock on the screen showing eight minutes until it started. And then I remember nothing.
Then I was woken up by my Grandmother. Just before I slept I told her to wake me when she was ready to eat. So I helped her with her diabetes test and insulin injection (she still can't do it by herself), and then I went back to my bed to see that my TV was still on and that the Seahawks were leading 7-3. And then I remember nothing. I guess I was so tired I fell asleep with the game on, loudly. Twice.
I woke up for good a quarter to 11 to see that the converter turned itself off. And when I turned it back on, the late news was on. And even though it was a boring game, turned out Seattle won and indeed are headed into the playoffs despite losing more games than winning.
I wanted to see that. But I was too goddamn tired.
And to top it all off, I have to race to blog about this because I haven't blogged for the day.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Happy New Year
Startling conclusion when I was going to a party last night: I can't really remember much of what happened to me in 2010, and I don't know if I could encapsulate the year with a theme. I don't know why or if I'm just failing to think hard enough, but the year, when I look back on it as I near death, is just a blur.
I didn't do anything substantial, besides writing more seriously, I guess. Didn't go back to work, though I tried, Lord I tried. Nothing really bad happened to me, although some really shitty raw deals happened to me family-wise. Didn't lose anyone -- although I got some bad news about a family member, more details later. Didn't get laid, though paid for a hell of a lot of sex acts. Didn't really accomplish anything awesome, either.
Steady as she goes, possibly, for me in 2010. What I've always feared is that my actions would cause me to lose something, whether it be someone close to me or some material thing I prized or even a goal I've had for myself. Of course, they always say you can't get really get anywhere without risking something. I certainly haven't gotten anywhere, but I haven't lost it all, either. I'm hanging on to a level of medicore, or acceptable, quality of life, and I'm either clueless or content.
Maybe I should ask more for myself in 2011, but I know that if it's like 2010, I'm A-OK with that.
Happy New Year!
I didn't do anything substantial, besides writing more seriously, I guess. Didn't go back to work, though I tried, Lord I tried. Nothing really bad happened to me, although some really shitty raw deals happened to me family-wise. Didn't lose anyone -- although I got some bad news about a family member, more details later. Didn't get laid, though paid for a hell of a lot of sex acts. Didn't really accomplish anything awesome, either.
Steady as she goes, possibly, for me in 2010. What I've always feared is that my actions would cause me to lose something, whether it be someone close to me or some material thing I prized or even a goal I've had for myself. Of course, they always say you can't get really get anywhere without risking something. I certainly haven't gotten anywhere, but I haven't lost it all, either. I'm hanging on to a level of medicore, or acceptable, quality of life, and I'm either clueless or content.
Maybe I should ask more for myself in 2011, but I know that if it's like 2010, I'm A-OK with that.
Happy New Year!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)