Friday, November 30, 2007

I'm Cheating and Predating this Post

Today is a sad day for all high school physics teachers. The greatest practical application of the effects of gravity, momentum, and force on the human body has died. Robert Craig “Evel” Knievel was a jackass who rose to pre-internet pseudo-fame in the 1970’s. Everyone knew who Evel Knievel was. One of my favorite toys as a six year old boy was an Evel Knievel motorcycle that I could rev up and send hurtling through space, just like the real thing. He never looked before he leapt. He never thought first, let alone all the way through. He just said screw it, let’s do this. I was watching a retrospective about Evel on ESPN and I forgot how stupid his stunts were. He tried stuff that had no hope of success. I don’t have a problem with him trying to jump fifteen buses to get on television, but I do think it’s funny that he tried it with a motorcycle that couldn’t go faster than seventy-five miles an hour when he needed a bike that would go at least eighty to clear bus number fifteen. He was in his late thirties and early forties when he doing this. He wasn’t your run of the mill sixteen year old wannabe X-Games rookie, so youth can’t be blamed. He had gone from a high rate of speed to no speed at all instantly before and had spent months in traction for it, so I would think spending the extra thousand dollars on a better bike with a bigger engine would have been worth it to him. No, it wasn’t. Evel bounced on bus fourteen of fifteen, his front tire caught the front of the ramp, he slammed into the ramp, and lay motionless on the ground. The laws of physics thought it was funny as hell. There had to be engineers, physicists, and anyone not named Wile E. Coyote who would look at the ridiculous carnival contraptions and know there was no way bones weren’t getting broken. Hopefully Maybe, we would see somebody die. Evel never did. He walked out with a broken pelvis, two broken ankles, a broken wrist, and his head held high – by someone else. Today is a sad day for high school physics teachers. The greatest text to world connection in the history of education is gone, moving the video of a teenage girl giving birth into the number one spot. No it’s not over, Caitlyn. It looks like the doctor is going to have to reach in, with both hands, and pull out the after-birth.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Mailing It In.

Why the hell am I up at this hour? I had a late appointment tonight and then I had to do MJ's work gladly helped out as is my privilege as a teacher's husband. I don't have anything to say, but I don't want to break my blogging streak, especially since Cora has already blogged to night to carry the streak to thirty-two days straight. I don't if tomorrow will be any better because I'm going to spend the day with LMJ, and while I adore my baby girl she's not the best conversationalist just yet. Raspberries aren't thought provoking -- the Bronx cheer, not the fruit. I also wouldn't consider fatigue a full fledged muse. I could write about a whole bunch of drama going on at MJ's school, but that would disqualify about seventy or eighty potential blog readers. All I know is that I'm really happy I don't work for DCPS. I apologize for the crappy post but it still counts.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

$5 of Regular and Check the Oil, Please

I am blogging tonight while sitting in a figurative gallon of my own feces. I pressed the power button on my trusty hp pavilion ze5200 and it told me it couldn’t find an operating system. What do you mean you can’t find an operating system? I haven’t moved it and nobody else is here, so you should know where it is. I’m sure we’ve all had this moment, and it wasn’t as bad as it could have been since I’ve backed up most of my stuff. But that error message is never welcome. I bought my pc in January of ’03 so I think I’ve gotten my money’s worth out of it, but I don’t want to buy a computer right now. I’m scared to buy a Mac; I won’t buy anything with the Vista taint, and it’s silly to buy a new computer with an old operating system. When I bought this machine it was buff and it was the stuff. It’s almost five years later and it’s not obsolete. It’s a notebook running a Pentium 4 processor, which has always outperformed its little sister Centrino. It’s hot, it’s heavy, and it still clocks faster than any other notebook I’ve ever seen 4.2 GHz. The only machines I’ve seen with faster processors were towers designed specifically for high-end video games and cost at least five thousand dollars. The new duo processor has finally caught up to my dinosaur Pentium, but it does it through efficiency and not raw muscle. My hp is a 1972 Cadillac Brougham (pronounced Bro-ham) in a Honda Civic world, and I’m running on fumes hoping I don’t conk out at the back of the gas line.

Tougher Than a $2 Steak: Part II

LMJ’s first tooth is poking through. I found it yesterday. What’s strange is that she hasn’t been exceptionally fussy, or maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe she really is just hard-core.

Remember Bad Idea Jeans?

We heard a woman screaming, “Let go of me! You’re hurting me!” outside a few minutes ago. I thought it was kids playing, but then I thought what if it isn’t. So I hurtled out the door in order to give chase – in flip-flops. I learned that I’m more agile in running shoes. There were people outside, which is strange in our neighborhood, and I got worried. A lady asked me if I knew her, the screaming woman. I said no, and headed down a dark street after two guys in their late teens or early twenties. I was starting to come up with a plan to deal with the two yutes if things got physical – lose the flip-flops was step 1, step 2 was don’t die – it’s not that I was trying to be a badass but at this point I still thought the screamer was a little girl and if I’m not willing to stand up for a little girl then I suck. A small wave of relief washed over me when the lady who had asked me if I knew the screamer earlier said it was coming out of a specific house. I walked up to the house, staying off the property as step 2 become more precise – don’t get shot. I shouted, “Is everything okay?” A big guy came out of the door. Where the hell are the little guys that buy the Old Navy medium t-shirts? The big guy told me that he was arguing with his wife and she started screaming specifically so people would come outside. He said she had run off into the neighborhood. I took his word for it – what else could I do – and let him know that if there was anymore screaming I would call the police. He was cordial so I find myself believing his story, but if his wife does wind up dead at least I have a story to tell the cops, “Officer! Officer! I saw the whole thing. You can read about it on my blog!”

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Thanks Cora Spondence

I have now officially blogged for thirty days in a row. I was wondering what I should write about for this challenge's ultimate entry, and I decided I would write about writing this blog. I was talking to this one guy who kind of lurks on a number of blogs but doesn’t feel comfortable about writing. He says he has a problem not censoring himself and he doesn’t really have anything to say, which is crap because he’s smart and funny, but in a in a one hundred percent heterosexual way. I’m not gay. Sure I did some gay porn in college, but that was gay for pay. I needed beer money, and I was always the top. I’m proud of Revenge of That Won’t Fit and Who’s the Wide Receiver Now. Anyway, this got me thinking about what all writers who volunteer their work for other people to read, whether it’s through a major publisher or on a blog, have in common. They (we) are all arrogant enough to think we either have something original to say or we can say something better than it has been said. I think this little group of ours tends to do both. Our group consists of actual professional writers – meaning they have received repeated remuneration for their written words, teachers, a historian – H is a consonant, a marketing exec – our newest member, two grandmothers who write sporadically but hopefully this will encourage them to write more often, and the sexiest financial planner in the history of the universe – Martha Stewart is second so… yeah. I enjoy reading your writings as much as I enjoy the feedback I get on mine. I even enjoy MJ’s editing. She lets me know when I’ve misspelled something or when I’ve crossed a line of good taste or that if it’s on the internet it’s admissible at trial. I’ve enjoyed this month of writing because it’s gotten easier to write. Instead of just focusing on what I’m writing, I’m able to notice little nuances and patterns. I’m able to recognize my “style”. I’ve gotten a character for LMJ to grow up with and a way for young Elizabeth Graves to snatch jellyfish out of the sea – that is so stolen. Ten posts a month was my arbitrary goal for this before Cora’s leap, and I jumped in so she wouldn’t be alone, not thinking it would become a daily catharsis. Now I don’t know if I can stop, and I know the rest of you better not stop. I need stuff to read. I think we should set a twenty post monthly minimum. We could be a blogging gang – The Eastside Scribes.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Academy Awards Suck Anyway

Cora Spondence wrote yesterday about the lack of critical acclaim for science fiction, and I commented that it’s because sci-fi starts with, imagine. The Twilight Zone literally started with it. The Academy doesn’t want any part of it. They want simple archetypes. Every single year the Best Actress Oscar goes to a hot chick playing an ugly chick that overcomes hardship: Nicole Kidman, Charlize Theron, Halle Berry, Hillary Swank (twice). The Best Actor Oscar goes to a big star playing someone with a disability: Tom Hanks (twice), Dustin Hoffman, Al Pacino, Russell Crowe. I will give credit to the Academy for giving the Best Picture award to some decent films recently: The Departed, The Lord of the Rings, Chicago, Gladiator. None of them are sci-fi and none of them are particularly imaginative. LOTR, the story, was imaginative when Tolkien wrote it seventy-five years ago. The Departed, which I really liked, is a remake of a Hong Kong action flick called Infernal Affairs from 2002. I thought that was plagiarism, but Matt Damon and Jack Nicholson were in it so it must have been the best.

Sci-fi has to be the exact opposite of other genres. It always has to be original. I think the best example is M. Night Shyamalan. The Sixth Sense isn’t better than Unbreakable or Signs, it just came first, and then he got stuck playing the same riff. Jim Carrey, on the other hand, can play the exact same note over and over again and not lose a thing. We want that from him. The reason Battlestar Galactica works is because the writers took a Star Wars rip-off with a great premise that they loved as kids and turned it on its ear. They recast a bunch of male characters as females, ratcheted up the intensity, scraped away the cheez, and constantly ask, “What would happen if…” Sci-fi has to make the audience think and a lot of times it forces us to think about things we’d rather not, which is why it has trouble with critics. Most good sci-fi isn’t optimistic about the future of humanity. Most good sci-fi follows the theme of Planet of the Apes; we’re all chimps and it’s just a matter of time before we burn everything to the ground. No one, not even you Cora, left Blade Runner humming the soundtrack.

Sci-fi also has to overcome working without a net. There is no emotional context available before the show. When Shakespeare movies are made the period is often moved, whether it’s Hamlet moved from the 14th century to the 19th or Romeo & Juliet moved to the 1990’s. Both were adored by critics. Titus, which is Titus Andronicus moved into the future, didn’t seem to work because the audience had to struggle to make references. The masses think Terminator 2 is better than the original because there are already emotional connections to the characters. WARNING LJ IS ABOUT TO FLUNK A GEEK TEST AND PROCEED INTO TEMPORAL PHYSICS : The Terminator was a great sci-fi movie and went into great detail explaining why T2 or any subsequent sequel couldn’t happen. First, the reason Arnold is covered in flesh is because only organic material can travel through time. Second, the machines sent Arnold back; the humans sent Reese back and smashed the time machine or at least were in control of it. The machines couldn’t send back Robert Patrick or Kristanna Loken because they never could have been developed, and if they could have been developed the machines just would have sent back three Kristanna Loken models to the three different time periods since she was, by far, the most advanced. But neither Robert Patrick nor Kristanna Loken could have come back through time because they were both liquid metal and not organic as it was explained in the first movie. So it's absolutely impossible for The Terminator sequels to be better than the original since they couldn't happen. Dick Sargent is not Dick York.

Wow! That got out of hand quickly. Maybe critics just don’t like dealing with people like me, which I completely understand.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Just Spit Ballin'

Hermione Granger, Brenda Leigh Johnson, Temperance Brennan, and Helena Cain (even if she does have a liquor license, which is such limousine liberal crap if they don’t bother to show a sex scene) are the strong fictitious women that are on my mind right now. Up until a year ago I wouldn’t have given them much thought, but now I think about the characters LMJ will encounter as she grows up reading books, going to movies, and watching television. And since I truly believe that if I want something done right then I should do it myself; I will come up with a heroine suitable for my baby girl. Her name will be Elizabeth Graves – for a number of reasons that I may or may not get into at some later date. Right now I’m trying to create a strong female who is feminine, but not afraid to rip someone’s heart out and make them stare at it while they die. But she’s not a psychopath, which may disqualify me as a creator because we can only write what we know. There are a bunch of characters out there like this but none are quite right. She’s going to come from a stable loving family of adventurers instead of the orphan with the checkered past rescued by the Man. She’s going to be reluctant to go into the family business. She’s going to have magical powers, but I don’t know how strong they will be. I don’t want her to be Q, but I do want her to be more than Buffy. I’m thinking something Jedi like, but not queer. Man did Hayden Christensen mess everything up. I want her to save the world but she won’t have to sacrifice her soul to do it. She’s American. She lives in Florida, but spends a lot of time with her grandfather, who may or may not be dead, in the Caribbean. I don’t know if she’s in her teens or in her early twenties. She’s sweet and compassionate but she has a ruthless self confidence. That’s all I have for right now, but I would like to steal any and all of your ideas and pass them off as my own vis-à-vis Elizabeth Graves so please comment.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

This Has All Happened Before and This Will All Happen Again

I just finished watching Battlestar Galactica: Razor and I was on the edge of my fracking seat for the entire two fracking hours. They advertised the extended, unrated, uncut version which will be available December 4th. Guess what I’m buying on December 4th. Something happened to cable TV over the last ten years when basic cable niche networks like Sci-Fi started producing their own original series. HBO has been doing it for about twenty years, but I don’t count them because they are a premium service that gets most of its money from subscribers. Basic cable channels still have to sell a lot of advertising to make ends meet, so it’s a little bit more difficult to step out on a limb since it’s greased with fickle capricious advertising money. Battlestar Galactica is harsh. It doesn’t sugar coat or sanitize anything about the hard choices leaders have to make to help ensure the survival of the human race – literally. Most of us reading this are in favor of a woman’s right to choose, but what if there were only 45 thousand people left and we were trying to avoid being wiped out by a group of space robots? Does the philosophy of personal choice have its limits? There is no way Battlestar Galactica could be on broadcast television, but it and other shows on basic cable are helping raise the bar of shows that are on broadcast television. I know people are turning away from the crap that’s on network TV to watch The Closer. I think the days of New York City looking like Muskegon, Michigan are over. I think people would call BS on a show like Friends if it premiered today. I don’t mean that it wouldn’t get on the air – i.e. that caveman show – but I don’t think David Schwimmer would able to get himself a million dollar an episode deal. Not that I want to playa-hate but So Say We All.

Friday, November 23, 2007

I'm Gonna Be in Ten Forward Getting Drunk

There was a Star Trek: Enterprise marathon on today. I didn’t watch any of it for a number of reasons. First, I didn’t know it was on until 9:45 p.m. Second, I’ve already seen all of them. And D, Enterprise is my least favorite Star Trek incarnation. It did, however, get me thinking about the nature of the premise of Star Trek and how ridiculous it is. The United Federation of Planets is a utopian society where all the women are thin with big boobs and only wear clothes that are tight, unless it’s a skirt in which case it’s short. Everyone is totally focused on the greater good so the hooker gear doesn’t really matter. The men are still your run of the mill slobs with spare tires – yes I’m talking about you Riker. What I want to see is Star Trek: Slacker. I want to see the lazy bastards, aka the vast majority of humanity, who aren’t motivated by a carrot but only by a stick. I want to see, “So Sub-Commander T’pol, how badly do you want to be Commander T’pol?” “Lt. Dax, I need help with my Captain’s log.” I want to see the captain who’s two months away from retirement say, “Hell no, I’m not going into the Neutral Zone. Send that dumbass Picard. I will be cataloguing the effects of doing jack squat for the next two months, after which you can send the U.S.S. George Costanza anywhere you want.” Where is Ensign Kissass-Saveass? “Hey, it was the Klingon. You know what they're like.” What’s funny is that Gene Roddenberry got it right the first time. Jim Kirk new he’s was out there all by himself and not getting paid, so as far as he was concerned he’d make up the rules as he went along and tag as much booty as he possibly could. The only person to ever screw with Kirk twice was Khan, and he was a genetically enhanced mucho macho hombre dressed in fine Corinthian leather.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

7500 Calories Later

It’s Turkey Day so I’m going to do the obligatory “Stuff I’m glad I have in my life” post. We just finished dinner with my all of the grandparents (I wonder what they’re thankful for?) and I am thankful for my relationship with them. Not everyone has a good relationship with their families, and I don’t mean the “I think mom drinks a little bit too much during the holidays” kind of relationship. My ma and pa are two of my favorite people in the world. Actually, we’re kind of a nauseating Will Rogers scene with all the goodwill and happiness going on. Both MJ and I have hit the mother-in-law lottery. When we started dating Ronald Reagan was President. We used to watch Johnny Carson together. We had LMJ in May of 2007, yet there was never any pressure applied to procreate. How about your mothers (in-law)? I know a couple who got back from their honeymoon with the message, “So, is there any news?” on the answering machine. How do you get along with your mother-in-law?

I’m thankful for friends dumb enough to run a half-marathon and finish it smiling. EJG and JSG went running in the rain this morning and lived to tell the tale, which makes me think I can do it. Since I’ve already signed up for one in February this is a good thing. I’m thankful for friends with the cojones to call someone out on their passive racism to their face. Cora Spondence is the motherfu*&ing man. I’m thankful for friends who I’ve known for a billion years who started blogging as a time capsule for their little one, which helped push me to start this piece of life stealing crap. I’m thankful for having so many great people in my life.

Hopefully, at some point in the next few years all of the wonderful people that I know will be able to get together for Thanksgiving and be the gluttonous Americans we are; eating and drinking too much. I’ve mentioned this in my perfect day post along with knowing I’ve had more than my share of perfect days. I’m just a lucky guy.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Tougher Than a $2 Steak

Today was shot day here in Shangri La. LMJ had to go to the doctor for her six month check up and immunizations and MJ convinced me to get a flu shot. Last time was not fun at all. It was the angriest I’ve ever seen her, and I thought today was going to be the same. It wasn’t she made her daddy so proud. Now, I’ve been a professional wrestling fan for thirty years. I used to watch it with my grandmother, and one of my all time favorites was, and is, Jesse “The Body” Ventura. After he left wrestling, but before he began governing Minnesota, he was an actor in a couple movies. His greatest role was Blain in the greatest guys’ movie ever, Predator[i]. When Blain is informed that he’s been shot and is bleeding he responds, “I ain’t got time to bleed”. That’s how LMJ dealt with her shot today – almost. She cried for about twenty seconds and was genuinely angry for another ten, but she’s six months old so we cut her some slack in the badass department. There is an unconfirmed, unsubstantiated rumor that LMJ complained about her three shots less than MJ complained about her one. I am in no position to comment, let alone confirm or deny, that this is or was the case. As a matter of fact we’re not going to deal with this issue at all. This post is about LMJ being a big girl, a tough cookie, a world class trooper. What I can confirm is that after voluntarily letting someone pump poison into my arm if I get the flu the bitching, moaning, whining, complaining, and bitching will be jacked up to notches unimagined with some moaning on the side.

[i] There is no argument on Predator’s place in the Pantheon of guy movies. While there are many better films than Predator there are no better guy movies. To put it in perspective, the Beatles White Album is considered by many to be the best album of all time, but Straight Out of Compton is an infinitely better gangsta rap record.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Yesterday Was A Good Day to Die

Exercise is funny. Yesterday I damn near died because my new weight training program is flat out stupid and so am I. However, I do have a modicum of good sense. I’m not dumb enough to Gym Jones my legs then try to run three miles in under a half an hour – not yet anyway, that’s for December. There was no weight lifting today so I did like EJG and JSG and enjoyed a brisk morning six mile run from my house down to the Jacksonville Landing and back. On the way down to the Landing I thought I was taking the easy way out because I was cruising effortlessly at about an eight minute mile pace, but I had forgotten that to the Landing is down hill while from the Landing is up hill. This is the way to do it. I’m excited because I’m getting back into shape. The run home wasn’t comfortable but it wasn’t excruciating. I even had enough left to smile at a nun I passed in the last half of a mile. She scowled at me like I was Pontius Pilate or Martin Luther. Why are nuns so fracking nasty? Be nice you old bat. I remember hearing something about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. They always seem to have the disposition of a honey dipper with a hole in his boots. I would think that a life of contemplation and service to God would at least make them cordial if not downright cheery, but I guess not. Anyway, I didn’t even have to start bargaining with myself – just make to the corner, okay the next stop light, okay you can make it to St. Vincent’s – until the last mile. I wanted to finish in under an hour and I came in at fifty-two minutes, and that’s with having to stop for rush hour traffic twice. I had to time myself with LMJ’s Itzbeen timer because my trusty Ironman watch died after fifteen years. I tried running with my Citizen but it weighs about five pounds and bangs on my wrist which becomes painful after about a mile. I would have bought a new Ironman but the cheapest one was forty bucks and the last one I bought, fifteen years ago, was twenty. So I’m using a baby timer and rushing upstairs so I can get a rough idea, at best, of how fast I ran. Sometimes is rough being a cheap bastard.

This was just too funny not to post.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam (Today Is A Good Day To Die)

JSG and EJG have a ½ marathon coming up in a few days. JSG wrote a post about how she’s looking forward to finishing because she’s never run that far. She writes about enjoying running. I wish I felt that way, but that feeling died with me the instant I crossed the finish line of the River Run last year. Then a day or two later when the times were posted I saw that a guy I knew from high school finished in just under an hour, so I set the completely unrealistic goal of beating his time for the 2008 race. This attitude has dissolved any kind of joy I get from races, which is probably why I haven’t been running as many. For example, today after I finished my weight routine, which burns about eight hundred calories in twenty minutes, I ran three miles in under thirty minutes. This is the best I’ve done since becoming a Gym Jones disciple, but when I finished I was pissed because it took me more than twenty-five minutes. It hurt the whole time. I found myself thinking fitness clichés like, pain is just weakness leaving the body. I walked a half a mile to cool down, but my heart rate wouldn’t drop. I honestly thought that I had overdone it this time. Then I decided to stop being a euphemism generally reserved for the female genitalia and take some deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth. I have an uncle who finishes the Ironman Triathlon. I ran three miles in twenty-eight minutes and change. I hadn’t done anything special. After seven deep breaths my heart was fine. I felt exhilarated. I’d earned a protein bar. If you don’t have a near death experience then it’s not really a workout. I stretched, drank some water, and drove home. Tomorrow is leg day.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Guest Blogger.

Should 8th Graders Should Be Allowed to Have Cell Phones at School: An FCAT Prompt

Don’t you think it’s important to be a prepared as you can possibly be in an emergency? I mean come on, not having something you need can cause major problems in an emergency. This is why I, Britney Susan Sunshine Garcia actress at Lavilla School of the Arts (LASOTA) in Jacksonville, Florida, think that 8th graders should be allowed to have cellular phones at school, in case they have to make an emergency call. Take for example my best friend Kaiytlyin Scimaone Stephens. She is an 8th grade dancer at LASOTA and one time she forgot her lunch and she has her dance class right after lunch and the dance teachers are really tough and make their students work really hard during class which really does make them better dancers but Kaiytlyin didn’t have any lunch so she was really exhausted during her dance class and she almost fainted twice but the teacher just made her keep working even though you could tell her blood sugar was really low and she could have died. Now if Kaiytlyin had been allowed to have a cell phone at school she could have called her mom – between classes of course because education is the most important thing - at work and her mom could have either gone home and made Kaiytlyin something and brought it to school or she could have stopped somewhere and gotten her something to eat. I mean that just really makes sense doesn’t it? And it’s not like we would even have to have it on unless we really needed it so it wouldn’t even ring during classes and if our parents needed to reach us we could check our voice mail between classes on the way to our lockers. It has truly been my pleasure to convince you that 8th graders should be allowed to have cellular phones at school.

Thank you,

Britney Susan Sunshine Garcia.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

En el Proximo Sabado Gigante

Estoy intentando escribir esto en español, pero es el fin de semana y no recuerdo lo que aprendí en la universidad hace diez años.

Okay, now my brain hurts. I won’t lie. I broke out the 501 Spanish Verbs, the Spanish-English dictionary, and if I had any commitment I would break out the Spanish Idioms. Still, me not talk pretty one day, me talk pretty right now. MJ was commenting on her blog and thought it would be cool if we all wrote a post in whatever foreign language we learned in college. Her statement is the example in Clichés for Dummies for the easier said than done entry. I still understand Spanish pretty well. I can follow what’s going on with Rafael and Isabel on a telenovela. I can’t speak Spanish to save my life. If I got dropped in Argentina I could get home but I wouldn’t be able to get Gabriela to give me free tango lessons. I wish I did speak more languages. I had a couple of classes with a Ukrainian kid at UNF. He spoke Ukrainian, Russian, French, and English fluently. I want to be able to do that but there’s absolutely no need for it here in the US and even less need here in Jacksonville. So I never get to speak Spanish and it’s atrophied in the decade since I took my last class. I imagine in Miami and in certain parts of Tampa it’s difficult to function if you don’t speak Spanish. You’re missing huge chunks of the flavor of the city if you only speak English. In Jacksonville you don’t even really need to know English. All you need to know is go Gators, I’m a Republican, and Yes, I’ve accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal savior. I love living in Jacksonville, but it’s not a hot bed of curiosity. I couldn’t live in Miami, but its Latin vibe is intoxicating. We need to bring some of it up here. We’ll send them some water from the St. Johns and they can send us algunas cubanas. Three years ago George Lopez said we’d all be speaking Spanglish in two years. Well, sabes que, I’m still waiting pendejo.

Friday, November 16, 2007

LJ’s Four

LMJ and I had an unusually busy day. It was free family portrait for employees day at Lavilla School of the Arts, and MJ thought we should take advantage. So I got my baby girl dressed. I put on a tie, which is a monstrous fracking deal. One of the big reasons I do what I do for a living is that I get to decide whether or not I want to wear a tie. I hate ties. I look good in ties but I hate them – little conformity nooses. I put on a jacket (see previous blood pressure spike) and we went to LASOTA to have our first family portrait done. LMJ is a professional. She cranked up the cuteness to levels unheard of, and smiled when she was supposed to smile. A memo to the male companions of the women that came in contact with LMJ today: You’re welcome. She’s the reason you’re wife/girlfriend/chick you met in a bar and gave a fake name is in the mood for love, and I’m the one who bit the bullet and dragged her downtown. One funny thing is that LMJ looks a lot like her mama in the pictures. Usually people say she looks just like me. After we were done with the pictures LMJ and I stopped by CG’s work. CG works at the Sally Corporation and they build robots and amusement park attractions. While CG enjoyed seeing her granddaughter in the middle of the day, I enjoyed the robots and shooting gallery. LMJ was sleepy and hungry so didn’t enjoy the tour as much as I did. Our last adventure for the day was playing cat burglar. CG locked herself out of her house due to the state of paranoia she and MJ had worked themselves into last night. We were out of ideas and about to break a pane of glass when MJ remembered a window that might be open, so I got a ladder and did my master thief thing. I imagined Ocean’s Eleven but it was much more My Name is Earl. To my credit though there were a lot of glass objects on the counter underneath the window, and I didn’t break a single one. I figure if I was a burglar I’d only get shot in the face six out of ten times.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Plutonium on a Stick?!? Can I Have Two?!?

Of all the Publix grocery stores in the universe ours is the smallest, but that didn’t stop them from putting a baby grand piano in the foyer with the carts, the scale, and all of the entering and exiting customers and staff. They also had people handing out free samples of everything from shrimp to pomegranate 7-up. It’s Christmas time. Well, not really, it’s not even Thanksgiving yet but this is America. I don’t mind. Christmas is my favorite time of year so if it gets started early that’s fine with me. This is generally MJ’s attitude as well, but she has a lot on her mind right now, and she hates crowds. When grocery stores give out free stuff crowds gather. MJ got antsy. She could tell the moment we heard the “singer” butchering some carol that it was going to be a stressful trip. I thought it was funny; kind of like Christmas Vacation. It was about 5 o’clock so the store was as packed as it gets anyway. The free stuff kiosks in the small store didn’t help. I was fine until people wouldn’t get out my way so I could shop. I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy for people waiting in line for free frozen meatballs in a crock pot. I’ve never understood why people feel they have to have something just because it’s free. Don’t they know the meatballs are there to boost the sales of Kaopectate and Pepto-Bismol? MJ wanted to get out as quickly as possible. I wanted to make sure we got everything we came for and if some people got bumped with my cart, too bad. Some guy trying to double up on free nine dollar wine is not going to stand in the way of me getting some frijoles negros. It’s nine dollar wine. That’s a half a step up from Mad Dog, and I doubt it comes in peach. If you need to sneak a second sample of some knock off Boone’s Farm then it’s time to become a friend of Bill W. Now I was starting to simmer so we got in line to check out, and the lady in front of us actually knew her PIN. MJ didn’t lose it and start screaming at people. LJ didn’t lose it and start throwing things at people, and we got everything we came for. It was a successful trip. God bless us, everyone.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

It’s the Master Race

Thank God for the second amendment. Slapstick might be dead without it. After reading this article and watching this video I was OTFLMAO. That’s on the floor laughing my ass off. I’ll bet dollars to donuts that at least two of the people involved scratch checks on a yearly basis to The National Rifle Association. Guns don’t kill people; retards do. The only thing that would have made this better is if Einstein and Oppenheimer were using crossbows. Dude tried to loosen a lug nut with a double barreled shotgun. Get some PB Blaster. Even if it does ricochet you won’t wind up in the hospital filled with double-ought buckshot. As for the chick and her friends/family, all I can say is holy mother of God. Camouflage: check. Video camera: check. High Powered Rifle: check. Synaptic function: not so fast my friend. I’ve never fired anything more powerful than an air rifle but I could tell she was holding the gun wrong and what happened was going to happen. Why couldn’t the jackass in the camo tell? Was he too busy living out his Steven Spielberg fantasies? Well maybe not Spielberg, he’s a Jew. Not Coppola or Scorsese they’re both Catholics. Definitely not Spike Lee, definitely not Spike. Dammit! camo guy was breaking new ground – and his sister/cousin/girlfriend’s nose. Then they treated the broken nose wrong. Tipping your head back went out of style before Physical Graffiti was released. What about the doctors who had to treat these two rocket scientists? Does stuff like this push the Hippocratic Oath to its breaking point? Are doctors thinking, “I’m working thirty-six hour shifts, and I’m three hundred grand in debt so I can stitch up stupid people that are going to, invariably, complain that I’m charging them too much to stop their bleeding and dig out little balls of lead before they get infected and they die a slow, painful, gangrenous death? I should have gone to law school.”

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Dollar Dollar Bills Y'all

Cora Spondence wrote yesterday about organizing her clothes by color and wearing schedule. While I’ve never done that, I have organized my one dollar bills by the federal bank from whence they were issued and serial number. I was working for my dad about twelve years ago, and he used to pay me in cash. I never felt like going to the bank so I just rolled like a drug dealer or a pimp. Side note: when I was a teen my buddy Dave and I would cash our crap job checks and drive around holding our eighty dollar wads out the window while blaring Eric B. and Rakim’s Paid in Full – good times. Since I never went to the bank I figured a good way to save money would be not to spend one dollar bills. If something cost eighty-five cents I’d pay with a five. If something cost five dollars and one cent I wasn’t giving up exact change to make a clerk’s life easy. Give me back my four dollars and ninety-nine cents. It’s a really good way to save – we won’t get into the zero growth. After about a month I had a stack of more than two hundred dollars in ones. I would have been set if I was into strip clubs, but I’m not. I went to one once. The hooker young lady I’m sure was just dancing on tables to put herself through law school, but at 4am when the club closed she wasn’t interested in coming back to a hotel room with four guys she just met in a strip club. Getting shot down by a stripper and seven dollar mandatory Miller Lites and the nine dollar cover charge and having to wear a shirt with a collar, you know, to keep the riff raff out, forced me to rate strip clubs as giant wastes of time and money. Anyway, I had a whole bunch of one dollar bills organized by federal bank and serial number, more than five hundred when I finally deposited them – the teller was thrilled – then I got a check card and the method just hasn’t worked since.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Running is Mentioned in this Post

I ran today for the first time in a while. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I ran. I’ve been doing my cardio on the elliptical. It’s a lot easier on my body, but it’s beyond boring. Tonight the whole clan loaded up and headed to the track down at the YMCA. MJ and CJ strolled with LMJ in her jogging stroller while I ran around in circles for three miles. I thought I was going to be in trouble because of my running lay off, and I still may. Check with me tomorrow afternoon. But I did my eighteen laps comfortably in about twenty six minutes, which isn’t too bad as a starting point. I’m gearing up for the River Run in March with a half marathon thrown in during February. The weight has been coming off, but the holidays are starting. We had Swedish meatballs tonight. I’m glad I did the run because while they may not be low in calories, they are still possibly the greatest thing in the history of the universe. If I weigh less than 225lbs. on January 2nd I’ll call that a success, even with MJ’s dairy issues. Or are they LMJ’s dairy issues? Speaking of dairy, the Swedish meatballs call for cream. When I’ve made them in the past I’ve always used heavy whipping cream, but this year we’re trying goat’s milk. MJ said it tasted like goats smell. I thought it tasted like milk, and since it didn’t gross me out I want to try other milks: horse milk, yak milk, tiger milk, etc. If it’s a mammal, I want to sample its milk. Rodents don’t count. How are you going to milk a rat anyway? I guess I just want to try milk from herd animals because some group of people from some part of the world drink it, so why shouldn’t I? I want to try the super-predators’ milks because it’s just hard fracking core, and I’m not right in the head. Just think about it, a tiger’s milk turns a one pound kitten into 350lbs. of mobile death sentence in under a year. How could anyone not want some of that?

Sunday, November 11, 2007

The Suspension of Disbelief

I had some gastrointestinal distress this evening, so I spent an inordinate amount of time in my sanctum sanctorum. I’ve finished my run through the Harry Potters, and I’m in a book decompression stage so I relied on my video iPod. I’m going through the Battlestar Galacticas. Strangely, the iPod’s tiny screen gives the show an extra boost of realism. Anyway, I’m thinking about all the female skin jobs (if you don’t know what a skin job is then I suggest the procurement of a clue, newb) and I wonder if this is really how the Cylons see human women. The smallest of the human style Cylons is Sharon Valeri aka Boomer aka Athena who comes in at a petite 5’9”. All of the females that we know about are stop traffic gorgeous. Are the Cylon android architects a couple of frat boys? I thought the idea was for them to blend into humanity, and not to be noticed. The only place these women wouldn’t stand out is in that George Michael video with all the supermodels. I can understand having one version look like that; the one that needs to persuade Baltar to give up the defense net codes, but a pilot and a television reporter looking like Grace Park and Xena would get noticed, especially if there was more than one copy of each. We're not going to get into the fact that they're all nymphos. At least we're not going to get into it today. I remember every single hot chick I ever met more than once. You show me her picture, and I’ll tell you her name and where I met her. I want to know where the Kathy Bates Cylon is. “Now you listen to your momma Bobby Boucher; humanity is da debbil!”

Saturday, November 10, 2007


I don't have anything to write about so I'll just kind of chronicle what happened today. I woke up to LMJ talking to herself -- very loudly. She comes by it honestly. My side of the family is loud. When we get together for holidays there is a din. She wasn't unhappy; she just had some things she needed to say. I love waking up like that. The fact that it was Saturday and 7:30 instead of 5:00 was gravy. I had to go into work today to print some stuff I need for tomorrow, which sucked. I hate working on the weekends, but LMJ needs stuff so I go into work on the weekends sometimes. The printer worked fine today, but the Modis building people were doing painting prep work again. It seems like they paint the walls once a month. After work we, meaning MJ, LMJ, and ya boy, went to LASOTA's newest production Pulp Fiction: the Musical. The profanity didn't bother me, that's the way kids talk anyway, but the violence and drug use I thought were a bit much for a middle school play, especially the ball gags and butt rape. It got a little awkward in the theater. I'm just kidding. They did The Fabulous Fable Factory. It was nice but it wasn't as edgy as Pulp Fiction: the Musical would have been. We dropped LMJ off with Grammy, and MJ and I went to Publix to get the fixin's for tempura. We got a bunch of veggies, some shrimp, and some chicken. We always have a little trouble with the chicken because it has to cook so long that the batter isn't right, and we have to get chicken because I don't like shrimp very much. We overcame the chicken problem tonight. MJ had the brilliant idea to try to make General Cho's chicken like we get at P.F. Chang's. We made the chicken tempura like we always do then we sauteed it with some spicy sauce and veggies and served it over rice. We frackin' nailed it on the first try. The only adjustments we'll make in the future are pre-cooking the chicken so we don't have to fry it as long and the batter will be right, and possibly cutting the chicken into smaller pieces. Other than that we nailed it. The night is ending just like it began with LMJ happy as can be in a brand new set of PJ's. Factoring in the Christmas atmosphere we're forcing, I'm going to give today a solid six and a half. It would have gotten a higher score but Florida State is Florida State and they drive me up a wall.

Friday, November 9, 2007

A Challenge to LMJ

I read Mom 101’s most recent post with more than a little empathy. I am trying to hold on to my musical hipness with tooth and nail. I don’t know if what I am about to write is actually insightful or just sour grapes. Popular music has become more and more extreme as time has gone on. Elvis and Little Richard scandalized the world with their blatant sexuality in the ‘50’s. Mick Jagger and Marvin Gaye went further in the 60’s, with Gaye actually taking a meaningful rebellious political stand. Eric Clapton sang about his love of booger sugar in the 70’s. And in the 1980’s, my music, slammed into the ceiling of extreme with Gangsta Rap and Death Metal. In ’84 and ’85 Metallica had between ten and forty thousand kids, depending on where they were, screaming “DIE, DIE, DIE” every night. In ’89 N.W.A. had everyone under twenty-five screaming F&*K the Police. Now those screaming kids are parents with teenagers, and for the first time in popular music history the kids can’t shock the parents with their music. Our parents were shocked by Madonna’s whorish dress and behavior. We think Britney is just kind of sad. Christina Aguilera can’t make us blush with her Dirty video. All we think is wow; she really has a good voice. When are the kids today going to step up and shock us? The last shocking thing that happened in music is when Madonna frenched Britney and Christina Aguilera, and Madonna was the mastermind behind that. She’s gone from bad dancer to bad singer to really bad actress, to not too bad chicken hawk. The only thing today’s kids can do to shock us is start killing people on stage. That hasn’t been done yet, and I’m sure it will shock people. Even though it won’t shock me, unless I don’t get paid since it’s my idea.

Thursday, November 8, 2007



JSG asked what else was in my closet besides my golf clubs. Well, besides the clothes there is a lightsaber, a microphone, two footballs, and some comic books. I have lots of X-men, some cross over stuff, and 15 years of The Mighty Thor (he's the guy top left) from 1983 to 1998. My Thor collection starts when Walt Simonson took over writing duties and introduced Beta Ray Bill (top right). I've always been a mythology guy which is probably why I was drawn to this Marvel character. I've always been fascinated with the cultural residue that is left behind as cultures move forward. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday all get their names from Norse mythological figures. Only Saturday comes from Greco-Roman mythology. Which is strange because the Vikings were only in Britain for about twenty minutes, but they left a deep cultural footprint. Thor has a hammer that only he can lift. First of all it's frickin heavy, and second there is an enchantment put on it by Thor's father Odin that only someone worthy of the hammer will be able to lift it, and if they are worthy then they will possess the power of Thor. This had been the premise of the comic since it began back in the early sixties. Walt Simonson's first story changed that. It wound up being a bold move because it worked. If it hadn't been done right it just would have been a cheap trick. Simonson introduced Beta Ray Bill. Bill is a melancholy hero who has sacrificed his "humanity" to save his people. There is a misunderstanding and he gets into it with Thor. Thor underestimates Bill, drops his hammer, and Bill picks it it up. I remember reading Thor sporadically up until that point, and then I was taken on a four year roller coaster ride that was Simonson's run, and it became my favorite comic. They just sit there now in their plastic bags and cardboard boxes. I don't know what to do with them. They're a pain to get out and reread, but I don't want to sell them because of the memories of the process of collecting them. They mark critical periods in my life. When I do get them out they remind me of high school or college or early adulthood depending on when they were issued. There are roughly 180 of them and I can tell you the store or newsstand where I bought each one, and I stopped collecting them almost ten years ago. Sometimes it's hard being a pack rat.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

My Precious

Why do I still have my golf clubs? I don’t play golf anymore. I haven’t played in almost three years, but there they are; staring at me from my closet. I was getting dressed this morning and noticed the bag of wrenches taking up a bunch of very limited space. I should just throw them into the back of my truck and sell them to Play it Again Sports. Then maybe some disadvantaged kid can get a decent set of golf clubs for a discount. I quit golf because I was headed down a dark path, and the cons seriously outweighed the pros. I started playing golf with a group of guys when I was at the largest brokerage house in the world. I’m not mentioning their name because I hate them, and their current woes make me laugh. We would go out on Saturdays and play a round, and see how long we could keep up a beer a hole pace. This was fun. The trouble started when I decided that I needed to get better. MJ got me golf lessons for Christmas one year and my game started improving, and by improving I mean that I at least knew what I was doing wrong. Golf and I were never meant to be together. There’s absolutely no aggression in golf, so it has to be manufactured. This is why all golfers bet and/or drink when they play; they have to keep themselves interested. Well, four hour drinking sessions just lead to DUI’s and I hate losing money, or anything else for that matter, so I needed to sharpen my game. One day, while trying to sharpen, I had a little melt down. I was on the driving range hitting balls. I started with my sand wedge and moved down a club when I hit three in a row the way I wanted to. It was a beautiful Friday morning and I was alone. Since I was alone I didn’t need to check my emotions. I was swearing like a hyper-active kid with Tourett's. Golf is a game that requires patience. I don’t have a bunch. Professional golfers are so mind-numbingly meticulous because they have to be. I just want to hit the ball as hard as I can. Everything was going well until I got to my driver – the infamous 1 wood. Going from my sand wedge down through my 3 wood took about one and a half buckets of balls. I went through four buckets of balls and a few spinal disks trying to hit three balls straight with my driver. I can hit my driver straight as long as I don’t swing too hard, but I can’t help swinging too hard. I tell myself to relax and let the club do the work, but I can’t, not three times in a row. This is how we got to the bottom of the fifth bucket of balls. It was my last ball. I was determined to hit it straight. I didn’t hit it straight. I sliced it into the woods because somewhere during my downswing I got the urge to hit the ball hard. I lost my mind. I threw my driver as far as I could. I kung fu’d my golf bag. I turned around and saw a little old lady who was ninety if she was a day staring wide eyed at me doing my Chernobyl impression. I decided that was rock bottom. I retrieved my driver, picked up my bag, I left the ball buckets where they were as an act of defiance, and I haven’t played since. I don’t miss it. Golf is expensive, time consuming, and frustrating. So the question remains, what the hell are my golf clubs still doing in my closet?

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Studies in Urban Primate Social Interactions

I had to stop by LASOTA for work yesterday, and I showed up right as school was getting out. I’m a thirty-six year old man, yet there is still a strange wave of self consciousness I feel when I try to go against the human tide of (pre)teens at a middle school. I feel flat out creepy at elementary schools, and I feel a more intense wave of self consciousness when I walk through high schools that spills over into a preemptive hostility. In middle school they are still kids, but they have learned a sense of what is cool. In high school they feel their sense of cool is razor sharp and if you don’t fit in, which I don’t as a guy dressed in slacks, dress shoes (ox blood), a button down oxford that is tucked in, and a belt that is threaded through the belt loops on my pants that match my shoes. I look good. Ask anyone over the age of twenty-five. Therein lays the problem. Teens have different cool criteria. The question is why do I feel the need to get my pride on in front of a bunch of knuckleheads drunk on puberty? I understand what is going on with elementary and high school kids. It’s all about hard core alpha male stuff. Humans are about half a chromosome away from being chimps. I feel creepy about the elementary school kids because they aren’t mine, and deep, deep inside my core that half a chromosome is stopping me from eating the children. Don’t blame me it’s primal. The female version is what stops women from feeding other people’s crying babies. With the high school kids, the males try to ridicule me because they think I’m after their women, which isn’t true – well, maybe a couple of cheerleaders. They see me as a threat. I feel uncomfortable because I am out of my element. The feeling slips into hostility because, once again at the primal level, we need to find out who is the dominant male. Middle schoolers are right in the middle. I don’t see them as little kids so I don’t want to eat them, but they’re not mature enough to be seen as threats so I don’t feel hostility. I think this is some pretty deep introspection and insight into the human condition. Do they give Nobel prizes in biology?

I’m sure you’re all asking, “Gosh, LJ is always talking about his mental filter. I don’t think it’s working, and if it is working, just what exactly is it catching?” What’s disturbing, even to me, is that the filter is working fine.

Monday, November 5, 2007


I live a boring, mundane, simple life so I don’t have anything to write about. I’ve vented all my frustrations over the past week. I’m sitting here in a Zen like state of peace, which may be good for spiritual health but in the blogger’s world it’s just good old fashioned writer’s block. I have ideas for about ten novels, but they all start to bore me after about a thousand words. I’m behind on my Desperate Housewives watching, and I don’t know when I’ll have the time to catch up. My television dance card is overbooked; that’s my biggest complaint right now. LMJ took a monster dump this morning so I know she’s healthy. There’s no conference call to frustrate me this morning. The weather couldn’t be better. Other people’s problems don’t rate real high on my give-a-crap meter, so ethnic cleansing and famine only bother me on an abstract level. I could remove the filter in my brain and write about all the strange stuff bouncing around mind, but that would most likely get me Baker acted. At the very least it would prompt questions from my wife, and scare everyone else. Except my mom, who given the men on her side of the family would probably figure it was par for the course. I wonder if LMJ is going to be psychotic. I really don’t think she has a chance of a normal life, but that’s not a bad thing. The difference between abnormal and extraordinary is whether or not you have enough firepower. If LMJ has my mind and her mom’s focus then we’re all screwed, and I don’t mean the soap opera one night stand kind of screwed. I mean the you can’t film that here in the United States; you’re going to have to go to Amsterdam or Singapore kind of screwed. Actually, I’m looking forward to it.

Wow! This post really spiraled out of control quickly didn’t it? I’m like the Ghostbusters ghost containment unit – ground breaking technology that’s ignored a few safety measures. On a lighter note I signed up for that nablopmo thing.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

The time change has thrown me off so I'm being lazy about today's post. I am posting a few pictures and a caption with each one. Hopefully, tomorrow I will feel like writing something.

Hey Paco, what the hell are you doing there? Just because you cut those people's grass doesn't mean they want you in their picture.

This is Morgan's side of the family. They are very nice people and I think it's important for LMJ to know them, but like the song says, One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. I feel like Jeb Bush's wife at the ranch in Texas.

What do you mean there's going to be a delay? Why can't I just get on the airplane? This is the photo I used for my passport. I think it's a good thing I travel with MJ, otherwise I might have some Homeland Security issues. I'd look twice at this shady bastard. The one thing I have going for me in the not looking like a freaking terrorist department is that I can't grow facial hair to save my life. So I think I may come off as more of an American Indian or maybe a Polynesian.

Services you won't get from your candy ass Merrill broker. Are they even going to be in business a year from now? This is me helping either set up or clean up MJ's classroom.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Fatherhood in the 'Hood.

We had some friends over tonight: JSG, EG, Cora Spondence, and CB. We get together with this group about once a month. At least we try to. We had matzo ball soup, challah bread, salad, and some great conversation. It ranged from Notre Dame football – they lost to Navy for the first time in forty-three years – to colonoscopies. We are a renaissance group. The music on the CD player was a Disney’s Greatest Hits. I don’t know which one, we have about ten. JSG thought that it was funny how things have changed over the last year. She said that eight months ago I wouldn’t have played anything other than something strictly gangsta. This is true, but I’ve always thought Disney tunes were gangsta, especially The Bear Necessities. So nothing has really changed. I will admit that Disney tunes have moved up in the rotation while Ice Cube has moved down, but that’s only because LMJ consistently falls asleep to Disney tunes. I don’t know whether or not she will fall asleep to Ice Cube. I haven’t tested it. On the one hand, all of his songs have a steady rhythm, which she seems to like, but on the other hand his songs have a steady rhythm of words that have to be changed or bleeped if the songs are going to be played on the radio. I’m trying to limit the foul language she hears. And since it’s football season I’m personally meeting her curse word quota. It’s involuntary. When the Seminoles fix their offense I’ll fix my language. Plus, her mother would feel awkward if her first words were racial slurs. She’s worried about that first meeting with LMJ’s pre-school teacher being uncomfortable. For me, uncomfortable is just a state of mind, but I’m a team player so LMJ will learn to swear in the street like all the other kids.

Friday, November 2, 2007

There's Something Wrong with that Boy.

The South Carolina Democratic Party has rejected Stephen Colbert’s application to get on the state’s Presidential primary ballot. The party’s “executive committee” doesn’t want to be part of a comedy routine. Do people from South Carolina realize that they are people from South Carolina? South Carolina Democrats’ crowning achievement was attacking Fort Sumter and starting the Civil War. After that it’s Strom Thurmond running on a master race platform in 1948. For all intents and purposes South Carolina is Mississippi with better beaches. South Carolina has never been anything other than North Carolina’s personal bitch, yet they have the arrogance to act like they’re above Stephen Colbert. This is why the Democrats are worthless and why I will be writing in Dick Cheney and Ann Coulter for President and Vice President next year.

On a more positive note, we have 5 scientific reasons the zombie apocalypse could happen. It’s strange that I saw Cracked Magazine’s list this morning because I had It’s a Hard Knock Life stuck in my head and I was thinking about Little Orphan Annie, who was a zombie orphan, and a sequel – Annie II: Annie-nihilation. In case anyone is hung up on the fact that Annie was a zombie just look at her eyes and the eyes of her zombie dog Sandy. No irises plus no pupils equals the undead. It’s basic arithmetic. In the sequel Daddy Warbucks has been murdered and an adult Annie is out for some zombified revenge – asses will be kicked, names will be taken. Annie will gain superhuman strength and stamina when she eats brains, but she’s not going to be a reluctant zombie like Blade is a reluctant vampire (hybrid). Iron Chef Masaharu Morimoto will be her personal chef at the Warbucks compound. He’ll prepare the brain snack packs Annie needs in her quest to find her benefactor’s killer(s). Here’s the cool part. The killers are Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. Ron left Hermione for Harry. So Hermione, attracted to his steely gray eyes and fat bank account, turns to Malfoy. He likes her because she’s from the wrong side of the tracks and she’s feisty. The story isn’t fleshed out right now, and that’s probably a good thing. Sarah Jessica Parker can reprise the stage role that made her famous.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Blue Sky

I am bored, uninspired, and I am regretting committing to this thirty days of blogging thing. I wish I hadn’t promised MJ that I would limit the hardcore foul language on this blog. Not because I feel like swearing, it’s just a really easy way to up the word count. Eddie Murphy once said that you can’t give a curse show, but I beg to differ. I’m going to ramble in this post. I’m like the kid that didn’t study for the essay exam but doesn’t want to turn in a blank sheet. Actually, I’m not like that kid; I am that kid. At least I was up until tenth grade, at which point I stopped caring what my teachers thought of me. I didn’t like high school. I liked being a teenager. I had more than my fair share of fun.

Side note: There’s a stupid Cadillac commercial with some 40 something chick asking if when I turn my car on does it return the favor. First of all, I drive a truck. Second, white women don’t drive Cadillacs. White men over 50 and black men over 15 drive Cadillacs – if they don’t drive trucks that is.

Anyway, I had more than my fair share of fun as a teen, and I never got arrested. Doing either one of these things is easy. Doing both of them together is threading a needle. I’m thinking of trying Ernest Hemingway’s muse, liquor. But if I get drunk alone in the dark on a Thursday night I don’t really see a way of avoiding getting screamed at by MJ. We’ve been together for the better part of twenty years, and I’m almost certain she has a problem with alcoholics crawling into bed next to her, even if it is for art. Men call this attitude hateration. I think women call it not being a complete moron or adulthood. Liquor is a fickle muse. Hemingway killed himself, but he’s remembered as a great writer. I can’t think of a great writer that wasn’t a massive substance abuser or was born with at least one massive psychosis. But if I get hammered I’ll wake up with a hangover, a screaming wife, and a screaming baby. Sorry, but my art isn’t worth that. Good sense sucks.