I believe it was William Shakespeare who wrote: "Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." (Actually, I thought it was Kennedy. But evidently not, according to Google.) But I am here to tell you that deep down, most men measure their own greatness by athletic achievement.
Why else would aging athletes keep hanging on or coming out of retirement for one more year? What else could drive men to bowl in a league every Wednesday morning until they're 80? And why else would Huey Lewis & The News have released an album entitled Sports, when none of the songs on the album have anything to do with sports? (Seriously, I really would like to know this. Wikipedia doesn't say.)
With all that in mind, today I will attempt to countdown the top four moments of Bone's athletic career. I was gonna do a top five or ten, but I didn't want the post to be too long. Plus, I could only really think of four. So come along on a magical journey through some of the greatest sports moments you've never heard of. I have a feeling this post will help explain so much.
4. Scoring 26 points in a basketball game - It was my senior year of high school. And what a way to go out. A career-high 26 points. I was en fuego! OK, so it was a church league basketball game. Actually, a preseason church league game. But still, everyone was trying their best! Also I should get bonus points since I did it in those frighteningly short Larry Bird shorts, which were still somewhat prominent in 1991.
3. The race - As some of you know, I am a bit of a runner. How one determines what classifies "a bit" of a runner, I do not know. But nevertheless. How successful has my running career been? Suffice it to say that I've gotten my name in the paper a few times.... along with everybody else who finished the race.
But it all started in middle school. It was the Presidential Fitness Run. The distance was one mile, which was four laps around the orange cones that Mister Stanley, the PE teacher, had set up on the playground. I was running a solid third the entire race--not showing off, not lagging behind--and was pretty much resigned to finishing there. But as I approached the start/finish line to complete my third lap, I saw the two guys ahead of me inexplicably slow to a walk and then a complete stop.
As I zoomed by, I glanced back at them, wondering if they were tired or if maybe I had miscounted the laps. I could see Mister Stanley say something to them, then they started to run after me. I hadn't miscounted, they had! Buoyed by my unbelievable luck, I could not be caught. I won! And from that day on, a myth began to grow about my speed. OK, not really, but it's a great line.
2. The big mud volleyball tournament - In olden times, my friend Ben would attend church from roughly March through July so that he would be eligible to play on the church softball team. Well, one of those months in one of those years, some people from his church decided to get up a team and enter a local mud volleyball tournament. Needing one more player, he gave me a call and as fate would have it, not only was I home, but I didn't have any plans.
The other teams were about equally made up of guys and girls. But our team was composed of five guys--none of whom had ever played organized volleyball--and one girl, who happened to be the volleyball coach at the local high school. It was kinda like a bad volleyball reality show, but with the attractive scantily clad female aspect of Dog Eat Dog.
We came. We played. We got mud on our face and on our clothes. In our hair and in between our toes. And our team finished second. That was out of four. But finishing second alone would not have made this one of the four greatest moments in Bone sports history. Oh who am I kidding, sure it would have. But what elevates it all the way to number two status is what happened next.
A girl on the team we lost to in the finals was standing there talking smack about their victory. So I crossed under the net and proceeded to tackle her gently in the mud. Then some of the girls led us into the woods to a creek where we all hopped in. I had never played mud volleyball before, and never did again, but to this day that still might be the most fun I have ever had.
1. Bone on ice It was my very first time ice skating. I was in high school. What, I was a late bloomer, OK? Anyway, I wasn't doing so well. The first trip around the rink, I must have fallen at least twenty times. Every time I'd let go of the rail, down I went. About a quarter of the way through my second lap, I had just fallen again. Before I could get up, I heard this angelic voice ask, "Need some help?"
I looked up and saw two girls standing there smiling at me. Or giggling at me, whichever. They helped me up and with one girl taking each arm, proceeded to skate me around for the rest of the night.
Can there be any doubt that was the greatest moment of my athletic career?
I would like to be able to tell you that I got their numbers. But it was not to be, for I did not ask. (This was pre-What Would Brian Boitano Do, so I was lost.) That's what makes this such an inspirational, yet tragic tale. It's kinda like in The Natural when Robert Redford hits the homerun, then dies at home plate. Or am I remembering that wrong?
This concludes our countdown of the greatest moments in Bone sports history. I hope these memories have helped to entertain and inspire each of you. Until next time, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.
Unless you're like in a planetarium. That would just look stupid.
"Glory days, well they'll pass you by. Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye..."
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Threadbare and sentimental
Good. Bye.
Perhaps no two words in the English language conjure up more emotion than those. But really, isn't it just one word? Yes, of course it is. What was I thinking?
Goodbye.
'Tis the sweet memories of time shared darkened by the sudden knowledge of what will never be again. What was it Bone wrote? "For had I known that someday goodbye we would say, I rather would have chosen never to have lived that day."
Goodbye is never easy to say, and even harder to do. Especially when the thing you are saying goodbye to is... a favorite sweater.
I think the time has come to part with my DQ sweater. No, not GQ. DQ. As in, Dillon Quartermaine. I wore it Monday and, well, let's just say it has seen its better days. The once royal and pristine gray is showing the slightest signs of fading. It has started to pill. And also has begun to lose its shape. A couple more wears and frankly, I'll look like I'm draped in a Snuggie. And no one wants to see that.
Why is the sweater such a tragic figure? It's the Holly Golightly of the wardrobe. Like the really hot, high maintenance girl you date. You know it's going to require a lot of work and extra attention and in the end it's not going to last. But you do it anyway. Just because she's so pretty and soft to touch.
Of course, eventually she becomes threadbare and you begin to see her flaws. Her arms start to sag and she loses her shape. And you realize she is no different than every other soft and pretty thing you've ever touched. Wait, what are we talking about again? Oh, right.
We are here today to pay our final respects to the DQ sweater. It has served me well. It wasn't the best sweater nor the worst sweater, not my last sweater nor my first sweater. But it is the only sweater I have ever written an entire blog entry about.
I will always remember its mockneck collar with three-button placket, and how well it went with a pair of jeans and my black leather jacket. I remember when one of its buttons came off, and how I found some girl to sew it back on. And then how it came off again, and...is there anything in the world less reliable than the buttons on clothes?
And so with that, let us lay to rest the DQ sweater. But do not mourn for me. Rather beware. For while today it is mine, all our sweaters shall one day fall.
"If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Watch me unravel..."
Perhaps no two words in the English language conjure up more emotion than those. But really, isn't it just one word? Yes, of course it is. What was I thinking?
Goodbye.
'Tis the sweet memories of time shared darkened by the sudden knowledge of what will never be again. What was it Bone wrote? "For had I known that someday goodbye we would say, I rather would have chosen never to have lived that day."
Goodbye is never easy to say, and even harder to do. Especially when the thing you are saying goodbye to is... a favorite sweater.
I think the time has come to part with my DQ sweater. No, not GQ. DQ. As in, Dillon Quartermaine. I wore it Monday and, well, let's just say it has seen its better days. The once royal and pristine gray is showing the slightest signs of fading. It has started to pill. And also has begun to lose its shape. A couple more wears and frankly, I'll look like I'm draped in a Snuggie. And no one wants to see that.
Why is the sweater such a tragic figure? It's the Holly Golightly of the wardrobe. Like the really hot, high maintenance girl you date. You know it's going to require a lot of work and extra attention and in the end it's not going to last. But you do it anyway. Just because she's so pretty and soft to touch.
Of course, eventually she becomes threadbare and you begin to see her flaws. Her arms start to sag and she loses her shape. And you realize she is no different than every other soft and pretty thing you've ever touched. Wait, what are we talking about again? Oh, right.
We are here today to pay our final respects to the DQ sweater. It has served me well. It wasn't the best sweater nor the worst sweater, not my last sweater nor my first sweater. But it is the only sweater I have ever written an entire blog entry about.
I will always remember its mockneck collar with three-button placket, and how well it went with a pair of jeans and my black leather jacket. I remember when one of its buttons came off, and how I found some girl to sew it back on. And then how it came off again, and...is there anything in the world less reliable than the buttons on clothes?
And so with that, let us lay to rest the DQ sweater. But do not mourn for me. Rather beware. For while today it is mine, all our sweaters shall one day fall.
"If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Watch me unravel..."
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
VD: A Male Perspective
Do you have any idea how much I'm looking forward to Valentine's Day? It's right up there with International Catheterize Yourself Day on my list of Top One Million Holidays and Other Obscure Observances.
It wasn't always this way for me. I used to love Valentine's Day. Back in the first grade for instance, decorating my little Valentine sack. Then watching with glee as the cute girls in class dropped cards in my bag. Never mind the fact that everyone in the class was required to give everyone else a card. I never fully grasped that minor detail. It's that innocent forced socialization that I really miss about Valentine's Day.
But inevitably and invariably, things change. There comes a point when giving your guy friends a Valentine card is no longer fun, just... odd. Then you turn twenty-one, and your mother stops buying Valentine presents for you to give to your girlfriends.
As the self-appointed spokesman for male bloggers who watch General Hospital, I think it's safe to say that for most guys Valentine's Day is like a wedding, or shaving. If it were left entirely up to us, we'd skip it. I've even heard of guys--present company excluded, of course--who have actually broken up with girls right before Valentine's Day just to avoid the hassle.
But we do it. Why? Because the most important thing in the world to us is the woman's happiness. Also, we generally don't enjoy getting yelled at.
Here's the thing: It's not that men aren't thoughtful. Actually let me amend that statement right off. It's not that men aren't thoughtful on holidays. It's that for some reason, the things that are considered romantic are found in the last places on Earth a guy would normally go. A florist, the jewelry kiosk at the mall, a department store. I don't even like walking through the lingerie section in Wal-Mart to get from the electronics to the food. I take the long way around through the shoes, candles and pillows.
Who decided that these would be the expected romantic gestures? Why not incorporate things guys like to do? Like car stuff. What says I love you more than a guy who changes the oil in your car? You could even have commercials. "This Valentine's Day, tell her you love her with five quarts of Castrol 20W50. Roses wither and die. But engine sludge is forever."
No? Well then maybe Auto Zone could put in a florist. Or how about a pre-Valentine Day promotion at sporting events? First thousand men though the gate get a free diamond heart pendant.
That is why the mix tape was so successful. It allowed the guy to use his love and knowledge of music and high tech devices--the dual cassette player--while also (theoretically) satisfying the romantic needs of the female. If someone made you a mix tape, you knew they loved you. And that it would last.
And so on this Valentine's Day, let us pay tribute to the romantic perfection that was the mix tape. Flowers are dead in a week. Jewelry is gone once you pawn it. But a mix tape was forever. Or at least until your Walkman chewed up the cassette. And by that point, the relationship was usually already over anyway.
"So play it all over. Turn it wide. Now there is nothing but a mix tape left behind. Now it won't rewind..."
It wasn't always this way for me. I used to love Valentine's Day. Back in the first grade for instance, decorating my little Valentine sack. Then watching with glee as the cute girls in class dropped cards in my bag. Never mind the fact that everyone in the class was required to give everyone else a card. I never fully grasped that minor detail. It's that innocent forced socialization that I really miss about Valentine's Day.
But inevitably and invariably, things change. There comes a point when giving your guy friends a Valentine card is no longer fun, just... odd. Then you turn twenty-one, and your mother stops buying Valentine presents for you to give to your girlfriends.
As the self-appointed spokesman for male bloggers who watch General Hospital, I think it's safe to say that for most guys Valentine's Day is like a wedding, or shaving. If it were left entirely up to us, we'd skip it. I've even heard of guys--present company excluded, of course--who have actually broken up with girls right before Valentine's Day just to avoid the hassle.
But we do it. Why? Because the most important thing in the world to us is the woman's happiness. Also, we generally don't enjoy getting yelled at.
Here's the thing: It's not that men aren't thoughtful. Actually let me amend that statement right off. It's not that men aren't thoughtful on holidays. It's that for some reason, the things that are considered romantic are found in the last places on Earth a guy would normally go. A florist, the jewelry kiosk at the mall, a department store. I don't even like walking through the lingerie section in Wal-Mart to get from the electronics to the food. I take the long way around through the shoes, candles and pillows.
Who decided that these would be the expected romantic gestures? Why not incorporate things guys like to do? Like car stuff. What says I love you more than a guy who changes the oil in your car? You could even have commercials. "This Valentine's Day, tell her you love her with five quarts of Castrol 20W50. Roses wither and die. But engine sludge is forever."
No? Well then maybe Auto Zone could put in a florist. Or how about a pre-Valentine Day promotion at sporting events? First thousand men though the gate get a free diamond heart pendant.
That is why the mix tape was so successful. It allowed the guy to use his love and knowledge of music and high tech devices--the dual cassette player--while also (theoretically) satisfying the romantic needs of the female. If someone made you a mix tape, you knew they loved you. And that it would last.
And so on this Valentine's Day, let us pay tribute to the romantic perfection that was the mix tape. Flowers are dead in a week. Jewelry is gone once you pawn it. But a mix tape was forever. Or at least until your Walkman chewed up the cassette. And by that point, the relationship was usually already over anyway.
"So play it all over. Turn it wide. Now there is nothing but a mix tape left behind. Now it won't rewind..."
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Letting out my inner Costanza
After reading J-Mo's post about one of the great sociological questions of our time, I decided to go to Sonic for lunch today.
So I'm sitting there and of course I have no idea how much to tip or even if I should tip at all. Because the place is like a gigantic roundabout anyway. Who knows what to do. You pretty much just hope to get out of there without running into anything.
Anyway, my order comes to $5.39. I briefly consider giving her $6 and telling her to keep the change, but that never seems like enough to me. I feel like the carhop is standing there thinking, "Gee thanks. This will pay for my little brother's operation to fix his lazy eye."
Next, I consider giving her a $10 bill. Then as she's giving me the change I can make it a point to return one of the dollars to her. This seems like a pretty good idea, except who wants to break a ten. Those big bills just disappear once you break them.
So then I dig around in the coin repository that is the console of my car and find thirty-nine cents. I don't have a five, so I decide that I'll give her six one dollar bills and thirty-nine cents in change. That way, she'll be getting a full dollar tip. That should help her brother out.
Well, she comes, I pay, she leaves. Story of my life. But she doesn't count my ones. She just takes the money and walks away. So then I'm thinking that she's thinking I gave her exact change and has no idea I even tipped her. I mean, she said thank you. But it was just a regular thank you, not an oh-thank-you-so-much-kind-sir-for-my-tip-is-there-anything-else-I-can-do-for-you-today thank you. So basically, I got NO CREDIT for my tip.
Oh sure, when she gets back inside and starts going thru her money, she'll find a nice little Washingtonian surprise. But what good does that do me? Isn't the whole point of tipping at Sonic so I don't get dirty looks or feel guilty?
Oh, it's not?
Oh... Well, nevermind then. Forget I said anything.
"If you wanna go and take a ride with me, we three wheelin' in the fo' with the gold D's. Oh why do I live this way? Hey! Must be the money..."
So I'm sitting there and of course I have no idea how much to tip or even if I should tip at all. Because the place is like a gigantic roundabout anyway. Who knows what to do. You pretty much just hope to get out of there without running into anything.
Anyway, my order comes to $5.39. I briefly consider giving her $6 and telling her to keep the change, but that never seems like enough to me. I feel like the carhop is standing there thinking, "Gee thanks. This will pay for my little brother's operation to fix his lazy eye."
Next, I consider giving her a $10 bill. Then as she's giving me the change I can make it a point to return one of the dollars to her. This seems like a pretty good idea, except who wants to break a ten. Those big bills just disappear once you break them.
So then I dig around in the coin repository that is the console of my car and find thirty-nine cents. I don't have a five, so I decide that I'll give her six one dollar bills and thirty-nine cents in change. That way, she'll be getting a full dollar tip. That should help her brother out.
Well, she comes, I pay, she leaves. Story of my life. But she doesn't count my ones. She just takes the money and walks away. So then I'm thinking that she's thinking I gave her exact change and has no idea I even tipped her. I mean, she said thank you. But it was just a regular thank you, not an oh-thank-you-so-much-kind-sir-for-my-tip-is-there-anything-else-I-can-do-for-you-today thank you. So basically, I got NO CREDIT for my tip.
Oh sure, when she gets back inside and starts going thru her money, she'll find a nice little Washingtonian surprise. But what good does that do me? Isn't the whole point of tipping at Sonic so I don't get dirty looks or feel guilty?
Oh, it's not?
Oh... Well, nevermind then. Forget I said anything.
"If you wanna go and take a ride with me, we three wheelin' in the fo' with the gold D's. Oh why do I live this way? Hey! Must be the money..."
Monday, July 28, 2008
The mother of (blog entries about) invention
These are the dog days of summer. (No really, I'm not just saying that.) They are typically accompanied by a lull in blog material. (I am just saying that.) Therefore, I invite you to join me as I proclaim this National Blog Something That's In Draft Week, or NaBloSoThaDraWe. (Also, feel free to add a NaBloSoThaDraWe tag to your blog.) I expect this to catch on at least as well as my Sunday Show & Tell idea. NaBloSoThaDraWe is for those entries that never saw the light of day because they weren't quite as interesting or funny as the ones you posted, but... actually there is no but. While browsing today, I found that I had 77 things in draft. I now have 76.
I have a tape measure. It was made in Korea. But let's not get into the discussion of why in the world we're having to import tape measures from Korea. I'll save that for my first appearance on The Colbert Report.
Occasionally, I'll stand up and measure myself. I'm not sure why. I figure it must be one of two things. Either I'm expecting myself at age 35 to suddenly hit a growth spurt, or I'm really really bored.
The tape measure was an excellent invention. First we had the ruler. Then the yardstick. Then the less popular two-yard stick, which was a little awkward to carry around. Finally some genius said, "Hey, we can put these lines and numbers on something flexible, roll it up, slap Stanley on it, and make millions."
Some inventions seem to have stopped evolving. For example, they're not really making a lot of technological advances with pens lately. The other day I saw a pen with ink that was guaranteed to prevent check washing. Isn't this coming along a little late? I didn't even know people still wrote checks. That would be like if they came out tomorrow with some technological update for 8-track players.
The Erasermate seemed brilliant, for awhile. Then after a few years, we were like, eh screw it, we'll just cross it out. Have you ever noticed that sometimes people don't just cross things out? Sometimes they do this entire black out thing where they scribble and scribble until the paper is nearly worn thru and there isn't a single trace of what once was. Makes me wonder what they had orginally written.
I mean, it's like three or four words marked out. It's not like there's space to write out a complicated assassination plot or some militia manifesto or anything. What are these people writing? What could be so important and secretive that they want to make 100 percent sure not any part of a single letter is visible? "Death To America." "Colonel Mustard did it." "I love the Bee Gees." I mean, no one's scribbling out "milk, detergent, eggs" you know?
Bumper stickers aren't evolving much, either. It would be nice, however, if they could come with an expiration date for them. "Hey '87 Tercel, I think it's safe to take off that Dole/Kemp 96 sticker now. At this point, I don't think there's gonna be a recount. However, Bob Dole does appreciate your support."
Nail clippers. There's another one that hasn't evolved much, though they do have the separate clippers for toenails and fingernails now. And from a fungal standpoint, I'm most thankful for that.
Why do they always put nail clippers by the register? You're getting ready to checkout, you're thinking, "I've gotta find my super saver card, and oh my gosh look at my nails!"
The items near the checkout are always quite varied. It's like a little telepathic message: "While you wait, here are a few things you may have forgotten. Some batteries, a Mounds bar, the National Enquirer, a glue stick, and look, here's some film for the camera you don't own." And I end up buying them. I have like three glue sticks! I haven't used glue for its intended purpose since 1984.
You gotta hand it to candles. They're hanging in there. I mean cars came along, the horse and buggy pretty much gave up. But light bulbs came along, candles evolved. They said, we can burn in jars. We can smell. Burn us at dinner. It'll be romantic. Trust us.
Necessity, of course, is the mother of invention. Unfortunately, necessity isn't sure who the father is.
Do you ever stop to think about how many inventions came about as a result of people making mistakes? Erasers. The backspace key. Liquid paper, which I still say began as a hallucinogen. Prison. Napkins. Child support. TMZ.
I don't understand the whole sliced bread cliche, either. Was slicing bread such a humongous inconvenience that avoiding it became the greatest invention in the history of the world? Did communities stage "bread slicings" instead of "barn raisings?" Were there volunteer organizations like Whole Grain For Humanity that would come in and slice bread for families without the means or manpower to slice it themselves?
Some things have yet to be invented, even though there is an obvious need. For example, why don't they sell ironing boards in the shape of pants and shirts? I'd buy two.
Sometimes I wonder about the person who invented the jigsaw puzzle. How did that come about? You're sitting there with this nice pretty picture and suddenly just decide to fire up the ol' power saw and chop it up into a thousand tiny pieces? I think someone may have had some rage issues.
I remember when I was little and Dad bought a jigsaw. I was excited. Looking forward to lots and lots of puzzles. Turned out to be a bit misleading. And we won't even get into the first time I heard the term "carpool."
Do you ever wonder about the person who invented the rubber insulation on electrical plugs?
Inventions like that, you really have to wonder about the trial and error aspect. Like for instance, the parachute. "No, Charlie. Really. This will catch you. Go ahead, jump....."
I think one of the great inventions of all time is the tennis racket. You don't agree? Imagine tennis without it.
Many inventions are the direct result of another invention. Call waiting and caller ID, for example. I wonder how long it took before Alexander Graham Bell started avoiding calls. "Blimey, I know that's Watson again. Why'd I ever give him my number?" I mean, he couldn't really say wrong number. There were only two phones.
I wonder how guys picked up girls before there were phone numbers. I've thought about it. I really don't know. Did they ask girls out by letter? The girl's talking to her sister. "He still hasn't written." "Well, it's only been nine days. Give him time. Guys never write the next week, plus the mail is slow." Or maybe they just hung out at the General Store. They see a girl. "Hey, um, you wanna come over later? I think we're having a bread slicing."
"I love the gal who invented kissin'. I don't recall her name. But I do believe that gal should sit high up in the hall of fame..."
I have a tape measure. It was made in Korea. But let's not get into the discussion of why in the world we're having to import tape measures from Korea. I'll save that for my first appearance on The Colbert Report.
Occasionally, I'll stand up and measure myself. I'm not sure why. I figure it must be one of two things. Either I'm expecting myself at age 35 to suddenly hit a growth spurt, or I'm really really bored.
The tape measure was an excellent invention. First we had the ruler. Then the yardstick. Then the less popular two-yard stick, which was a little awkward to carry around. Finally some genius said, "Hey, we can put these lines and numbers on something flexible, roll it up, slap Stanley on it, and make millions."
Some inventions seem to have stopped evolving. For example, they're not really making a lot of technological advances with pens lately. The other day I saw a pen with ink that was guaranteed to prevent check washing. Isn't this coming along a little late? I didn't even know people still wrote checks. That would be like if they came out tomorrow with some technological update for 8-track players.
The Erasermate seemed brilliant, for awhile. Then after a few years, we were like, eh screw it, we'll just cross it out. Have you ever noticed that sometimes people don't just cross things out? Sometimes they do this entire black out thing where they scribble and scribble until the paper is nearly worn thru and there isn't a single trace of what once was. Makes me wonder what they had orginally written.
I mean, it's like three or four words marked out. It's not like there's space to write out a complicated assassination plot or some militia manifesto or anything. What are these people writing? What could be so important and secretive that they want to make 100 percent sure not any part of a single letter is visible? "Death To America." "Colonel Mustard did it." "I love the Bee Gees." I mean, no one's scribbling out "milk, detergent, eggs" you know?
Bumper stickers aren't evolving much, either. It would be nice, however, if they could come with an expiration date for them. "Hey '87 Tercel, I think it's safe to take off that Dole/Kemp 96 sticker now. At this point, I don't think there's gonna be a recount. However, Bob Dole does appreciate your support."
Nail clippers. There's another one that hasn't evolved much, though they do have the separate clippers for toenails and fingernails now. And from a fungal standpoint, I'm most thankful for that.
Why do they always put nail clippers by the register? You're getting ready to checkout, you're thinking, "I've gotta find my super saver card, and oh my gosh look at my nails!"
The items near the checkout are always quite varied. It's like a little telepathic message: "While you wait, here are a few things you may have forgotten. Some batteries, a Mounds bar, the National Enquirer, a glue stick, and look, here's some film for the camera you don't own." And I end up buying them. I have like three glue sticks! I haven't used glue for its intended purpose since 1984.
You gotta hand it to candles. They're hanging in there. I mean cars came along, the horse and buggy pretty much gave up. But light bulbs came along, candles evolved. They said, we can burn in jars. We can smell. Burn us at dinner. It'll be romantic. Trust us.
Necessity, of course, is the mother of invention. Unfortunately, necessity isn't sure who the father is.
Do you ever stop to think about how many inventions came about as a result of people making mistakes? Erasers. The backspace key. Liquid paper, which I still say began as a hallucinogen. Prison. Napkins. Child support. TMZ.
I don't understand the whole sliced bread cliche, either. Was slicing bread such a humongous inconvenience that avoiding it became the greatest invention in the history of the world? Did communities stage "bread slicings" instead of "barn raisings?" Were there volunteer organizations like Whole Grain For Humanity that would come in and slice bread for families without the means or manpower to slice it themselves?
Some things have yet to be invented, even though there is an obvious need. For example, why don't they sell ironing boards in the shape of pants and shirts? I'd buy two.
Sometimes I wonder about the person who invented the jigsaw puzzle. How did that come about? You're sitting there with this nice pretty picture and suddenly just decide to fire up the ol' power saw and chop it up into a thousand tiny pieces? I think someone may have had some rage issues.
I remember when I was little and Dad bought a jigsaw. I was excited. Looking forward to lots and lots of puzzles. Turned out to be a bit misleading. And we won't even get into the first time I heard the term "carpool."
Do you ever wonder about the person who invented the rubber insulation on electrical plugs?
Inventions like that, you really have to wonder about the trial and error aspect. Like for instance, the parachute. "No, Charlie. Really. This will catch you. Go ahead, jump....."
I think one of the great inventions of all time is the tennis racket. You don't agree? Imagine tennis without it.
Many inventions are the direct result of another invention. Call waiting and caller ID, for example. I wonder how long it took before Alexander Graham Bell started avoiding calls. "Blimey, I know that's Watson again. Why'd I ever give him my number?" I mean, he couldn't really say wrong number. There were only two phones.
I wonder how guys picked up girls before there were phone numbers. I've thought about it. I really don't know. Did they ask girls out by letter? The girl's talking to her sister. "He still hasn't written." "Well, it's only been nine days. Give him time. Guys never write the next week, plus the mail is slow." Or maybe they just hung out at the General Store. They see a girl. "Hey, um, you wanna come over later? I think we're having a bread slicing."
"I love the gal who invented kissin'. I don't recall her name. But I do believe that gal should sit high up in the hall of fame..."
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The backwards entry
The weekend recapitulation has begun. Please remain seated and keep your eyes on the blog at all times. The ride is actually running backwards today, so we'll begin with today and end with Friday, just hitting the highlights.
(Note: All times are approximate.)
Right now: I'm looking at a plate with five grapes on it. I had a whole bunch, but one had a bad spot on it. Just leaving one didn't feel right, so I left five. A nice OCD-friendly number.
Thirty minutes ago: I went downstairs, got some grapes out of the refrigerator, washed them, put them on a plate, brought them upstairs and started eating them.
Thirty-one minutes ago: I started craving grapes.
Forty-five minutes ago: I wiki'd Dido. Did you know her real name is Dido Florian Cloud de Bounevialle O'Malley Armstrong? Sounds French-Irish. Also, she was born on Christmas Day, 1971. And she is supposed to have a new album coming out September 23rd.
Forty-five minutes and ten seconds ago: "White Flag" by Dido came on iTunes.
Four hours and fifteen minutes ago: I decided not to fold towels.
Four hours, fifteen minutes, and one second ago: I thought about folding towels.
An indeterminate amount of time ago, but still today: I watched a couple of old movies--Blackboard Jungle, with Sidney Poitier and Vic Morrow. And Alfred Hitchcock's The Trouble With Harry. They were both excellent. I love Turner Classic Movies!
Reverting back to the present (What? It's my blog, my rules): Christopher Cross just came on iTunes. I will not wiki him. I will not wiki him. But it's... really... hard.
Still present: Actually, that was kind of cool. It's like Back To The Future III, where they kept going back and forth in time and no one had any idea what was going on.
Still present, part III: OK, this is getting pretty long. So far, despite how exciting the Dido fun facts were, you've been on the uphill portion of the ride. Now, we're about to crest the hill. For the remainder of this entry, everything will go much faster, and you may or may not hear people screaming and small children crying.
One day ago, aka Saturday: Little Joe and I went to my friend Jamie's house on the lake. It was there that I fell off a jet ski for the first time in my life.
We were all three on it at the time. I was driving. Jamie was sitting between Little Joe and I, just to clarify. Her visor had blown off--due either to my fast and furious driving style or, more likely, a loose fit--and I had circled back around to look for it. We briefly discussed if and how long it might float. I thought about all the times I had seen the "Will It Float?" game on Letterman, and tried to remember if they ever used a cloth visor, but it seemed unlikely.
Reverting back to the present: Coincidentally, I caught the end of Hope Floats today on TV. "Birdee and Bernice, the coolest chicks in Smithville. So don't you ever think about leaving me again, because I need you." Sniff, sniff.
One day ago, picking up where I left off: It was about this same time that I began to ponder why the lifeguards on Baywatch didn't have jet skis. Not that I watched the show much... after Nicole Eggert left. But it seems to me they could have gotten to people a lot quicker on a jet ski, rather than just with that little orange floatie thing.
Anyway, we could talk about Baywatch all night. But back to our story. I located Jamie's visor and rescued it, and was feeling pretty good about myself. For about five seconds. When I tried to turn around to head back to the house, I turned a bit too sharply, and we all went over. It was actually fun. I'd do it again if I were still allowed to touch the jet ski.
Reverting to the present one last time: Christopher Cross' real name is Christopher Geppert. He recorded a new Christmas album that was released on iTunes last November. He won five Grammy Awards in 1981. But most importantly, he was mentioned in "The Millennium" episode of Seinfeld, where Newman reveals he booked Christopher Cross for his Newmannium party, which he started planning in 1978.
Two days ago, aka Friday: The Darryls were going out with a couple other people and invited me along, but I declined. Then I tried to hypnotize myself. I said, "When you wake up, you'll be exactly the same person you were before." You know, just in case.
This concludes your ride today on IYROOBTY. Please exit via the blogroll on the right and enjoy your stay in the blogosphere.
"If you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do, the best that you can do is fall in love..."
(Note: All times are approximate.)
Right now: I'm looking at a plate with five grapes on it. I had a whole bunch, but one had a bad spot on it. Just leaving one didn't feel right, so I left five. A nice OCD-friendly number.
Thirty minutes ago: I went downstairs, got some grapes out of the refrigerator, washed them, put them on a plate, brought them upstairs and started eating them.
Thirty-one minutes ago: I started craving grapes.
Forty-five minutes ago: I wiki'd Dido. Did you know her real name is Dido Florian Cloud de Bounevialle O'Malley Armstrong? Sounds French-Irish. Also, she was born on Christmas Day, 1971. And she is supposed to have a new album coming out September 23rd.
Forty-five minutes and ten seconds ago: "White Flag" by Dido came on iTunes.
Four hours and fifteen minutes ago: I decided not to fold towels.
Four hours, fifteen minutes, and one second ago: I thought about folding towels.
An indeterminate amount of time ago, but still today: I watched a couple of old movies--Blackboard Jungle, with Sidney Poitier and Vic Morrow. And Alfred Hitchcock's The Trouble With Harry. They were both excellent. I love Turner Classic Movies!
Reverting back to the present (What? It's my blog, my rules): Christopher Cross just came on iTunes. I will not wiki him. I will not wiki him. But it's... really... hard.
Still present: Actually, that was kind of cool. It's like Back To The Future III, where they kept going back and forth in time and no one had any idea what was going on.
Still present, part III: OK, this is getting pretty long. So far, despite how exciting the Dido fun facts were, you've been on the uphill portion of the ride. Now, we're about to crest the hill. For the remainder of this entry, everything will go much faster, and you may or may not hear people screaming and small children crying.
One day ago, aka Saturday: Little Joe and I went to my friend Jamie's house on the lake. It was there that I fell off a jet ski for the first time in my life.
We were all three on it at the time. I was driving. Jamie was sitting between Little Joe and I, just to clarify. Her visor had blown off--due either to my fast and furious driving style or, more likely, a loose fit--and I had circled back around to look for it. We briefly discussed if and how long it might float. I thought about all the times I had seen the "Will It Float?" game on Letterman, and tried to remember if they ever used a cloth visor, but it seemed unlikely.
Reverting back to the present: Coincidentally, I caught the end of Hope Floats today on TV. "Birdee and Bernice, the coolest chicks in Smithville. So don't you ever think about leaving me again, because I need you." Sniff, sniff.
One day ago, picking up where I left off: It was about this same time that I began to ponder why the lifeguards on Baywatch didn't have jet skis. Not that I watched the show much... after Nicole Eggert left. But it seems to me they could have gotten to people a lot quicker on a jet ski, rather than just with that little orange floatie thing.
Anyway, we could talk about Baywatch all night. But back to our story. I located Jamie's visor and rescued it, and was feeling pretty good about myself. For about five seconds. When I tried to turn around to head back to the house, I turned a bit too sharply, and we all went over. It was actually fun. I'd do it again if I were still allowed to touch the jet ski.
Reverting to the present one last time: Christopher Cross' real name is Christopher Geppert. He recorded a new Christmas album that was released on iTunes last November. He won five Grammy Awards in 1981. But most importantly, he was mentioned in "The Millennium" episode of Seinfeld, where Newman reveals he booked Christopher Cross for his Newmannium party, which he started planning in 1978.
Two days ago, aka Friday: The Darryls were going out with a couple other people and invited me along, but I declined. Then I tried to hypnotize myself. I said, "When you wake up, you'll be exactly the same person you were before." You know, just in case.
This concludes your ride today on IYROOBTY. Please exit via the blogroll on the right and enjoy your stay in the blogosphere.
"If you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do, the best that you can do is fall in love..."
Friday, June 27, 2008
The three words you can never say in front of children
In memory of George...
I have never considered myself to be a foul-mouthed person. I mean, sure I play golf, and drive a car, and occasionally have been known to break out in song from the South Park Christmas CD. But for the most part, my speech is tasteful and very much family and kid friendly.
Or so I thought.
A couple of weeks ago, I was over at Kywana's (their celebrity couple name) playing Mario Kart on the Wii. But that's another issue for another day. There were a couple of children present. I think we can all see where this is headed.
Well, as is bound to happen, I ran my kart off the road pretty quick. And without thinking, I dropped a c-bomb.
Instantaneously, I heard a motherly voice from the next room admonishing me. "Uh, we don't say that around here."
I managed a befuddled "What?"
"We don't say that around here."
Then a child chimed in, "Yeah, that's a bad word. We say carp instead."
"Carp?" As in the large Asian freshwater fish? Yes, apparently. "Fine, I'll say carp. But you'll all know what I really mean!"
Laughter ensued, or so I imagined. And for the rest of the night, crap became carp. Or more accurately it became, "Crap! I mean carp!"
The racing continued for awhile without incident. Then some person with pure evil in their heart selected the track known as Rainbow Road. It's this wee little narrow winding road with huge drop offs on both sides, into a canyon, river, or some other such abyss. If you run off the road, your chance to win is pretty much shot.
"I hate this frickin' track," I uttered innocently.
"Um, we don't say that, either," came the motherly voice again.
"What?!"
"That's another bad word."
I didn't know whether to go stand in the corner or write my name on the board. I felt like I was in first grade. And much like first grade, I talked back.
"I've never heard of such. What am I supposed to say then?"
"Try heavens to Betsy."
"Yeah. Or oopsy daisy."
Laughter ensued, only this time for real. Finally, after I ran my kart off Rainbow Road for the fifth time still on the first lap, I let another expletive fly.
"Suck!"
The room fell silent. (Not really, but it's more dramatic that way.) Nothing needed to be said. I'd hit rock bottom, and knew I needed help. I hung my head and wondered if I'd be asked to leave. Or if they were gonna call my mother. Fortunately, the answer to both was no. Well, I was asked to leave, but that was because it was 9 PM and I'm always asked to leave at 9 PM.
I was one of the lucky ones. I got another chance. And even though it's only been a couple of weeks, my rehab is going well. I'm already starting to see some progress. Just this past weekend I was playing Trivial Pursuit with a girl. (If only that were a euphemism for something else.) I dropped a box of cards (or that), spilling them on the floor. Instinctively, and with the tone of a kindergarten teacher, I said, "Oopsy daisy."
That illicited an odd and slightly fearful look. And needless to say, we didn't wind up "playing Trivial Pursuit" that night, if you know what I mean.
Hmm, perhaps "carp" would have been a better choice there?
"Courtney Cox. I love you. You're so hot. On that show..."
I have never considered myself to be a foul-mouthed person. I mean, sure I play golf, and drive a car, and occasionally have been known to break out in song from the South Park Christmas CD. But for the most part, my speech is tasteful and very much family and kid friendly.
Or so I thought.
A couple of weeks ago, I was over at Kywana's (their celebrity couple name) playing Mario Kart on the Wii. But that's another issue for another day. There were a couple of children present. I think we can all see where this is headed.
Well, as is bound to happen, I ran my kart off the road pretty quick. And without thinking, I dropped a c-bomb.
Instantaneously, I heard a motherly voice from the next room admonishing me. "Uh, we don't say that around here."
I managed a befuddled "What?"
"We don't say that around here."
Then a child chimed in, "Yeah, that's a bad word. We say carp instead."
"Carp?" As in the large Asian freshwater fish? Yes, apparently. "Fine, I'll say carp. But you'll all know what I really mean!"
Laughter ensued, or so I imagined. And for the rest of the night, crap became carp. Or more accurately it became, "Crap! I mean carp!"
The racing continued for awhile without incident. Then some person with pure evil in their heart selected the track known as Rainbow Road. It's this wee little narrow winding road with huge drop offs on both sides, into a canyon, river, or some other such abyss. If you run off the road, your chance to win is pretty much shot.
"I hate this frickin' track," I uttered innocently.
"Um, we don't say that, either," came the motherly voice again.
"What?!"
"That's another bad word."
I didn't know whether to go stand in the corner or write my name on the board. I felt like I was in first grade. And much like first grade, I talked back.
"I've never heard of such. What am I supposed to say then?"
"Try heavens to Betsy."
"Yeah. Or oopsy daisy."
Laughter ensued, only this time for real. Finally, after I ran my kart off Rainbow Road for the fifth time still on the first lap, I let another expletive fly.
"Suck!"
The room fell silent. (Not really, but it's more dramatic that way.) Nothing needed to be said. I'd hit rock bottom, and knew I needed help. I hung my head and wondered if I'd be asked to leave. Or if they were gonna call my mother. Fortunately, the answer to both was no. Well, I was asked to leave, but that was because it was 9 PM and I'm always asked to leave at 9 PM.
I was one of the lucky ones. I got another chance. And even though it's only been a couple of weeks, my rehab is going well. I'm already starting to see some progress. Just this past weekend I was playing Trivial Pursuit with a girl. (If only that were a euphemism for something else.) I dropped a box of cards (or that), spilling them on the floor. Instinctively, and with the tone of a kindergarten teacher, I said, "Oopsy daisy."
That illicited an odd and slightly fearful look. And needless to say, we didn't wind up "playing Trivial Pursuit" that night, if you know what I mean.
Hmm, perhaps "carp" would have been a better choice there?
"Courtney Cox. I love you. You're so hot. On that show..."
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Great moments in automobile history
The following is dedicated to the clueless individual in the Chevy Tracker-like vehicle that I almost ramrodded into oblivion driving home from a frustrating round of golf...
Allow me to introduce you to the turn signal, also known as the blinker. The turn signal is a safety feature included on every car manufactured since 1956, also known as the Eisenhower administration.
Typically located on the steering column, the turn signal is used by sensible drivers like myself to warn other drivers that the car will soon be slowing to make a turn. Quite an invention, eh?
Yes. Almost perfect. It has but one design flaw: It must be flipped up or down in order to be activated. Otherwise, it is rendered virtually worthless.
It all seems so simple. Even the name itself, turn signal, would seem to be self-explanatory. But apparently not. For you appeared to be well into your thirties or forties, yet still have not managed to master basic turn signal operation.
Or perhaps the turn signal on your vehicle wasn't functioning properly. Well, for that, we have hand signals. Ah, but you probably wouldn't understand those, either.
On second thought, there is one you might know...
"Can't you keep it on your side of the double yellow line. Catch a bus or ride a bike. Call a cab or take a hike..."
Allow me to introduce you to the turn signal, also known as the blinker. The turn signal is a safety feature included on every car manufactured since 1956, also known as the Eisenhower administration.
Typically located on the steering column, the turn signal is used by sensible drivers like myself to warn other drivers that the car will soon be slowing to make a turn. Quite an invention, eh?
Yes. Almost perfect. It has but one design flaw: It must be flipped up or down in order to be activated. Otherwise, it is rendered virtually worthless.
It all seems so simple. Even the name itself, turn signal, would seem to be self-explanatory. But apparently not. For you appeared to be well into your thirties or forties, yet still have not managed to master basic turn signal operation.
Or perhaps the turn signal on your vehicle wasn't functioning properly. Well, for that, we have hand signals. Ah, but you probably wouldn't understand those, either.
On second thought, there is one you might know...
"Can't you keep it on your side of the double yellow line. Catch a bus or ride a bike. Call a cab or take a hike..."
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Back with a bang
I had been wondering how I was going to get back into blogging after yet another short hiatus. It came to me around one o'clock this morning as I was lying in bed. For that's when I heard the vaguely familiar sound of a girl moaning, coming from next door thru the apparently-thinner-than-I-realized walls. My immediate thought was that my neighbor had a girl over there.
Almost instinctively, I grabbed a glass and placed it against the wall so that I could hear better. I'm kidding. The glasses were all the way downstairs and I wasn't about to get out of bed to go get one.
Still, what could I do, bang on the wall in some sort of universal shushing signal? I never want to be that person. So as much as I would have liked to drift off to sleep as I normally do--to the soothing sounds of Scott Van Pelt and John Buccigross giving baseball highlights on Sportscenter--I simply couldn't block out the moans.
I laid there and waited, and waited, for what felt like half an hour but in reality was probably closer to five or ten minutes. In situations involving disturbment of the peace, I've found that time tends to crawl when you're not a participant in the noise making activity, whatever it may be.
The moaning went on and on as my mind began to wander. How long could this possibly last? Whatever was going on over there, she seemed to be quite good at it. Maybe a little too good.
And there it was.
As I am prone to do, I began to overanalyze the situation. That was a road I would come to wish I had never ventured down. The moans sounded a bit too perfect to me. Too practiced. Too professional. So I was left to ponder that age old question: is it live or is it Cinemax?
With that thought, horrible and permanently scarring images suddenly appeared, causing me to shudder as if my bare hand had just brushed up against the side of a urinal. And the fact that my neighbor's name is indeed Rocky only seemed to make things fifty times worse. As quickly as I thought it, I tried to erase it from my mind. Eww, make it stop.
Finally, it did.
The only slightly redeeming part of the evening was that I never heard a male voice mixed in with the female moaning. I did hear a guy's voice afterward but couldn't tell if it was live or on TV. I heard what sounded like water running a couple of times, or maybe it was a toilet flushing. Then at last, there was only Sportscenter.
And to think, I always figured the most disturbing thing about my neighbor would be the plastic dog with the solar lantern hanging from its mouth sitting outside his front door.
On a completely unrelated note, my neck is really sore today.
"She bop, he bop, a-we bop. I bop, you bop, a-they bop..."
Almost instinctively, I grabbed a glass and placed it against the wall so that I could hear better. I'm kidding. The glasses were all the way downstairs and I wasn't about to get out of bed to go get one.
Still, what could I do, bang on the wall in some sort of universal shushing signal? I never want to be that person. So as much as I would have liked to drift off to sleep as I normally do--to the soothing sounds of Scott Van Pelt and John Buccigross giving baseball highlights on Sportscenter--I simply couldn't block out the moans.
I laid there and waited, and waited, for what felt like half an hour but in reality was probably closer to five or ten minutes. In situations involving disturbment of the peace, I've found that time tends to crawl when you're not a participant in the noise making activity, whatever it may be.
The moaning went on and on as my mind began to wander. How long could this possibly last? Whatever was going on over there, she seemed to be quite good at it. Maybe a little too good.
And there it was.
As I am prone to do, I began to overanalyze the situation. That was a road I would come to wish I had never ventured down. The moans sounded a bit too perfect to me. Too practiced. Too professional. So I was left to ponder that age old question: is it live or is it Cinemax?
With that thought, horrible and permanently scarring images suddenly appeared, causing me to shudder as if my bare hand had just brushed up against the side of a urinal. And the fact that my neighbor's name is indeed Rocky only seemed to make things fifty times worse. As quickly as I thought it, I tried to erase it from my mind. Eww, make it stop.
Finally, it did.
The only slightly redeeming part of the evening was that I never heard a male voice mixed in with the female moaning. I did hear a guy's voice afterward but couldn't tell if it was live or on TV. I heard what sounded like water running a couple of times, or maybe it was a toilet flushing. Then at last, there was only Sportscenter.
And to think, I always figured the most disturbing thing about my neighbor would be the plastic dog with the solar lantern hanging from its mouth sitting outside his front door.
On a completely unrelated note, my neck is really sore today.
"She bop, he bop, a-we bop. I bop, you bop, a-they bop..."
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thirtysomething On Ice
Saturday night, I did what I'm sure many 34-year-olds were doing on the weekend before Valentine's Day. I hit up the local ice rink for the Valentine Date Skate.
Admittedly, I was not aware of the Valentine Skate when I planned this outing. It was an unexpected bonus. Couples got in two for the price of one, which would have been really cool if I'd had a date. Or been willing to say Little Joe and I were a couple.
I'm not sure how it is where you live, but here, the ice rink tends to attract mainly younger visitors. I would say ninety percent of skaters were in the fifteen and under age range. So I felt right at home.
We wound up with a nice group of our own. Five guys, three girls, and three kids, none of which were mine--girls or kids. I'm fairly certain it's the second highest number of people I've ever got to come to anything. Second only to Festivus 2006, which attracted fourteen. Normally, when I try to plan something, it winds up being... well, let's just move on.
I was a bit nervous at first, as I hadn't been skating in over ten years. But once blade hit ice, it all came back to me. (Cue appropriate Celine Dion song.) It was like I had never left. Like I was born with bladed foot. Soon I was weaving in and out of traffic, knocking over little kids, gaining more and more speed, until... it all came crashing to a halt.
But here's an odd thing about me. And probably not the only one. I actually like falling when ice skating. It's fun. Kinda like the luge, except there's no hope of winning a gold medal. Fortunately, I fell right near the benches where people rest. When I looked up, there were like eight heads peeking over the rail at me. A couple of people asked if I was alright, then I heard one kid say, "Whoa! Cool!"
I almost fell a second time when some slow skaters cut in front of me. They really should have their own rink. Like the shallow end of the pool. I had to think quick to avoid planting some girl face first into the ice. It was a true "What Would Brian Boitano Do" moment. So, naturally, I made a plan and followed thru.
I grabbed her shoulders to twist myself sideways, then continued around and past her, while in the meantime completing the most awkward 360 in this history of ice sports. Think Rosie O'Donnell taking ballet. On second thought, don't. I just got a quick visual on that.
Wolfgang was a hoot to watch, too. (Did I really just use "hoot" on my blog? Good heavens, how old am I?) It was his first time ice skating. I don't think he ever let go of the rail for more than a couple of seconds. I tried explaining that he was going to fall. That most likely everyone who had ever gone ice skating had fallen. But apparently, he wasn't born with bladed foot.
Still, there must have been something about the feel of that rail. Or maybe it was the thrill of turning a lap every fifteen minutes. Because as we were getting ready to leave, someone mentioned that we should do this again sometime. And Wolfgang chimed in enthusiastically, "I'll come back anytime. I'll come back tomorrow night!"
I also took part in the Snowball Skate. It's not as fun as it sounds and there's no snow involved. (Yeah, I was not happy about that.) But I skipped out on Limbo On Ice. I figured I might be nearing my allotment of Brian Boitano heroics for one evening.
Overall, I think a fun time was had by all. I'm already looking forward to the Back To School Skate.
"When Brian Boitano was in the Olympics skating for the gold, he did two Salchows and a triple lutz while wearing a blind fold..."
Admittedly, I was not aware of the Valentine Skate when I planned this outing. It was an unexpected bonus. Couples got in two for the price of one, which would have been really cool if I'd had a date. Or been willing to say Little Joe and I were a couple.
I'm not sure how it is where you live, but here, the ice rink tends to attract mainly younger visitors. I would say ninety percent of skaters were in the fifteen and under age range. So I felt right at home.
We wound up with a nice group of our own. Five guys, three girls, and three kids, none of which were mine--girls or kids. I'm fairly certain it's the second highest number of people I've ever got to come to anything. Second only to Festivus 2006, which attracted fourteen. Normally, when I try to plan something, it winds up being... well, let's just move on.
I was a bit nervous at first, as I hadn't been skating in over ten years. But once blade hit ice, it all came back to me. (Cue appropriate Celine Dion song.) It was like I had never left. Like I was born with bladed foot. Soon I was weaving in and out of traffic, knocking over little kids, gaining more and more speed, until... it all came crashing to a halt.
But here's an odd thing about me. And probably not the only one. I actually like falling when ice skating. It's fun. Kinda like the luge, except there's no hope of winning a gold medal. Fortunately, I fell right near the benches where people rest. When I looked up, there were like eight heads peeking over the rail at me. A couple of people asked if I was alright, then I heard one kid say, "Whoa! Cool!"
I almost fell a second time when some slow skaters cut in front of me. They really should have their own rink. Like the shallow end of the pool. I had to think quick to avoid planting some girl face first into the ice. It was a true "What Would Brian Boitano Do" moment. So, naturally, I made a plan and followed thru.
I grabbed her shoulders to twist myself sideways, then continued around and past her, while in the meantime completing the most awkward 360 in this history of ice sports. Think Rosie O'Donnell taking ballet. On second thought, don't. I just got a quick visual on that.
Wolfgang was a hoot to watch, too. (Did I really just use "hoot" on my blog? Good heavens, how old am I?) It was his first time ice skating. I don't think he ever let go of the rail for more than a couple of seconds. I tried explaining that he was going to fall. That most likely everyone who had ever gone ice skating had fallen. But apparently, he wasn't born with bladed foot.
Still, there must have been something about the feel of that rail. Or maybe it was the thrill of turning a lap every fifteen minutes. Because as we were getting ready to leave, someone mentioned that we should do this again sometime. And Wolfgang chimed in enthusiastically, "I'll come back anytime. I'll come back tomorrow night!"
I also took part in the Snowball Skate. It's not as fun as it sounds and there's no snow involved. (Yeah, I was not happy about that.) But I skipped out on Limbo On Ice. I figured I might be nearing my allotment of Brian Boitano heroics for one evening.
Overall, I think a fun time was had by all. I'm already looking forward to the Back To School Skate.
"When Brian Boitano was in the Olympics skating for the gold, he did two Salchows and a triple lutz while wearing a blind fold..."
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
I'm back, baby!
The little publicized Bone blogging hiatus is officially over, at nineteen days. To put that into persepctive historically speaking, it's longer than the Cuban Missile Crisis, but slightly shorter than the marriage of Lisa Marie and Nicolas Cage. Also, it has received slightly less publicity than the Mike Gravel Presidential campaign, but slightly more than the latest Carrot Top DVD.
So why come back now? Why today? Maybe it's because today is Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday. Perhaps I was reminded of my own ill-fated trip to the Mardi Gras in 2001 and that inspired me to write.
Maybe it was the guilt of having received three Excellence In Blogging awards (thanks Sage, Gautami, and Marcia) in the past few days, yet not having blogged in almost three weeks.
Maybe it had something to do with the secretary at work making it a point to tell me the actress who played Amy Vining on General Hospital had passed away. And three other people emailing to tell me the same news. Really people, am I the biggest GH fan any of you know? On second thought, don't answer that.
Or maybe there is no reason. Maybe it's just one of those great mysteries of life. A question that has no answer. Such as, why is there no other word for synonym? Why don't they make mouse-flavored cat food? Why did John Waite only have that one song? And what is the point of that football robot thing Fox shows on the NFL games?
I apologize for the extended hiatus. Honestly, I think my case of the Januarys just lasted a little longer this year than it usually does. For about two weeks, all I wanted to do was come home in the afternoon, climb into bed and watch TV. OK, so that's always what I want to do, but for about two weeks, I actually did it.
I hate being down. I've always felt like I'm the one who is supposed to be up. With friends, I always feel like I'm the one who's supposed to entertain and make people laugh. In school, I was the one who winked at the dark, mysterious Spanish teacher, and later became Spanish Club President.
Thankfully, I do feel like I'm emerging from these winter doldrums. Possibly because it's 10:00 at night, it's February, and it's 70 degrees outside.
So what have I been up to, other than working and lying in bed? Let's see, I caught a nasty stomach bug for a couple of days last week and lost eight pounds with the on-your-knees-clinging-to-the-toilet-seat diet. After that, I walked around all light-headed and dizzy for a day or two. That was pretty cool.
I also watched Stroker Ace one night on CMT. (Wow, I can't believe I just admitted that. I must still be light-headed.) All you need to know is it stars Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson. If that doesn't scream cinematic magic, I don't know what does. Oh, and there's also a rousing performance by the incomparable Jim Nabors in a supporting actor role.
This weekend, I downloaded seventeen songs, as I continue to use up the three iTunes gift cards I received for Christmas. The new downloads include Adam Sandler's Chanukah and Thanksgiving songs, "Puttin' On The Ritz" by Taco, "Tricky Tricky" by Lou Bega, "Who's Johnny" by DeBarge, and "All My Life" by the vastly underrated R&B duo K-Ci & JoJo.
Thanks for the emails and IM's and comments checking on me. One thing I was reminded of during this hiatus is that we do make actual friends doing this blogging thing. I've missed you guys. I'm looking forward to catching up with all of you and returning to writing about all the insignificant things in life.
"I ain't missing you at all, since you've been gone away. I ain't missing you, no matter what my friends say..."
So why come back now? Why today? Maybe it's because today is Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday. Perhaps I was reminded of my own ill-fated trip to the Mardi Gras in 2001 and that inspired me to write.
Maybe it was the guilt of having received three Excellence In Blogging awards (thanks Sage, Gautami, and Marcia) in the past few days, yet not having blogged in almost three weeks.
Maybe it had something to do with the secretary at work making it a point to tell me the actress who played Amy Vining on General Hospital had passed away. And three other people emailing to tell me the same news. Really people, am I the biggest GH fan any of you know? On second thought, don't answer that.
Or maybe there is no reason. Maybe it's just one of those great mysteries of life. A question that has no answer. Such as, why is there no other word for synonym? Why don't they make mouse-flavored cat food? Why did John Waite only have that one song? And what is the point of that football robot thing Fox shows on the NFL games?
I apologize for the extended hiatus. Honestly, I think my case of the Januarys just lasted a little longer this year than it usually does. For about two weeks, all I wanted to do was come home in the afternoon, climb into bed and watch TV. OK, so that's always what I want to do, but for about two weeks, I actually did it.
I hate being down. I've always felt like I'm the one who is supposed to be up. With friends, I always feel like I'm the one who's supposed to entertain and make people laugh. In school, I was the one who winked at the dark, mysterious Spanish teacher, and later became Spanish Club President.
Thankfully, I do feel like I'm emerging from these winter doldrums. Possibly because it's 10:00 at night, it's February, and it's 70 degrees outside.
So what have I been up to, other than working and lying in bed? Let's see, I caught a nasty stomach bug for a couple of days last week and lost eight pounds with the on-your-knees-clinging-to-the-toilet-seat diet. After that, I walked around all light-headed and dizzy for a day or two. That was pretty cool.
I also watched Stroker Ace one night on CMT. (Wow, I can't believe I just admitted that. I must still be light-headed.) All you need to know is it stars Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson. If that doesn't scream cinematic magic, I don't know what does. Oh, and there's also a rousing performance by the incomparable Jim Nabors in a supporting actor role.
This weekend, I downloaded seventeen songs, as I continue to use up the three iTunes gift cards I received for Christmas. The new downloads include Adam Sandler's Chanukah and Thanksgiving songs, "Puttin' On The Ritz" by Taco, "Tricky Tricky" by Lou Bega, "Who's Johnny" by DeBarge, and "All My Life" by the vastly underrated R&B duo K-Ci & JoJo.
Thanks for the emails and IM's and comments checking on me. One thing I was reminded of during this hiatus is that we do make actual friends doing this blogging thing. I've missed you guys. I'm looking forward to catching up with all of you and returning to writing about all the insignificant things in life.
"I ain't missing you at all, since you've been gone away. I ain't missing you, no matter what my friends say..."
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
When I come to Myrtle Beach, will you teach me to shag?
The National Blog service has issued a Severe Randomness Warning for the duration of this post. Those in the path of this blog can expect widely scattered thoughts, which may or may not include such topics as Newhart, why the bank always asks for your mother's maiden name, and poke salad.
Since I haven't blogged in a few days, as you might imagine, I have quite a few things to talk about. I figured I could either divide them into several separate entries, or throw them all into one. Guess which one I decided to do.
In many ways, the past few days are a perfect microcosm of my life. Friday night, I hung out with three lovely ladies. (I know this same routine every weekend must get old to all of you.) OK, perhaps I should mention the three ladies were my aunt who always gives me $10, another aunt, and my Mom. We went out to eat for other aunt's birthday.
After that, we hung out at K-Mart, sorting thru the discounted Christmas merchandise until the break of 9:00 PM. OK, really just 8:30, but that sounded kind of early. I looked for a new Festivus pole, but they must have been sold out. I got a new Christmas tree at 75% off.
In other news, it looks like the the Darryls and I will be going to Myrtle Beach for our annual beach trip this year. I brought up the idea Saturday night. And since the Darryls never make any decisions and pretty much go along with whatever I suggest, I guess that seals it.
On the homefront, GabeKaplan--the fish, not the actor--has been doing swimmingly. He's almost out of food though. And by almost out, I mean the box is empty. So for the past few days, I've been on my knees scouring the carpet for pellets I may have dropped. I really think I found the last two today. Guess I'll have to go to the store.
Yesterday, my right arm itched all day. I was afraid I might be coming down with another rash. I thought maybe I'd gotten into some poke salad. But then I googled poke salad and it didn't appear to be known for causing rashes, just potentially fatal gastrointestinal problems. Anyway, around 10:00 last night, I was scratching myself and a fabric softener sheet came out of my sleeve. That's not some magic trick I do. That's my life, in a nutshell.
And what about this weather? The temps have been in the seventies the past two days. I'm wearing flip flps and short sleeves. And I finally broke down and cut on the AC last night after getting hot taking down my Christmas tree.
It's like I retired and moved to South Florida, except there's no shuffleboard and I'm still having to go to work everyday. It's really messing up my Seasonal Affective Disorder. I can't even get good and depressed anymore. There are no seasons, I'm not affected, therefore no disorder.
I don't know what's going on, but I did pass a church sign on my way home the other night that said "Eternity is straight ahead." You know, it would really be helpful if they'd put some sort of mileage estimate on that. Do I need to get a bite to eat? Should I stop for gas? I don't start out on I-10 and see a sign that says "California is straight ahead."
Regardless, I just kept driving. I mean, I spent my Friday night hanging at the K-Mart, I'm crawling around on all fours looking for fish pellets, walking around in public with fabric softener sheets in my clothes. What am I clinging to?
"Down on Peaches Corner there are Good Ol' Boys. And Mother Fletcher's makin' lots of noise. They're dancin', shaggin' on the boulevard..."
Since I haven't blogged in a few days, as you might imagine, I have quite a few things to talk about. I figured I could either divide them into several separate entries, or throw them all into one. Guess which one I decided to do.
In many ways, the past few days are a perfect microcosm of my life. Friday night, I hung out with three lovely ladies. (I know this same routine every weekend must get old to all of you.) OK, perhaps I should mention the three ladies were my aunt who always gives me $10, another aunt, and my Mom. We went out to eat for other aunt's birthday.
After that, we hung out at K-Mart, sorting thru the discounted Christmas merchandise until the break of 9:00 PM. OK, really just 8:30, but that sounded kind of early. I looked for a new Festivus pole, but they must have been sold out. I got a new Christmas tree at 75% off.
In other news, it looks like the the Darryls and I will be going to Myrtle Beach for our annual beach trip this year. I brought up the idea Saturday night. And since the Darryls never make any decisions and pretty much go along with whatever I suggest, I guess that seals it.
On the homefront, GabeKaplan--the fish, not the actor--has been doing swimmingly. He's almost out of food though. And by almost out, I mean the box is empty. So for the past few days, I've been on my knees scouring the carpet for pellets I may have dropped. I really think I found the last two today. Guess I'll have to go to the store.
Yesterday, my right arm itched all day. I was afraid I might be coming down with another rash. I thought maybe I'd gotten into some poke salad. But then I googled poke salad and it didn't appear to be known for causing rashes, just potentially fatal gastrointestinal problems. Anyway, around 10:00 last night, I was scratching myself and a fabric softener sheet came out of my sleeve. That's not some magic trick I do. That's my life, in a nutshell.
And what about this weather? The temps have been in the seventies the past two days. I'm wearing flip flps and short sleeves. And I finally broke down and cut on the AC last night after getting hot taking down my Christmas tree.
It's like I retired and moved to South Florida, except there's no shuffleboard and I'm still having to go to work everyday. It's really messing up my Seasonal Affective Disorder. I can't even get good and depressed anymore. There are no seasons, I'm not affected, therefore no disorder.
I don't know what's going on, but I did pass a church sign on my way home the other night that said "Eternity is straight ahead." You know, it would really be helpful if they'd put some sort of mileage estimate on that. Do I need to get a bite to eat? Should I stop for gas? I don't start out on I-10 and see a sign that says "California is straight ahead."
Regardless, I just kept driving. I mean, I spent my Friday night hanging at the K-Mart, I'm crawling around on all fours looking for fish pellets, walking around in public with fabric softener sheets in my clothes. What am I clinging to?
"Down on Peaches Corner there are Good Ol' Boys. And Mother Fletcher's makin' lots of noise. They're dancin', shaggin' on the boulevard..."
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Pseudo live blogging from Wal-Mart
9:03 PM: I have arrived at Wal-Mart. Also known as THE Wal-Mart, Wally World, Wal-Marts, and Purgatory.
9:04 PM: That greeter didn't greet me. What are they paying her for? I mean, really. You have like one task... greeter! I remember when that title used to mean something. I should've said something. Larry David would have said something.
9:05 PM: Off to the DVD's to look for workout videos.
9:15 PM: After searching thru electronics for ten minutes and almost buying the Barry Manilow Christmas album, I am told the workout DVD's are in sporting goods.
9:15:05 PM: What? Hey, "Mandy" is a darn good song! Lay off me.
9:15:15 PM: No, my parents don't know I celebrate Festivus. And yes, I fear their reaction should they ever find out.
9:15:30 PM: Leaving electronics, I see Garth Brooks' Ultimate Hits is only $13. Hmm, do I know anyone who would want that? I can't think of anyone. Maybe I should get it anyway. You know, one of those gifts you buy and decide who to give it to later. Those always mean the most. 34 songs for $13. You can't pass that up. It's like a two dollar t-shirt.
9:17 PM: In sporting goods now. They have exactly three workout videos. Not three different kinds. Three total boxes. One Taebo and two others.
9:19 PM: Browsing the golf stuff. I'll be back with you in a bit.
9:34 PM: You know, if that guy grew a moustache and lost like a hundred pounds, he'd look exactly like Tom Selleck. Well, Magnum P.I. anyway.
9:35 PM: On my way to the tools.
9:36:30 PM: Risk! (Sorry, I got sidetracked in toys.) "The game of world domination, played by two guys who can barely run their own lives." I always quote that Seinfeld line everytime I see a Risk game. I never had Risk, but always wanted it. I always wanted Jenga, too.
9:37 PM: Remember that Brady Bunch episode where they built a house of cards? "Watch your bracelet, Marcia!"
9:38 PM: My Little Pony is back?
9:38:05 PM: My Little Pony is forty bucks! Thank goodness for Santa Claus.
9:40 PM: You know, I would still play with Legos if it were socially acceptable. Or, if the top of this box wasn't strapped down.
9:42 PM: In tools now. They're right next to the toys. The logic behind that eludes me.
9:45 PM: Calling Dad to see if he needs any tools. You know, just as a general conversation starter. Not that I'm going to buy whatever he mentions and give it to him for Christmas or anything.
9:45:30 PM: Dad can't think of any tools he needs.
9:46 PM: Augh! That PA system is L-O-U-D! You can't even talk on your cell phone in here with that thing blaring. Automotive, code white? What kind of encoded propaganda is that? I'm tuning it out.
9:47 PM: Singing "Carol of the Bells" to myself. "Hark, hear the bells, sweet silver bells, dum duh duh dum, ding dong mmm k. Ding-dong! Ding-dong!"
9:50 PM: I've found myself on an aisle with no apparent theme. There are seemingly misplaced toys on one side and little gift sets of cheap cologne on the other.
9:50:10 PM: Strike "cheap" from that last statement. The jury will disregard. Since when is Brut $9.24?! It used to be like three bucks. Did Brut get some sort of minor celebrity endorsement that I wasn't aware of? Maybe like Tom Green or Alyssa Milano or someone?
9:50:30 PM: Thinking of Brut slogans in my head. "Hi, I'm Tom Green. If there's one thing I know better than bad movies, it's bad cologne."
9:51 PM: Actually, I kinda like Brut.
9:51:05 PM: I kinda like Alyssa Milano, too.
9:52 PM: On my way to housewares. Is that even a department? I'm just making these names up as I go.
9:52:30 PM: That guy just blocked me in! Look out, I'm taking the back aisle all the way down. Clear!
9:53 PM: The back, or outer, aisle is almost always the smoothest way around a crowded store. Sure, it's longer distance-wise, but there's much less traffic, or danger, if you will. Think of it like this. You're a CTU agent and Jack Bauer has just told you to set up a perimeter. The outer aisle is this perimeter. Well, that's how I think of it anyway.
9:54 PM: Some woman working in the floral section just smiled and said hi. Am I supposed to know her, or is she just an overly friendly Wal-Mart associate?
9:58 PM: I somehow wound up on the greeting card aisle. This lady is putting out cards in the section I need to get to.
9:58:15 PM: I begin to sing the "Dead, Dead, Dead" song from the South Park Christmas CD, hoping to frighten her away. "Dead, dead, dead. Someday we'll be dead. Dead, dead, dead. Someday we'll all be dead."
9:59 PM: It doesn't seem to be working.
10:22 PM: Most of the rest of the trip is uneventful. I make a beeline for the checkout. Leaving Wal-Mart kinda feels like escaping from prison to me. And if I don't hurry, the guards will hit me with falling prices from the watchtower and I'll be sentenced to another hour and lose even more money.
10:23 PM: The checkout lines aren't bad at all. I'm second in line.
10:27 PM: This appears to be the first time the cashier has ever seen the electronic price scanner. She scans at least six of my items twice, double charging me. She keeps having to go back and void the extras. Meanwhile, I'm having to watch the screen like a hawk.
10:31 PM: As I'm leaving, the worker standing by the door--I refuse to call her a greeter any longer--is peering into my buggy and remarks, "That's a big thermos you got there." I'm momentarily confused. As she draws nearer, she says, "Oh that's not a thermos. That's some sort of... well, I don't know what that is."
It's my pink yoga mat. Just greet, lady.
"Eight table dancers, seven packs of Redman, six cans of Spam, five flannel shirts..."
9:04 PM: That greeter didn't greet me. What are they paying her for? I mean, really. You have like one task... greeter! I remember when that title used to mean something. I should've said something. Larry David would have said something.
9:05 PM: Off to the DVD's to look for workout videos.
9:15 PM: After searching thru electronics for ten minutes and almost buying the Barry Manilow Christmas album, I am told the workout DVD's are in sporting goods.
9:15:05 PM: What? Hey, "Mandy" is a darn good song! Lay off me.
9:15:15 PM: No, my parents don't know I celebrate Festivus. And yes, I fear their reaction should they ever find out.
9:15:30 PM: Leaving electronics, I see Garth Brooks' Ultimate Hits is only $13. Hmm, do I know anyone who would want that? I can't think of anyone. Maybe I should get it anyway. You know, one of those gifts you buy and decide who to give it to later. Those always mean the most. 34 songs for $13. You can't pass that up. It's like a two dollar t-shirt.
9:17 PM: In sporting goods now. They have exactly three workout videos. Not three different kinds. Three total boxes. One Taebo and two others.
9:19 PM: Browsing the golf stuff. I'll be back with you in a bit.
9:34 PM: You know, if that guy grew a moustache and lost like a hundred pounds, he'd look exactly like Tom Selleck. Well, Magnum P.I. anyway.
9:35 PM: On my way to the tools.
9:36:30 PM: Risk! (Sorry, I got sidetracked in toys.) "The game of world domination, played by two guys who can barely run their own lives." I always quote that Seinfeld line everytime I see a Risk game. I never had Risk, but always wanted it. I always wanted Jenga, too.
9:37 PM: Remember that Brady Bunch episode where they built a house of cards? "Watch your bracelet, Marcia!"
9:38 PM: My Little Pony is back?
9:38:05 PM: My Little Pony is forty bucks! Thank goodness for Santa Claus.
9:40 PM: You know, I would still play with Legos if it were socially acceptable. Or, if the top of this box wasn't strapped down.
9:42 PM: In tools now. They're right next to the toys. The logic behind that eludes me.
9:45 PM: Calling Dad to see if he needs any tools. You know, just as a general conversation starter. Not that I'm going to buy whatever he mentions and give it to him for Christmas or anything.
9:45:30 PM: Dad can't think of any tools he needs.
9:46 PM: Augh! That PA system is L-O-U-D! You can't even talk on your cell phone in here with that thing blaring. Automotive, code white? What kind of encoded propaganda is that? I'm tuning it out.
9:47 PM: Singing "Carol of the Bells" to myself. "Hark, hear the bells, sweet silver bells, dum duh duh dum, ding dong mmm k. Ding-dong! Ding-dong!"
9:50 PM: I've found myself on an aisle with no apparent theme. There are seemingly misplaced toys on one side and little gift sets of cheap cologne on the other.
9:50:10 PM: Strike "cheap" from that last statement. The jury will disregard. Since when is Brut $9.24?! It used to be like three bucks. Did Brut get some sort of minor celebrity endorsement that I wasn't aware of? Maybe like Tom Green or Alyssa Milano or someone?
9:50:30 PM: Thinking of Brut slogans in my head. "Hi, I'm Tom Green. If there's one thing I know better than bad movies, it's bad cologne."
9:51 PM: Actually, I kinda like Brut.
9:51:05 PM: I kinda like Alyssa Milano, too.
9:52 PM: On my way to housewares. Is that even a department? I'm just making these names up as I go.
9:52:30 PM: That guy just blocked me in! Look out, I'm taking the back aisle all the way down. Clear!
9:53 PM: The back, or outer, aisle is almost always the smoothest way around a crowded store. Sure, it's longer distance-wise, but there's much less traffic, or danger, if you will. Think of it like this. You're a CTU agent and Jack Bauer has just told you to set up a perimeter. The outer aisle is this perimeter. Well, that's how I think of it anyway.
9:54 PM: Some woman working in the floral section just smiled and said hi. Am I supposed to know her, or is she just an overly friendly Wal-Mart associate?
9:58 PM: I somehow wound up on the greeting card aisle. This lady is putting out cards in the section I need to get to.
9:58:15 PM: I begin to sing the "Dead, Dead, Dead" song from the South Park Christmas CD, hoping to frighten her away. "Dead, dead, dead. Someday we'll be dead. Dead, dead, dead. Someday we'll all be dead."
9:59 PM: It doesn't seem to be working.
10:22 PM: Most of the rest of the trip is uneventful. I make a beeline for the checkout. Leaving Wal-Mart kinda feels like escaping from prison to me. And if I don't hurry, the guards will hit me with falling prices from the watchtower and I'll be sentenced to another hour and lose even more money.
10:23 PM: The checkout lines aren't bad at all. I'm second in line.
10:27 PM: This appears to be the first time the cashier has ever seen the electronic price scanner. She scans at least six of my items twice, double charging me. She keeps having to go back and void the extras. Meanwhile, I'm having to watch the screen like a hawk.
10:31 PM: As I'm leaving, the worker standing by the door--I refuse to call her a greeter any longer--is peering into my buggy and remarks, "That's a big thermos you got there." I'm momentarily confused. As she draws nearer, she says, "Oh that's not a thermos. That's some sort of... well, I don't know what that is."
It's my pink yoga mat. Just greet, lady.
"Eight table dancers, seven packs of Redman, six cans of Spam, five flannel shirts..."
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Confessions of a rabid namist
Excerpt from a conversation I had Sunday night:
Me: "Have you ever dated a guy who drove a motorcycle?"
D: "Yeah, for about fifteen minutes. Stefan."
Me: "Stefan? Please tell me that was not his real name."
D: (laughing) "You're just a name snob."
Me: "Me? Tell me you've known one normal Stefan. Go ahead, tell me. I'm waiting."
My name is Bone, and I am a namist. In relationships, it has always been vital that I like the name of any girl I date (not to mention her voice). I mean, what's more important than those two things? And in general, I hold certain preconceived notions of what a person will be like as soon as I hear their name.
For example, I've never known a normal Eric. I figure all Jodys, Lynns, and Shannons likely have some complex and try to overcompensate because they have girl names. And is there any doubt whatsoever Todd is going to be in a fraternity and drive a German car paid for by his parents?
Meanwhile, Steve is a laid-back good-time party guy. Not really dumb, he just doesn't care. He coasts thru life. Or maybe that's just me basing my entire opinion of Steves on the 90210 character so spledidly portrayed by the incomparable Ian Ziering.
Oh, but about Stefan. I've only known one. He was a friend of a friend. Honest. (And by the way, it was STEH-fun, not stuh-FAHN.) In high school, our weekend entertainment was to walk around the mall until it closed at 9:00. Stefan would always be there. Every. Single. Time.
You could walk into most any store in the mall and ask, "Has Stefan been in tonight?" And they would know who you were talking about. It was like he lived in the mall. Think the movie Terminal, except in a mall rather than an airport.
Stefan had this permed hair, a little Kirk Cameron-ish except it was more wavy than curly. And I can't believe I just typed an entire sentence describing some guy's hair. He looked about thirty years old, though I always assumed he was close to our age.
He was a loner type. Think The Fonz, except not cool. And in keeping with that analogy, I guess the mall was his toilet. Occasionally, he might be seen with a couple of stray girls he had picked up in the mall--mall groupies, we called them--but he usually walked alone.
Stefan would always be talking about all these potential plans for later. "Well I might be going here" or "So and so is having a party, I might stop by there." But I never once saw him anywhere outside the mall.
Sometimes I wonder if he's still there. If I could walk into KB Toys today, mention his name, and the workers would know who I was talking about. But alas, I think I'd rather not know. I'd like to believe he is still there, if only in my mind.
"Now I don't blame him cos he run and hid. But the meanest thing that he ever did was before he left, he went and named me Sue..."
Me: "Have you ever dated a guy who drove a motorcycle?"
D: "Yeah, for about fifteen minutes. Stefan."
Me: "Stefan? Please tell me that was not his real name."
D: (laughing) "You're just a name snob."
Me: "Me? Tell me you've known one normal Stefan. Go ahead, tell me. I'm waiting."
My name is Bone, and I am a namist. In relationships, it has always been vital that I like the name of any girl I date (not to mention her voice). I mean, what's more important than those two things? And in general, I hold certain preconceived notions of what a person will be like as soon as I hear their name.
For example, I've never known a normal Eric. I figure all Jodys, Lynns, and Shannons likely have some complex and try to overcompensate because they have girl names. And is there any doubt whatsoever Todd is going to be in a fraternity and drive a German car paid for by his parents?
Meanwhile, Steve is a laid-back good-time party guy. Not really dumb, he just doesn't care. He coasts thru life. Or maybe that's just me basing my entire opinion of Steves on the 90210 character so spledidly portrayed by the incomparable Ian Ziering.
Oh, but about Stefan. I've only known one. He was a friend of a friend. Honest. (And by the way, it was STEH-fun, not stuh-FAHN.) In high school, our weekend entertainment was to walk around the mall until it closed at 9:00. Stefan would always be there. Every. Single. Time.
You could walk into most any store in the mall and ask, "Has Stefan been in tonight?" And they would know who you were talking about. It was like he lived in the mall. Think the movie Terminal, except in a mall rather than an airport.
Stefan had this permed hair, a little Kirk Cameron-ish except it was more wavy than curly. And I can't believe I just typed an entire sentence describing some guy's hair. He looked about thirty years old, though I always assumed he was close to our age.
He was a loner type. Think The Fonz, except not cool. And in keeping with that analogy, I guess the mall was his toilet. Occasionally, he might be seen with a couple of stray girls he had picked up in the mall--mall groupies, we called them--but he usually walked alone.
Stefan would always be talking about all these potential plans for later. "Well I might be going here" or "So and so is having a party, I might stop by there." But I never once saw him anywhere outside the mall.
Sometimes I wonder if he's still there. If I could walk into KB Toys today, mention his name, and the workers would know who I was talking about. But alas, I think I'd rather not know. I'd like to believe he is still there, if only in my mind.
"Now I don't blame him cos he run and hid. But the meanest thing that he ever did was before he left, he went and named me Sue..."
Monday, November 12, 2007
Tragedy, technology, & tying knots
The dull edge became a little sharper last Thursday as I received my Blackberry Curve. It immediately becomes the most cutting edge piece of technology I own, followed by my iPod, and then next would be my... um... Remington PG-250 electric shaver, I guess.
Those in the know tell me that I should refer to it as a Crackberry. I can't wait to find out what that's all about. And the girls at the cell phone place had a nice laugh over my old phone, the discontinued Samsung P107 with the 0.1 megapixel camera, which left all my camera phone pictures looking like abstract impressionist paintings.
My excitement was short-lived, however, as tragedy struck my world Friday afternoon. Shortly before 3 PM, someone I have known for roughly twenty-five years suffered a massive heart attack.
That someone is Luke Spencer.
He was found on the floor of Windermere by Scott Baldwin's long lost son, Logan Hayes. As of today, Luke is still alive, but it is unlikely they'll be able to get him to a hospital because of the storm, so please keep him in your thoughts. More importantly, please keep me in your thoughts, because if Luke goes, I... well, I'd rather not think about it.
Remarkably, I was able to press on despite that weighing heavily on my heart. As a few of you may know, I was in a wedding Saturday. My longtime friend Kyle said goodbye to the ranks of singledom and hello to a brave new world. (I was going to say "My BFF Kyle" but guys don't really have BFF's. We just have buddies, or homeboys, or longtime confidants. Wonder why that is?)
During rehearsal, the wedding director repeatedly called me and the girl I escorted "professionals." I'm not sure I want to be known as a professional groomsman. Then again, why the heck not? Maybe I could make some extra cash on weekends, legally for a change.
It was great to see several friends that I had not seen in quite awhile. And hopefully, no footage of me "dancing" will turn up on YouTube. No, trust me, you think you want it, but you don't.
As the weekend was quite busy, I haven't had a lot of time to play with my Crackberry yet. Though I did finally figure out last night how to change the ring tone. That only took four days.
Technology rulz!
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get thru this thing called life. Electric word life. It means forever and that's a mighty long time. But I'm here to tell you, there's something else..."
Those in the know tell me that I should refer to it as a Crackberry. I can't wait to find out what that's all about. And the girls at the cell phone place had a nice laugh over my old phone, the discontinued Samsung P107 with the 0.1 megapixel camera, which left all my camera phone pictures looking like abstract impressionist paintings.
My excitement was short-lived, however, as tragedy struck my world Friday afternoon. Shortly before 3 PM, someone I have known for roughly twenty-five years suffered a massive heart attack.
That someone is Luke Spencer.
He was found on the floor of Windermere by Scott Baldwin's long lost son, Logan Hayes. As of today, Luke is still alive, but it is unlikely they'll be able to get him to a hospital because of the storm, so please keep him in your thoughts. More importantly, please keep me in your thoughts, because if Luke goes, I... well, I'd rather not think about it.
Remarkably, I was able to press on despite that weighing heavily on my heart. As a few of you may know, I was in a wedding Saturday. My longtime friend Kyle said goodbye to the ranks of singledom and hello to a brave new world. (I was going to say "My BFF Kyle" but guys don't really have BFF's. We just have buddies, or homeboys, or longtime confidants. Wonder why that is?)
During rehearsal, the wedding director repeatedly called me and the girl I escorted "professionals." I'm not sure I want to be known as a professional groomsman. Then again, why the heck not? Maybe I could make some extra cash on weekends, legally for a change.
It was great to see several friends that I had not seen in quite awhile. And hopefully, no footage of me "dancing" will turn up on YouTube. No, trust me, you think you want it, but you don't.
As the weekend was quite busy, I haven't had a lot of time to play with my Crackberry yet. Though I did finally figure out last night how to change the ring tone. That only took four days.
Technology rulz!
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get thru this thing called life. Electric word life. It means forever and that's a mighty long time. But I'm here to tell you, there's something else..."
Friday, September 21, 2007
I wiki, therefore I am
I love wikipedia. To those who know me well, this comes as no surprise. Sometime during the past year, Wikipedia surpassed SportsCenter, Seinfeld, and John Tesh to become my number one source for information.
Terms spawned by Wikipedia have already become part of our daily vernacular. To wiki means to research or look up a topic on Wikipedia. Past tense, wiki'd. Present participle, wikiing. Plural form, wikies or wiki's.
Then, of course, there are other less known terms still waiting to make their way into common dialect. Terms like wikilicious, which is used to describe a fascinating, surprising, or otherwise extraordinary fact unearthed within the pages of Wikipedia.
Example:
"Did you know that Tom Wopat appeared in the Broadway revival of David Mamet's Pulitzer Prize-winning play Glengarry Glen Ross?"
"Wow! That's wikilicious!."
I wiki most everything. Some days I spend indiscriminate amounts of time wikiing just for fun. Like last week, I wiki'd Jordache, you know, hoping for some sign that they may be coming back in style.
Here is what I learned about Jordache: "The brand is known for its designer jeans that were popular in the late 1970s."
Late seventies? I was wearing Jordache jeans in 1986 like they were going out of style! Which apparently, they were.
I'm not sure from whence my Wikipedia fascination comes. Perhaps it stems from the fact that we never had a complete and current set of encyclopedias when I was growing up. Dad's World Books were the 1959 edition.
Then I remember sometime in the 80's, Winn Dixie began selling encyclopedias. Ah yes, could there be a better plan? There's no place like your local supermarket to get your reference materials from.
You could buy a different volume every week or two. So Mom would buy them when she went grocery shopping. Then one week, she forgot, so we missed a volume. Then another. Long story short, in the end I could do a report on any topic as long as it didn't begin with a D, G, J-K, M, S, or W,X,Y,Z.
On top of that, they weren't World Books. Or even Encyclopedia Brittanicas. They were Funk & Wagnalls. Sounds more like a bad 70's band than an encyclopedia.
Or perhaps my fascination with Wikipedia and seemingly useless information is inherited. After all, I remember Dad spending countless hours every day in the bathroom reading his World Books. So in a way, when I'm wikiing, I'm only carrying on a family tradition.
Here's to Dad, the sanctity of a man's bathroom, and those who spend twenty hours a day editing Wikipedia. Oh, and also to John Tesh. You had a good run, but it's over, man.
Happy wikiing!
"My ergonomic keyboard never leaves me bored. Shopping online for deals on some writable media. I edit Wikipedia..."
Terms spawned by Wikipedia have already become part of our daily vernacular. To wiki means to research or look up a topic on Wikipedia. Past tense, wiki'd. Present participle, wikiing. Plural form, wikies or wiki's.
Then, of course, there are other less known terms still waiting to make their way into common dialect. Terms like wikilicious, which is used to describe a fascinating, surprising, or otherwise extraordinary fact unearthed within the pages of Wikipedia.
Example:
"Did you know that Tom Wopat appeared in the Broadway revival of David Mamet's Pulitzer Prize-winning play Glengarry Glen Ross?"
"Wow! That's wikilicious!."
I wiki most everything. Some days I spend indiscriminate amounts of time wikiing just for fun. Like last week, I wiki'd Jordache, you know, hoping for some sign that they may be coming back in style.
Here is what I learned about Jordache: "The brand is known for its designer jeans that were popular in the late 1970s."
Late seventies? I was wearing Jordache jeans in 1986 like they were going out of style! Which apparently, they were.
I'm not sure from whence my Wikipedia fascination comes. Perhaps it stems from the fact that we never had a complete and current set of encyclopedias when I was growing up. Dad's World Books were the 1959 edition.
Then I remember sometime in the 80's, Winn Dixie began selling encyclopedias. Ah yes, could there be a better plan? There's no place like your local supermarket to get your reference materials from.
You could buy a different volume every week or two. So Mom would buy them when she went grocery shopping. Then one week, she forgot, so we missed a volume. Then another. Long story short, in the end I could do a report on any topic as long as it didn't begin with a D, G, J-K, M, S, or W,X,Y,Z.
On top of that, they weren't World Books. Or even Encyclopedia Brittanicas. They were Funk & Wagnalls. Sounds more like a bad 70's band than an encyclopedia.
Or perhaps my fascination with Wikipedia and seemingly useless information is inherited. After all, I remember Dad spending countless hours every day in the bathroom reading his World Books. So in a way, when I'm wikiing, I'm only carrying on a family tradition.
Here's to Dad, the sanctity of a man's bathroom, and those who spend twenty hours a day editing Wikipedia. Oh, and also to John Tesh. You had a good run, but it's over, man.
Happy wikiing!
"My ergonomic keyboard never leaves me bored. Shopping online for deals on some writable media. I edit Wikipedia..."
Saturday, September 15, 2007
To caulk or ford?
Remember how it felt? Holding the reins. In control. Cruising cross country in the ol' Conestoga. Fording rivers. Repairing wagon tongues. Living off the land. Knowing everyone was depending on you.
I can only be referring to the Oregon Trail. No, not the major migration route used by pioneers traveling westward across North America over 150 years ago. Rather, I'm talking about the computer game based on that route.
I believe I was in middle school the first time I was introduced to the game. Who knew so much fun could be contained on a simple five-and-a-quarter inch floppy disk.
To me, the best part about Oregon Trail was the primitive navigation system on the Conestoga. It gave the date, weather, total distance traveled, distance remaining, distance to the next landmark, as well as how much food you had remaining. It even had that little map you could click on to see exactly where you were. The Conestoga was the Tahoe of the 19th Century.
Oregon Trail was educational as well as entertaining. It forced me to make choices, real life decisions. At least, they would have been real life decisions had I lived in 1840.
I learned that all farmers are poor, four oxen can pull a wagon faster than two, and squirrels are harder to shoot than buffalo, though buffalo provide more pure poundage of food.
On my way to the Willamette Valley, I also learned about death. Few things up to that point in my life were as heartbreaking as reading "Jimmy has died of dysentery" across the screen.
Best I could tell, dysentery and cholera were likely the two leading causes of death for Americans in the 1840's, with drowning a close third. Heck, I wouldn't even know what dysentery was if it weren't for the Oregon Trail. And I'm confident that knowledge played an integral role in my upbringing and development.
As with most things I ponder, certain questions eventually arise. And Oregon Trail is no different. For instance, what was the deal with this message: "You shot 1958 pounds of food, but were only able to carry 200 pounds back to the wagon."
If I'm in need of food, I'm bringing Annie, Mary, Little Susie, and Jimmy all off the wagon to help carry it. Well not Jimmy, bless his heart, may he rest in peace.
Either that, or I'll pull the wagon right up to the carcass. And if it won't hold all the food, we'll just camp there a few days and eat. We've got to rest anyway. Mary has a broken leg, and one of the oxen got lost.
"We lost a lot of steers that day, and four or five good mounts. But when all the boys rode into camp, we knew that's what counts..."
I can only be referring to the Oregon Trail. No, not the major migration route used by pioneers traveling westward across North America over 150 years ago. Rather, I'm talking about the computer game based on that route.
I believe I was in middle school the first time I was introduced to the game. Who knew so much fun could be contained on a simple five-and-a-quarter inch floppy disk.
To me, the best part about Oregon Trail was the primitive navigation system on the Conestoga. It gave the date, weather, total distance traveled, distance remaining, distance to the next landmark, as well as how much food you had remaining. It even had that little map you could click on to see exactly where you were. The Conestoga was the Tahoe of the 19th Century.
Oregon Trail was educational as well as entertaining. It forced me to make choices, real life decisions. At least, they would have been real life decisions had I lived in 1840.
I learned that all farmers are poor, four oxen can pull a wagon faster than two, and squirrels are harder to shoot than buffalo, though buffalo provide more pure poundage of food.
On my way to the Willamette Valley, I also learned about death. Few things up to that point in my life were as heartbreaking as reading "Jimmy has died of dysentery" across the screen.
Best I could tell, dysentery and cholera were likely the two leading causes of death for Americans in the 1840's, with drowning a close third. Heck, I wouldn't even know what dysentery was if it weren't for the Oregon Trail. And I'm confident that knowledge played an integral role in my upbringing and development.
As with most things I ponder, certain questions eventually arise. And Oregon Trail is no different. For instance, what was the deal with this message: "You shot 1958 pounds of food, but were only able to carry 200 pounds back to the wagon."
If I'm in need of food, I'm bringing Annie, Mary, Little Susie, and Jimmy all off the wagon to help carry it. Well not Jimmy, bless his heart, may he rest in peace.
Either that, or I'll pull the wagon right up to the carcass. And if it won't hold all the food, we'll just camp there a few days and eat. We've got to rest anyway. Mary has a broken leg, and one of the oxen got lost.
"We lost a lot of steers that day, and four or five good mounts. But when all the boys rode into camp, we knew that's what counts..."
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Bachelor on Aisle Seven
If by some rare cosmic occurrence the stars do indeed align at some point in the future and I get married, I have a feeling I will not be allowed to do the grocery shopping for the family.
I really should live blog a trip to the grocery store one day. Despite what you might think, it's not all reaching items on the top shelf for attractive female shoppers. Rather, I think a typical shopping trip for me would best be described as laid back chaos.
For starters, I don't make a list. Ever. I mean, that'd be like Hendrix playing with a capo, or Van Gogh painting by numbers. The art and freedom of expression would be lost.
I did employ a no buggy rule for a long while, only purchasing those items I could carry in my arms, hands, and balanced on my head. But lately, I've been fudging on that rule and going with the cursed shopping cart, and it's been costing me.
Saturday, I came home with a jar of bacon bits. Nevermind that I had no lettuce, nothing with which to make a salad, nor anything else on which bacon bits could be used. They just looked good. This is a perfect microcosm of my grocery issues. By the way, I got Hormel real bacon bits, not imitation bits. That's important, somehow, for when I'm eating them out of my hand.
I failed to purchase milk because I thought I had some at home. Well, I did have some at home, only it had expired one day earlier. I'll drink it up to two days past expiration. After that, it's a crap shoot. No pun intended.
I also purchased a half loaf of bread. I always purchase a half loaf of bread. When I came home, I threw away my previous half loaf of bread which had expired about a week earlier, and of which I had only used five slices.
Five slices is probably the most I've used out of a loaf of bread in five years, and one of those I tore up and fed to a cat who has taken up residence beneath cars in the parking lot.
And don't even get me started on produce. It's good for two days, max. And when you're only going to the grocery store once every ten to fourteen days, that doesn't work so well. I've thrown away enough bananas over the years to feed every monkey in Malaysia.
Even when there is a product I'm absolutely sure I need, there are usually several options to choose from. There's skim milk, 1%, 2%, whole, and even something called half and half, which personally I find a bit offensive, but whatever.
With many items, there are name brands and store brands and generic brands. Depending on the item, the difference in quality may be great or it may be negligible. How's a bachelor to know?
And then there is tissue. To me, the issue of tissue comes down to one basic choice, comfort versus quantity. For a similar price, one may procure a 4-pack of durable 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott tissue, or a 4-pack of soft, velvety 300-sheets-per-roll Charmin Ultra.
Early on in my bachelorhood, I opted for the latter. They lure you in with commericials filled with clouds and feathers and teddy bears. But those tiny rolls run out fast! Pretty soon, you've got a two-pack-a-week habit. I felt like a chain smoker.
There are few things a bachelor hates more than leaving the house, er, going grocery shopping. So I changed philosophies to the more economical solution of quantity over comfort.
Let me tell you something, they shouldn't even be allowed to call that Scott stuff "tissue." It should be called construction paper on a roll, because that's what it is. It's a tad abrasive. I think it may be the same stuff they use to dry off elephants in the circus after they wash them.
Now I'm as rugged as the next guy, but we all have our limits. Needless to say, I'm back on the feather and cloud wagon, and my happy tail is back to buying a four-roll-pack a week.
Some might ask, "Bone, why not buy in bulk?" And to those I give a squinty-eyed look of confusion and say, "...Huh?"
I am Bone, the disorganized, disoriented shopper. Look for me in the frozen foods section of your favorite grocery store or supermarket. I'll most likely be wearing that same squinty-eyed look of confusion.
"I got rice cooking in the microwave. Got a three day beard I don't plan to shave..."
I really should live blog a trip to the grocery store one day. Despite what you might think, it's not all reaching items on the top shelf for attractive female shoppers. Rather, I think a typical shopping trip for me would best be described as laid back chaos.
For starters, I don't make a list. Ever. I mean, that'd be like Hendrix playing with a capo, or Van Gogh painting by numbers. The art and freedom of expression would be lost.
I did employ a no buggy rule for a long while, only purchasing those items I could carry in my arms, hands, and balanced on my head. But lately, I've been fudging on that rule and going with the cursed shopping cart, and it's been costing me.
Saturday, I came home with a jar of bacon bits. Nevermind that I had no lettuce, nothing with which to make a salad, nor anything else on which bacon bits could be used. They just looked good. This is a perfect microcosm of my grocery issues. By the way, I got Hormel real bacon bits, not imitation bits. That's important, somehow, for when I'm eating them out of my hand.
I failed to purchase milk because I thought I had some at home. Well, I did have some at home, only it had expired one day earlier. I'll drink it up to two days past expiration. After that, it's a crap shoot. No pun intended.
I also purchased a half loaf of bread. I always purchase a half loaf of bread. When I came home, I threw away my previous half loaf of bread which had expired about a week earlier, and of which I had only used five slices.
Five slices is probably the most I've used out of a loaf of bread in five years, and one of those I tore up and fed to a cat who has taken up residence beneath cars in the parking lot.
And don't even get me started on produce. It's good for two days, max. And when you're only going to the grocery store once every ten to fourteen days, that doesn't work so well. I've thrown away enough bananas over the years to feed every monkey in Malaysia.
Even when there is a product I'm absolutely sure I need, there are usually several options to choose from. There's skim milk, 1%, 2%, whole, and even something called half and half, which personally I find a bit offensive, but whatever.
With many items, there are name brands and store brands and generic brands. Depending on the item, the difference in quality may be great or it may be negligible. How's a bachelor to know?
And then there is tissue. To me, the issue of tissue comes down to one basic choice, comfort versus quantity. For a similar price, one may procure a 4-pack of durable 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott tissue, or a 4-pack of soft, velvety 300-sheets-per-roll Charmin Ultra.
Early on in my bachelorhood, I opted for the latter. They lure you in with commericials filled with clouds and feathers and teddy bears. But those tiny rolls run out fast! Pretty soon, you've got a two-pack-a-week habit. I felt like a chain smoker.
There are few things a bachelor hates more than leaving the house, er, going grocery shopping. So I changed philosophies to the more economical solution of quantity over comfort.
Let me tell you something, they shouldn't even be allowed to call that Scott stuff "tissue." It should be called construction paper on a roll, because that's what it is. It's a tad abrasive. I think it may be the same stuff they use to dry off elephants in the circus after they wash them.
Now I'm as rugged as the next guy, but we all have our limits. Needless to say, I'm back on the feather and cloud wagon, and my happy tail is back to buying a four-roll-pack a week.
Some might ask, "Bone, why not buy in bulk?" And to those I give a squinty-eyed look of confusion and say, "...Huh?"
I am Bone, the disorganized, disoriented shopper. Look for me in the frozen foods section of your favorite grocery store or supermarket. I'll most likely be wearing that same squinty-eyed look of confusion.
"I got rice cooking in the microwave. Got a three day beard I don't plan to shave..."
Saturday, August 18, 2007
...But somebody's gotta do it
From Seinfeld episode #70, The Lip Reader:
Kramer: "Hey Jerry, do me a favor. The next time you see that lineswoman ask her how those ball boys get those jobs. I would love to be able to do that."
Jerry: "Kramer, I think perhaps you've overlooked one of the key aspects of this activity. It's ball boys, not ball men. There are no ball men."
Kramer: "Well, there ought to be ball men."
Lately, I've been considering looking for a new career. Or, as some might say, looking for a career. Obviously, my first choice would be to go from being the unpaid-disseminator-of-three-words to a well-paid-comfortably-living-writer. But what if that doesn't happen? I don't want to be sitting around in my mid-30's playing Nintendo and not knowing what I want to do with my life.
So I've been keeping my eyes open, and I've discovered there are a ton of fascinating career opportunities out there. And though I'm not quite sure how one would go about obtaining any of these jobs, let's look at a few now:
Career Option #1: Lindsay Lohan's driver
I was watching a VH-1 special this morning on the troubles of the voluptuous one. Now as I see it, the majority of Miss Lohan's legal troubles stem from driving under the influence.
Solution? Stop her from driving. And who better to drive around one of the great, misunderstood thespians of our time than yours truly?
The advantages would be tremendous. I'd live in California, could serve as both her father figure and trusted confidant, and in all likelihood I would be credited with helping to save her career and she would owe me big time.
Career Option #2: Commercial Lobster Fisherman
Last night, I was watching Lobster Wars on Discovery. Now I've heard people say this is a dangerous job requiring you to risk your life every single day. Friends, I risk my life everytime I sprint up and down the stairs in my apartment, running from whatever might be chasing me. Believe me, I've had a number of close calls!
Besides, not everyone on these boats are leaning over the railing risking their lives, right? I'm sure they have people who remain solidly in the center of the boat. Maybe I could work down in the hull, in the boiler room or something.
Wonder if I could get a note from my Mom. "Bone has a bit of an equilibrium problem. Please excuse him from hanging over the side of the boat and any other activities in which he might possibly die. Also, he dislikes loud noises and sometimes gets a tummy ache after he eats Mexican food." Wonder if that would work.
Career Option #3: Women's Pro Beach Volleyball Linesman
I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh on TV last weekend when the camera panned to this guy just standing at the corner of the court, signaling whether balls were in or out.
Where do I sign up! I could do that. I'm already sitting here in my underwear eating Doritos watching them. Why not put on my board shorts and watch them in person while getting some sun. Heck I could even apply sunscreen to the girls and get water for them during breaks in the action. I'm nothing if not a multi-tasker.
Don't discount this idea. Someone is doing this job right now. Why shouldn't it be me? They wouldn't even have to pay me.
Career Option #4: Sideline Cord & Wire Untangler
I go to a good number of college football games. Anytime the games are televised, there are several people who follow the camera operators and reporters around on the sidelines, holding their cords and keeping them straight.
I'm not sure what the prerequisites for this job would be, but I've always been good at getting shoe laces unknotted. I keep my garden hose coiled nicely when not in use, and I have braided a girl's hair before, in a standard, three-strand braid.
The benefits to this job would be tremendous. I'd get to travel around the country, take in a little football, and might even bump into Erin Andrews. Again, salary optional.
Career Option #5: Reality TV Show Star
This is probably the most obvious and natural career move for me to make. Here's the premise of the show. I would play the protege of a big-name celebrity, say for example, Scott Baio. The show could be called something catchy like, oh I don't know, Scott Baio Is 46 & A Mentor.
Scott would serve as my relationship mentor, with Nicole Eggert starring as my love interest. Since Scott is already unknowingly my relationship mentor, the transition would be seamless. Season one guest stars would include Henry Winkler and Willie Aames. Who wouldn't watch that!
There you have it, just a few of the career options stretched out before me on that vast horizon known as tomorrow. As you can see, the future looks bright for Bone.
"I study nuclear science. I love my classes. I got a crazy teacher. He wears dark glasses..."
Kramer: "Hey Jerry, do me a favor. The next time you see that lineswoman ask her how those ball boys get those jobs. I would love to be able to do that."
Jerry: "Kramer, I think perhaps you've overlooked one of the key aspects of this activity. It's ball boys, not ball men. There are no ball men."
Kramer: "Well, there ought to be ball men."
Lately, I've been considering looking for a new career. Or, as some might say, looking for a career. Obviously, my first choice would be to go from being the unpaid-disseminator-of-three-words to a well-paid-comfortably-living-writer. But what if that doesn't happen? I don't want to be sitting around in my mid-30's playing Nintendo and not knowing what I want to do with my life.
So I've been keeping my eyes open, and I've discovered there are a ton of fascinating career opportunities out there. And though I'm not quite sure how one would go about obtaining any of these jobs, let's look at a few now:
Career Option #1: Lindsay Lohan's driver
I was watching a VH-1 special this morning on the troubles of the voluptuous one. Now as I see it, the majority of Miss Lohan's legal troubles stem from driving under the influence.
Solution? Stop her from driving. And who better to drive around one of the great, misunderstood thespians of our time than yours truly?
The advantages would be tremendous. I'd live in California, could serve as both her father figure and trusted confidant, and in all likelihood I would be credited with helping to save her career and she would owe me big time.
Career Option #2: Commercial Lobster Fisherman
Last night, I was watching Lobster Wars on Discovery. Now I've heard people say this is a dangerous job requiring you to risk your life every single day. Friends, I risk my life everytime I sprint up and down the stairs in my apartment, running from whatever might be chasing me. Believe me, I've had a number of close calls!
Besides, not everyone on these boats are leaning over the railing risking their lives, right? I'm sure they have people who remain solidly in the center of the boat. Maybe I could work down in the hull, in the boiler room or something.
Wonder if I could get a note from my Mom. "Bone has a bit of an equilibrium problem. Please excuse him from hanging over the side of the boat and any other activities in which he might possibly die. Also, he dislikes loud noises and sometimes gets a tummy ache after he eats Mexican food." Wonder if that would work.
Career Option #3: Women's Pro Beach Volleyball Linesman
I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh on TV last weekend when the camera panned to this guy just standing at the corner of the court, signaling whether balls were in or out.
Where do I sign up! I could do that. I'm already sitting here in my underwear eating Doritos watching them. Why not put on my board shorts and watch them in person while getting some sun. Heck I could even apply sunscreen to the girls and get water for them during breaks in the action. I'm nothing if not a multi-tasker.
Don't discount this idea. Someone is doing this job right now. Why shouldn't it be me? They wouldn't even have to pay me.
Career Option #4: Sideline Cord & Wire Untangler
I go to a good number of college football games. Anytime the games are televised, there are several people who follow the camera operators and reporters around on the sidelines, holding their cords and keeping them straight.
I'm not sure what the prerequisites for this job would be, but I've always been good at getting shoe laces unknotted. I keep my garden hose coiled nicely when not in use, and I have braided a girl's hair before, in a standard, three-strand braid.
The benefits to this job would be tremendous. I'd get to travel around the country, take in a little football, and might even bump into Erin Andrews. Again, salary optional.
Career Option #5: Reality TV Show Star
This is probably the most obvious and natural career move for me to make. Here's the premise of the show. I would play the protege of a big-name celebrity, say for example, Scott Baio. The show could be called something catchy like, oh I don't know, Scott Baio Is 46 & A Mentor.
Scott would serve as my relationship mentor, with Nicole Eggert starring as my love interest. Since Scott is already unknowingly my relationship mentor, the transition would be seamless. Season one guest stars would include Henry Winkler and Willie Aames. Who wouldn't watch that!
There you have it, just a few of the career options stretched out before me on that vast horizon known as tomorrow. As you can see, the future looks bright for Bone.
"I study nuclear science. I love my classes. I got a crazy teacher. He wears dark glasses..."
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Nine iron over the starboard side
I consider myself to be somewhat athletic. I try and go running at least two or three times a week, I've played on several slow-pitch softball teams over the years, I've bowled my share of 200+ games, etc. I enjoy sports, whether watching or participating. And I feel that with time and practice I've been able to become at least decent at every sport I've tried.
Every sport that is, except one.
An old joke says, "Golf is a four-letter word." Another says, "Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle."
Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I've ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.
When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone's front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.
I haven't been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.
Also, for some odd reason, I've had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?
I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.
I have a feeling the golf thing wasn't even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:
Buzz: "Dude, you're bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?"
Neil: "Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It's so barren and gray. Don't mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame."
And that US flag they brought? That wasn't some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.
(Yes, I'm aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)
So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.
But also, I've got the fever again. I'm back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.
Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.
One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.
"Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?"
Every sport that is, except one.
An old joke says, "Golf is a four-letter word." Another says, "Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle."
Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I've ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.
When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone's front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.
I haven't been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.
Also, for some odd reason, I've had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?
I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.
I have a feeling the golf thing wasn't even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:
Buzz: "Dude, you're bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?"
Neil: "Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It's so barren and gray. Don't mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame."
And that US flag they brought? That wasn't some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.
(Yes, I'm aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)
So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.
But also, I've got the fever again. I'm back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.
Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.
One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.
"Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?"
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