Dumb as a Box of Hair

About four years ago, I had an unexpected night off from softball. I returned home, flipped on the television only to find Superman II playing. Clearly, fate was smiling upon me, and to celebrate, I cooked up a little dinner.

I started by making a batch of rice - no minute rice here - chicken stock, onions, carrots and rice. Next came the chicken - browned and crispy on the outside, then I placed the whole grill pan in the oven and let it cook.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled the grill pan out of the oven, and the chicken was perfect - crispy, juicy and fragrant. I spooned some rice on the waiting plate, and eager to see Superman fight Zod, Ursa and Non through the streets of Metropolis, I grabbed the grill pan to transfer the chicken to the plate.

Now, the oven was set at 400 degrees, and my cookware is all nonstick aluminum, meaning it retains heat very well. Which is great, especially if you remember to pick up a pan fresh from the oven with an oven mitt.

Which I didn't do.

My hand blistered instantly and six hours later, I returned home from the emergency room, my hand bandaged and numbed by pain medication. To this day, I still don't have feeling in one of my fingertips. Lesson learned.

Or so I thought.

Tonight, I had a nice quiet evening planned. So I took some chicken thighs, tossed them in olive oil and added salt and pepper. I browned them in a pan, added more olive oil, some garlic cloves, green onions and rosemary, sage and thyme, covered it and tossed it in the oven.

My plan was to add the garlic and onions to the mashed potatoes I was making, and I would saute the green beans in the herb-flavored oil when the chicken finished cooking.

The timer chimed and I removed the pan from the oven. I mixed the mashed potatoes, then I removed the lid from the pan. Without an oven mitt.

Fortunately I dropped it before I suffered any permanent injury. Vowing to pay attention, I mixed the potatoes with the garlic and onion.

Then I grabbed the pan's handle to remove the chicken. Without an oven mitt.

Again, I dropped it before any permanent harm, but I'm thinking that for me, cooking qualififes as an extreme sport.

The meal was delicious, though. So that counts for something . . . doesn't it?

At Least I Can Start Sleeping Again

I kept waiting for the earthquake, the pestilence, the fire, but it never came.

Near as I can tell, someone drugged, bribed or kidnapped the Cardinals and replaced them with a high school team.

Well, I haven't slept in three weeks, thanks to baseball. I can finally catch up. My house is a mess, my life is in disarray, and I haven't eaten a decent meal in weeks (no, apparently, Doritos and popcorn is NOT a decent meal).

But, the sun will rise tomorrow, and I'll wake up, walk the dog, and shoo any passed-out Red Sox fans off my front yard. Unless they overturned my car - then I'm going to ask for their help in turning it back over - after I club them over the head.

Now I can start focusing on the important things -- dog, showering, plumbing, poker.

And spring training is only 121 days away . . .

Huh . . .

Sweet Baby Jesus! I just realized this little ol' blog of mine turned one today! Who knew I could keep up with anything this long? I think I'll celebrate by getting violently drunk tomorrow night and throwing an empty beer bottle through the television. I have a word for nights like that: Tuesday.

Happy birthday, blog!

Frustration Under the Arch

Copy of an e-mail I sent a friend today:

It's been nice seeing the Cardinals decide to be nice
and sporting by NOT taking advantage of Schilling's
bad ankle by bunting the ball along the first base
line about 45 times last night.

I mean, I know I wouldn't want to win my first World
Series in 17 years by taking advantage of my
opponent's potential glaring weakness.

But that's okay. Boston's been particularly nice thus
far - the crappy hotel arrangements they made for the
Cardinals - the piss poor driving arrangements - the
way the fans cheered when Womack took the ball off his
shoulder. Class. All around.

At least the umpires have kept things fair - the way
the strike zone suddenly grows when the Cardinals are
at the plate and shrinks when Boston steps up.

However, I wouldn't be this pissed about the whole
thing if the Cardinals as a team would step up and
start playing the way they played all season! What's
up with these bad hacks at the ball? The stupid
baserunning errors, and the way our pitchers are
afraid to throw a strike when they have two strikes on
someone - Jesus. I can't take this.

I won't be happy if we lose, but I can live with it -
unless Boston sweeps us. Because, frankly, they're not
that good a team. Houston was better than them, and we
beat Houston.

I'm just going back to drinking heavily and adding
pain medication on top. It just hurts too much.

However, I've managed to convince myself that we're
going after Johnson in the offseason. But maybe I'm
just grasping at straws.

Drained

I just finished cleaning up the house. Everyone has gone home, and the television is the only sound. Downtown, people are cheering, milling about; happily drunk and enjoying the moment.

Despite all the nay-sayers, and there were many of them (myself included), the Cardinals are going to the World Series.

I started smiling while typing that last sentence.

The hints were there all season. In June, the Cards played the Cubs in Wrigley. They were down by nine runs in the third inning, and they clawed their way back into the game to win it. This team just kept finding ways to win; they picked each other up; no one would take too much credit. It was always the team.

October baseball is tense, edge-of-your-seat, unforgiving baseball. People complain that the sport is too lazy, that it languishes too much. Watch some October ball. Nothing is more exciting.

This series has been better than anyone gave it credit. New York and Boston was the heralded series, but the fans who have watched this series has seen some of the best, hard-nosed baseball they could ask for. Houston and St. Louis were both evenly matched, and to be honest, I could have lived with a Houston win. It wouldn't have been nearly as sweet, but it's an easier pill to swallow than it was two years ago, when Kenny Lofton and Barry Bonds took the Cardinals' World Series berth.

Twenty-two years ago, I sat on the edge of the couch next to Mom and Mike as Bruce Sutter won the World Series. I laid awake in a sleeping bag in the living room, waiting for Dad to return from the game. He walked in hours later with a smile on his face and a game ball in each hand. I'm ready to jump again.

I'm tired out, exhausted and exhilerated. I need sleep but I don't think I can. We'll just see what happens.

Good luck, Cardinals.

Help!

I need easy Halloween costume ideas! Surely both of my readers can come up with something! Any ideas will be greatly appreciated.

Empty

I leaned forward on the edge of the couch in the darkening living room. The dog slept nearby, and the only light in the room was the television's ghostly flicker.

For the past two hours, I alternately laughed, jumped up and down, annoyed the dog, and screamed as the Cardinals tried like Hell to throw away a shot at the World Series this year. Fortunately, good triumphed over evil, but I feel like crying, I'm so damn tired.

Some thoughts:

• "Why does La Russa hate us so much?" I asked Tim over the phone when Isringhausen started pitching the 10th. "It's not La Russa who hates us - it's Isringhausen," Tim replied.
  
• Going into the 12th inning, it dawned on me that somewhere in a towering steel and glass office building, some Fox executive is looking down upon us and getting pissed that the Cardinals/Astros game may cut into the Boston/New York game's National Anthem. Fortunately, Edmonds solved the problem, so we weren't subjected to Tim McCarver analyizing the singer's vocalization.
  
• Brad Lidge isn't human. There's no way the guy can keep pitching. I've decided he's an android. I thought about running down to the ballpark and proving it, but I may not survive when it goes into kill mode. I'd try to kneecap Beltran, but Steve "Carlos Beltran is soooo dreamy" Lyon would probably take the hit for him.
  
• At Yankee Stadium, in a dark, dank room with pipes running across the ceiling and water dripping down to the floor, I'm sure George Steinbrenner has Kevin Brown's family tied up - insurance in case he doesn't perform well tonight. (Judging from the score, I hope Kevin has a backup family). Man, if the Yankees lose, I can't imagine what will happen to that organization.
  
• They say Julian Tavarez broke his hand in two places when punching the wall. I disagree. I think La Russa broke it: "Okay, Julian. Hold still! This one's for blowing the game." SNAP! "And this one's for throwing a fit on national television." SNAP! "Don't do it again."
  

Perhaps I shouldn't be drinking by myself during baseball playoff games . . .

I'm Pissed

• that the Cardinals have suddenly forgotten how to hit the ball the way they have all season.
  
• that the Fox announcers are acting like they'd like to run down to the field and make sweet love to Carlos Beltran (Pujols is hitting better than he is).
  
• that the jackasses at Operation Rescue (I refuse to link to these schmucks) are driving around town with rather shocking and gruesome images on the sides of trucks (Let's just say if I were a parent, I'd be really upset), yet it's okay - because they're "pro-life".
  
• that I had to drive all the way the hell across town to meet my family for dinner, even though it would have made far more sense to meet about 50 miles closer.
  
• that I haven't been able to sleep this week.
  

Enough ranting. Tomorrow will be a better day. Otherwise, I may start hitting the bottle or cutting something. Oh, and Arrested Development comes out on DVD tomorrow, so that's something.

Have a great night, all.

Out the Door

It laid on the table before me; dotted and crossed with scratches that might have well been Sanskrit. The pressure increased; the pen beckoned me. Sign it and I could leave. No problem. My head spun, the light burned into my head; my stomach rumbled and I just wanted to return to my warm home, my little dog, my familiar confines.

But he wouldn't let me leave.

It started Tuesday. I drove to work, same as every day; except that fate stepped in and told me to take a different route. And I saw the sign.

Sale.

I need a new car. Four years ago, my old car, The Red Menace, went to the great junkyard in Earth City after she died on the highway on a breezy May night. I needed a car, but had no money. So like some Beelzebub or Mephistopholes, the car salesman conned me into leasing my car, the White Flight.

All I can say is I wish he would have kissed me as I signed the documents, because it would have made the reaming go that much easier.

So here I am. I've already exceeded the mileage limits on my car, and I have seven months remaining on the lease. Not good. At this rate, I'll be able to purchase a car for what I'll pay in penalties.

How can I earn your business?

He was smooth; he was friendly. The essence of sales. You want to believe him; you want to do as he says. But Sweet Jesus, I hate the way they throw numbers too and fro; hither and yon.

To me, numbers are an obsucre language. I don't speak math beyond a third-grade level. Fractions give me pause; algebra headaches; calculus? Forget it.

I gotta go.

I know I've grown as a person over the last few years. I'm not as accomodating or eager to please, and I've finally learned after all these years to say no. (However, if he would have been a cute blonde named Amy, I'd be driving that car right now).

I will probably buy it this week, but it's going to be on my terms, not theirs, and that makes me feel far, far better about the whole deal.

Until the car blows up after I take it off the lot.

Crack in the Wall

I like to call my little corner of the office "Circumspection Circle". We don't talk to one another; we don't reach out to one another; we just nod and move about our business like good worker bees.

The solitude kind of empowers me; I focus. In my headphone world, surrounded by my walls, I research, I study. But I don't talk. People don't come by too much; they're actually working. I'm sure that'll change soon - as I start going to meetings and acutally working on assignments, but for now, the throb of the air conditioner and the low hum of voices filter over my walls, my companions that remind me there's a world outside my metal and plastic fortress.

BBBBBRRRRRIIIIINNNNNGGGGG. The phone shattered my concentration; broke down the walls. The rest of the world came crashing back in through my walls.

"This is Brian."

"Hi there." Her voice was girlish and playful. "How are you."

"I'm fine; and you?" At this point, I had no idea who in the hell this was. Outside of the office, only one person has my work number.

"Don't you know who this is?"

"No. Sorry, I don't"

"How can you send an e-mail to someone without knowing who it is?" Well, that's easy, I thought, I frequently e-mail Ashley Judd, Kate Beckinsdale and Charlize Theron and I don't know them; however, their lawyers? Whole different story. At this point, I'm looking around, seeing if this is some sort of prank.

"Well, I didn't send you an e-mail."

"Your name is Brian? Well, the e-mail I got had this phone number."

"What was the name on it?"

"I don't know. You work in an office right? Are there other people around?" I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but how can this e-mail NOT HAVE A NAME ON IT? And more importantly, if it didn't, why is this fool calling the number on it?

"Look. I don't know who you're trying to reach. Don't you have a name?"

"I used to know a Todd there." I grabbed my phone list.

"Nope. No Todd here. Sorry I couldn't help you." And she hung up.

Hearing no laughter, I replaced my headphones and dug back into the book.

Classy

Watching the Dodgers come out to congratulate the Cardinals - and seeing Albert Pujols joking and laughing with Eric Gagne after the game is why I love baseball.

Honest Day's Work for an Honest Guy

Friday was a typical first day at the job - you know: sign this, sign that, smile for the camera, bend over, cough - first day stuff.

Then the horrors began. Right about the time I would normally settle in for my 10:30 siesta, followed by lunch, followed by the noon snooze - THEY GAVE ME WORK!!!! And even worse - I LEFT MY BOURBON IN THE CAR!!!! Fortunately, they gave me a new highlighter, so I huffed on it all afternoon while reading up on stuff. I'm hoping no one noticed my flourescent pink nose . . .

Seriously though - it was nice. No stupid pep talks; no empty promises. No ass-kissing. It looks like a pretty professional operation, and that makes me wonder just why they hired me. Man - I just can't stop ripping on myself. What can I say? My self-loathing knows few bounds.

In any case, I spent today reading up on Radiation Therapy Planning, and if you think that sounds like fun, I'm here to tell you - it's not. Let's just go ahead and replace "reading up" with "desperately stabbing myself in the leg with a pen to stay awake". It wasn't too bad, really - I felt like I was back in college - only instead of hot coeds ignoring me, it was the three guys in my little cube block.

So all-in-all, things at the new job are okay. They don't think I'm crazy - yet, but I'm confident I can scare them soon.

Happy Trails

If a man should be judged by those things he leaves behind, then they'll be debating my contributions for years - dog-eared pornography, half-eaten food, a drawer full of dry scotch bottles and mountains of dust are my legacy at the old employer. I hope that some future archaeologist looks back on it as a treasure trove of corporate life at the beginning of the 21st century.

Or perhaps it'll just be considered the remains of a deranged lunatic. I can live with it either way.

I just finished going around and saying my goodbyes, and it was a little bittersweet. I have genuinely enjoyed working with everyone there for the past six years - even though I considered throwing empty scotch bottles at some of them from time to time. (Uhh -- Although anyone who reads this isn't on the list - honest!)

In any case, it's time to move on to greener pastures, happier times and new adventures.

Truthfully, I need to leave because I lost it in my exit interview and started screaming "YOU DON'T KNOW ME! YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME!!!" while pounding the desk with both fists and jumping up and down like an angry ape. The HR representative huddled in the corner, shaking back and forth. She's coming out of it now, so I should probably beat a retreat while the gettin's good.

Quiz Time!

Try to guess how I'm going to spend my last day on the job tomorrow:

• Asleep
  
• Setting fire to my desk - if I can't have it, no one will.
  
• Drinking a case of Pale Ale at my desk
  
• Stealing anything not bolted down
  
• Downloading pornography (OK -- I do that EVERY day, but it'll be the last time - honest! I can quit any time!)
  
• Putting my terrible plan for world conquest into motion - all the pawns are nearly in place . . .
  
• Cutting myself
  
• Cutting everyone else
  
• Dancing the monkey every time I walk down the aisle
  
• Unscrew all the lightbulbs around my cube, closing the blinds, and every time people pass by, I'll grab their ankles and whisper "It's warmer down here. Join us!"
  
• Sing Joni Mitchell's classic "Big Yellow Taxi" over the intercom
  
• Repling to any e-mails one word at a time
  
• Three-Card Monty!
  
• Banging my head off the desk and walls because the voices won't stop - they just keep talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and
  
• Tequila Thursday!
  

Any other suggestions?

Reception Blues

Is there a word with more personal meanings than wedding?

To a happy couple, it seals the bond they've forged - making a pledge to love one another for the rest of their lives. To their parents, it's a bittersweet milestone - a marker of a job well done, as their children continue travelling down their own, separate road. To friends, it's a chance to welcome a new friend in their midst, as well as get blind, stinking drunk at the reception.

Yes, the reception. That mecca of hooking up, where booze flows like water, memory is a hazy dream and a chance for even the least talented to pull on their boogie shoes.

I find receptions to be kind of melancholy; I'm happy for my friends, but I inevitably feel my life passing by a little faster with each reception.

However, I was looking forward to this one, even though I really only knew the bride and groom and two friends who would be there. I didn't bring a date, because I didn't want to ruin my nearly perfect record of receptions without a date - my last girlfriend nearly lasted through two receptions, but she kicked me to the curb two weeks shy of the second one. C'est la vie.

Any hopes of hooking up at the reception were dashed within .002 seconds of my arrival. You can generally classify receptions pretty early on: your younger couples will have a great party reception, and there's several singles around - both men and women. But the older the couple, the more likely it's a family affair. It'll be a great party, but if you're looking for love, try the bar across the street.

Of course, there was a single woman sitting at my table, but . . .

The Electric Slide* started playing. "WHY DON'T YOU GO DANCE?" she bellowed while downing her sixth martini.

"Old war injury." I said. "Might cause the tremors to return."

"I THINK YOU SHOULD SING KARAOKE LATER." she shrieked. "WHAT SONG ARE YOU GOING TO SING?"

"Do they have anything by Joy Division? Husker Du? Old Cure songs?"

"OH YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE - MR. MELANCHOLY MUSIC."

Yep. And proud of it, I thought.

"MY GOAL TONIGHT IS TO GET YOU TO DO SOMETHING YOU'LL REGRET IN THE MORNING. DON'T YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING CRAZY? SOMETHING YOU DON'T WANT TO DO NOW BUT WILL NOT WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT IN THE MORNING?"

Jesus. Transference. "Look lady, fuck off, okay? Leave me alone. I don't want to fucking dance. I don't want to sing. I just want to sit here and drink and get comfortably numb! You don't know me. You're not me. If I want to dance, I'll fucking dance. Otherwise, shut the fuck up!" I didn't say it, but I thought it. My temper was flaring, my face was flushing and the hammer in my head was pounding away at the back of my eyeballs. I stood up and walked into the breezy night.

It was a rough week. It opened on a high note, but by mid-week, I was sure Trudy was going to have to be put to sleep, and my brother called home to let Mom know he had a detached retina - something that could permanently end his career. Oh, and my bathtub was apparently leaking again. I was getting pissed - at the world for threatening my brother's career and making my dog sick; at myself for watching anothe milestone come and go, with little to show for it. But moping in a parking lot wasn't going to help anything. Sitting at home alone was an even worse option.

After awhile, I returned to the room in time for the dollar dances. I watched a woman built like Marshall Faulk wrestle the bouquet out of three sets of grasping hands, and it made me laugh. I drank free beer and soda and learned some happy - yet highly confidential - news. I danced when the DJ played Shout (from Animal House). I didn't even think of beating the DJ with my shoe when he played Paradise by the Dashboard Light.*

The night ended. My antagonist was escorted out by two of her friends; judging from the way she bandied her cell phone, I was sure she's going to regret her bill in the morning. I hugged the bride, shook the groom's hand and headed home to bed.

Ultimately, Trudy recovered, and Mike's eye is healing well - but they're keeping him under observation for the next week. The bathtub might still be leaking, but I can deal with that (gasoline and matches are looking like a viable option, though). Sometimes, all you can do is laugh, go with the flow and dare to hope that everything will turn out for the best. And sometimes, despite the bad stuff, you need to put a smile on your face and celebrate - especially when life spirals out of your control. And what better place to celebrate than at a wedding?

*If I ever saunter down the aisle, there are three songs I'm banning from my reception: The Electric Slide, Paradise by the Dashboard Light and that damned Summer Loving song from Grease. If the DJ plays those songs, not only will he NOT be paid, he'll owe me $100 for each infraction AND a free ass kicking (me kicking his ass, that is). God, I hate Meat Loaf.

This Virtual Life

I've been sitting in a virtual waiting room for the past two hours; waiting the opportunity to spend many, many dollars on playoff baseball tickets. We've come a long way over the past 100 or so years - instead of sitting in a waiting room on standing in an endless line, we sit in virtual waiting rooms.

Sure, I can sit at my desk here in the office, whiling away my time while working; hoping that at some point, I'll move to the front of the queue, but there's no end in sight. In fact there's nothing in sight but the same message, asking me to wait patiently.

And really, I find this kind of depressing. There's no '80s issues of Time to while the hours away; nor can I partake of one of my favorite waiting-room activities: people watching.

When waiting for the doctor, I can peek over the top of my magazine article about the SALT treaty or how the kids today are spending lots of time and money in these "video game arcades" and playing games like "Pac Man" or "Asteroids", and spy on my fellow patients (and usually comparing illnesses - man, at least I'm better off than than guy).

But not here. No virtual magazines; no virtual patients; no virtual line attendees with whom to commisserate about the slow service.

Sure, I could actually do some work while I'm waiting, but I'm too busy wallowing in my virtual loneliness.

I thought computers and the Information Age were supposed to bring us together, so why are the Cardinals holding us apart? And more importantly, why are we standing (or really, sitting) for this?

We should be together, griping about the long waits, talking baseball and feeling the solidarity of the line.

But no - instead I'm staring at the same countdown, endlessly ticking the seconds away only to refresh every 30 or so seconds, possibly moving me closer to some vague promise of baseball fulfillment off in the dim future.

I'd be depressed if the alternative wasn't actually doing work.

Another Sign of the Impending Apocalypse

Yet more evidence that we as a people are really, really bored.

Fresh Air

So I quit my job today. I marched into my boss's office and screamed, "FUCK YOU!!!!! I'M OUTTA HERE!!!!! NOW BURN! BURN! BURN!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!"

OK - that's not entirely true - I didn't laugh.

I know - lies, lies, lies. What can I say, I can't have a warm conversation without the lies, lies, lies.

But I did quit. And I told my boss exactly why - frustration and boredom mainly. The president of the company made it clear I was never going to go anywhere when he promoted one of his lackeys to be my manager. I probably wouldn't have cared that much, but it's hard to take someone who looks like the Indian Harry Carey very seriously. Plus, the only skill he'd really exhibited was a strong aptitude for surfing the internet.

I won't even start to mine the depths of my loathing for HR, other than to say I did get a few good jabs in at the head of HR when I quit today.

However, I can't help but look back on the last six years with a little sadness. Just once, I'd like to leave a company under happier circumstances, but I appear to gravitate towards the jackasses.

In any case, it was time for a change. All I did at work anymore was sit at my desk and read or work on crossword puzzles. And while it's fun for awhile, it's not particularly fulfilling or entertaining.

Since my job search wasn't going anywhere, I considered just roaming the land and having adventures - like Kane in "Kung Fu" (or more like David Banner in the "Incredible Hulk"). Or perhaps I could work my way into the World Poker Tour, but the damned restraining order won't let me within 200 yards of Doyle Brunson (c'mon Doyle - I said I was sorry!). So I finally went out and found a new job.

But as I stepped into the hot evening sun, it hit me - I was free. Two more weeks and I never have to walk into that office again. No more handyman jumping in front of my moving car to check my parking pass. No more pointless company-wide meetings (which were thinly veiled excuses to bring Jesus to our heathen souls). No more frustration - at least for now.

As the cool air brushed against my face through my car window, I smiled as I pulled out of the parking lot.

Running on Empty

Sorry I haven't posted this week; work's been kind of a slog, and there's a lot going on that I don't want to talk about yet.

Oh, and I'm painting the first floor of my house, which I thought would be a fun project. And yes - it's fun in the same way Chinese Water Torture is fun - slow, monotonous and maddening.

I also went to the most boring, poorly-played baseball game I've seen in a long time, so that was fun. Anyway, keep it real, and I'll be back online soon. I have a pretty long post I'm preparing, but it kind of sucks right now, and believe it or not, I have some standards - some.

The Truth Revealed

I'm a total geek.