Hanging

I'm back from the latest Bradoween. I'll have more of a post tomorrow or Wednesday, after I get my life a little closer to back on track. In the meantime, I want to thank Otis and Mrs. Otis for a fantastic weekend.

And I'm never drinking Southern Comfort again. I don't know how Marty survived . . .

Perspective

The aqua blue car stood out in the afternoon's dull gray. It didn't hurt that it was about two inches from my foot.

Apparently, I had the nerve to cross the street in a crosswalk, so the driver, a teenage girl chauffeuring her friends around decided to ignore the stop sign hidden in plain sight and roll it.

Right in front of me, as I walked Trudy.

"THAT'S A STOP SIGN!" I helpfully pointed out.

She drove on, and one of her friends flipped me off. His hand standing out against the backdrop of the car's white roof did a wonderful job setting me off.

"SCREW YOU!" I shouted as I memorized the license plate number.

I've now called the police and my NSO several times regarding the asshats that surround me. Running stop signs, urinating in the alley behind my house, fights on weekends at the club across the street (yes, I'm actually trying to get a bar's liquor license revoked - I'll tell the story some other time). I fear I've turned into the cranky old man I used to snicker at while riding my bike.

But perspective is a bitch. The kid riding his bike while giggling at the old man didn't have to worry about paying bills, keeping the house clean and balancing a job. All he had to concern himself with was cruising the streets on two wheels and finishing his homework.

I'd like to think that that younger me would think that current me is a cool guy, but we know the truth -- he'd just laugh and pedal harder. And probably call me fat.

But the tradeoff is worth it - as I sit with Darcy or friends in my backyard and enjoy a beer in the cool evenings after work, I can't help but think life is pretty damned good.

If only those darn kids would keep the music down.

My Humor Style Kicks Your Humor Style's Ass

Found this here. What can I say? I've always known I was on . . .

the Cutting Edge (66% dark, 42% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 81% on dark You scored higher than 36% on spontaneous You scored higher than 45% on vulgar

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Just Passing Through . . .

If you're seeking solitude, a walk at 3:00 AM is the perfect solution. The perfect, quiet still of the evening is a good way to come down from a crazy night of losing poker and to get the sound of casinos out of your head.

And really, it wasn't so much by choice -- I had to walk the dog.

She'd been cooped up for some time and needed a walk. I needed to get the frustration of constant suckouts and drawing to the second best hand out of my head. So we walked.

I noticed him walking towards us, his whitish shirt and shorts standing out against the black night. But from a distance, I coudn't see what he was carrying. By the looks of it, it was cumbersome, and since he was holding it over his head, I didn't see him as a threat. Besides, I had my trusty watchdog with me. Ahem.

As he drew nearer, I pulled Trudy out of his way, curious to see just what the hell he was carrying. Was it a box? Was it a painting, a work of art. Was he going to bash me over the head with it?

Nope; it was an ironing board. Bouncing over his head as he walked down the sidewalk.

"Just passing through," he said to me as he walked past. I was too weirded out to say much of anything. He continued on through the night, oblivious to me staring at his back.

In my somewhat bland but safe daytime world, people walking down the streets with ironing boards is a touch unusual. At 3:00 AM, it becomes kind of sinister. What, exactly, does he have planned for this ironing board? What does he need to iron in the middle of the night? And if he stole it, why didn't he just go for the television?

I guess I'll never know. And to be honest, I'm not sure I want to -- the answer probably isn't half as interesting as the questions.

Terror at 300 Feet

My hands started shaking as the shoulder harnesses clamped me onto the seat. Strike that -- I was trembling. Here I was, latched into a chair, which in turn was bolted to a cylinder that surrounded a 250-foot tall tower. In mere seconds, the cylinder, with me attached, would be launched up to the top of that tower, where it would fall for a short time, bounce back part way up and then lower itself gently to the ground.

Why in the hell am I doing this? I thought. I don't particularly like heights, but I can tolerate them - as long as I'm enclosed in something. Nor do I like the whole dangling feet ride. On a roller coaster, it's okay - you move too fast for it to really hit you. But on this, the Power Tower? Nope. You get to fly straight up and bounce back down.

Darcy smiled at me as the ride moved into position. She looked around eagerly, ready for liftoff. I clutched the shoulder harness more tightly, and realized the sound I heard wasn't hydraulics tearing themselves to shreds - it was me preparing to hyperventilate.

Why am I doing this?

Liftoff pressed me down into the seat, leaving my stomach somewhere on the ground. The wind burned my face as we kept climbing up up up. Darcy may have said something, but I was screaming too loudly to hear it. I would have looked, but my eyes refused to open.

Finally, we started back down -- and then we bounced back up. I opened my eyes a bit, and saw the sun peeking through the evening clouds, its orange reflection shining up from Lake Erie. The lights from the amusement park glittered like stars.

And finally, we hit the ground. I climbed out of the seat and reached out with a shaky hand to get my glasses from the shelf. My legs shook. I was sweaty, scared and ready to go home.

Why did I do that?

Darcy's smile said it all; for her, being launched into the sky wasn't terrifying, it was exhilerating. And that made the trip worthwhile.

But no, I didn't join her for the second ride. I was perfectly happy celebrating gravity from the ground floor.

Bored?

Try a little civics! Let your Senator know what you think about their wasting time with a ridiculous flag burning amendment when they could be dealing with relatively minor concerns - like say wars, budgets, our standing in the world, Social Security, crime, an executive branch running amok. You know -- inconsequential crap like that.

Spam of the Week

New feature hereabouts . . . my favorite spam e-mail. This week's winner:

Subject line: mcadams Mccown

Text:

Brian (last name removed - though it was misspelled),

our bank has approovted your mrtgagqe request. You can  ref
inance, buy a new house or maybe get some  ca s h m.
Do not worry about bad credxit: we got you covered.

The soonesft you apply, the better deal you get. It is
possiblne to get $300,000 for $250 per month.


Thank you and apply here:
(Link removed)


Lauri R. Sykes

I was kind of worried about my bad credxit, so it's good to know someone's "got you covered".

The Circus is Back in Town

So now that the Schiavo autopsy results have been released, what do you think the odds of Michael taking the high road and living his life in quiet obscurity, content in the knowledge that the Schindlers, Randall Terry, Fox News, and all the "nurses" who saw his "abuses" were wrong?

Yeah, me too.

I'm pretty sure a small army of attorneys are currently gearing up to sue the Hell out of all of them. Much as I would enjoy seeing some of those assholes publicly apologizing and getting run through a ringer, I know that won't happen, and while it'll bring some satisfaction to the Schiavos, it'll just keep dragging this sad, sorry case out in the public eye yet again.

Great start to the summer.

Remember the Batusi?

A few years back, a friend asked me to share my thoughts about Batman and Robin, the big movie of the summer. I told her something like this:

Batman and Robin is like one of those wrapped presents you see in a store display: really pretty to look at, but once you open it, there's nothing inside.

I'd seen the movie twice. Once because it was out and the Bat was da bomb, and the second time because I was sure the movie couldn't have sucked so badly.

I was wrong. It sucked even more, and I had to actually pay for it the second time, which really pissed me off. Batman should be a dark, dreary freakshow - not a gay romp through the streets of Gotham.

And don't get me started about the Governator. -shudder-

So I was a little nervous when I came across a pass for Batman Begins. It looked solid - good cast, with Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Liam Neeson and Katie "man-she's-hot-but-Tom-Cruise-is-sucking-the-life-out-of-her" Holmes. Christopher Nolan brings some gritty indie cred to the table - Momento was a kickass film. And David Goyer, the writer, has plenty of nerd cred. But still, could Nolan resist the call of the camp?

I'm happy to say yes.

This movie is Spider-man good. This movie is Superman (the first one) good. This movie kicks all sorts of ass. George Lucas wishes he could make a movie jump up dance like this one does. And no, Batman doesn't dance.

To me, the most interesting part of this film is that Nolan focuses on Batman - he doesn't let the villans run away with the show. Batman is a pretty interesting character - you'd have to be to dress up in a Bat costume and beat up on thugs every night, yet past movies focused on the freak of the week. The villans take the back seat here.

Which is great, because Christian Bale will make you forget Keaton, Kilmer and the other guy. -shudder- He's young enough and has the acting ability to carry out both sides of the characters' personality - the driven, tortured hero desperately trying to forgive himself for his parents' death and the facade - the careless playboy who makes indolence a career.

The fight scenes aren't dances with actors floating around on wires - they're straight out of Fight Club, with a little horror movie thrown in for good measure. Batman uses the shadows, streaks out of nowhere and incapacitates his foes one by one. The remaining few are so terrified they can't fight.

Other than a love story that really goes nowhere and accomplishes little (other than gives the new Bride of Hubbard more screen time - something I can get behind - as long as she doesn't talk in public about her new "spirituality"), this will be the best action flick of the summer. Period.

Oh, and the Batmobile will make you cry.

Housekeeping

For poker posts, go here.

Three Weekends, Three Weddings

The invitations started pouring in in April. I didn't pay too much heed to them; after all, I'd heard about them months earlier - happy phone calls and conversations. Heck, I was going to be in two of them.

So I sent the RSVP cards in sometime in April and went back to life. I had a vacation to go on after all, and thoughts of dancing, wedding cake and mustacolli-filled buffets simply couldn't compete with swim-up bars, margaritas and warm sunshine.

Then May arrived, and I realized something: anyone who finds weddings relaxing is nuts. Simply nuts. However, it was also an educational experience; I learned quite a bit:

• Don't leave a present - especially one made of glass - sitting on the edge of a table where the dog can knock it over. Strangely enough, this wouldn't have been an issue had I actually WRAPPED the damn thing and taken it with me to the wedding.
  
• If the guy at the tuxedo store tells you it's not necessary to pay, ask again. That way, they can't "lose" your tuxedo.
• I still hate Meat Loaf (the food and the singer).
• Why can't they play the Time Warp at weddings? It would spice things up a bit.
• Wedding photographers are apparently paid by the hour.
  
• Corsages don't taste too good (actually, I learned that years ago).
• Being able to field two softball teams (both with a bench) out of the wedding party really isn't something to be proud of.
• Dressing up is exhausting.

Okay. That's it for two days. I'm off to Vegas for a psychotic weekend. Keep it real, kids. I'll be back with more updates soon. (I promise!)

Ten Ways to Be a Better Softball Player

1. Use one of your employees as the umpire; that way, you'll get every advantage over the other team.
   
2. If, when this plan backfires and you still star losing, start blaming your team.
   
3. Start jawing at the other team when you draw a walk.
   
4. Get your umpire to give you an extra inning of at-bats.
   
5. Even though you know the umpire made a mistake, don't acknowledge it -- just keep the game going.
   
6. Stomp off and pout by yourself -- it's especially becoming when you're older than 40.
   
7. And even more impressive when your wife and child are at the game.
   
8. Gloat at the other team before the game.
   
9. Joke around with everyone on your team after the game -- even though they're looking at you with something resembling contempt.
   
10. But don't bother with basic skills like catching and throwing; they just slow you down and take away from the game's competitive spirit.
    

Yes, it's good to know that people still aren't taking coed recreational softball too seriously these days.

Still Living . . .

I'll have a longer post later this week. Things have been pretty hectic, and I lost my internet connection for several days; however, I'm back now.

What's Spanish for Pepto Bismol?

We arrived in Mexico Saturday afternoon with a song in our hearts as the brightly shining sun lifted our spirits to even greater heights. I didn't even mind being subjected to the tourist shakedown outside Customs, where in return for signing away 2-4 hours of my precious vacation time, I'd get all sorts of free, useless crap.

Afterwards, we scampered on the bus and waited for awhile, and then we hit the resort. And for a day and a half, all I did was eat, lie by the beach, or drink Pina Coladas by the pool. Being surrounded by your girlfriend and good friends is a great tonic for the spirit; doing so while at a resort is like some sort of renewal.

Of course, sometimes, to build something up, you need to do a little tearing down.

For some reason, I decided I needed a big breakfast Monday morning. Generally, I don't eat big breakfasts. A bagel and/or a piece of fruit is perfect, but Monday, the pancakes looked fluffy, the bacon called to me and the sausage was especially spicy and sweet.

And so my stomach rolled and rumbled all day and all night.

Now, while I'm not going to get too graphic here, some of you might not appreciate what I say in the next two paragraphs. Just a little warning.

By about 7:30, I knew we had a problem. One doesn't shiver in 70-degree weather. It just doesn't happen - unless you grew up on the sun. But there I stood shivering and shaking. I crawled into bed after sending Darcy off to enjoy everyone else's company; why ruin her night entirely? And I woke up with about 14-seconds' warning. And I made it too the toilet just in time.

Until last November, the last time I had a really close view of the inside of the toilet bowl was when I caught a monster stomach virus back in '95. I laid on the couch for four days, praying for death while enjoying a 102-degree fever. Last November, I really enjoyed remembering that time as I made it to the toilet just in time to taste breakfast once again. And now, in Mexico, known for its world-class doctors, hospitals and prisons, I was enjoying the three plain flour tortillas a second time, along with the mint tea. Good times, good times.

It's safe to read again.

I enjoyed an evening of fever-induced delirium, radiating heat like a furnace. But at least my stomach was no longer flipping. And by Tuesday morning, I was fine. We even walked into town for a few hours.

Overall, it was a great trip, but I'm happy to be home. At least I know where to find the Pepto.

And We're Out . . .

Anyone find it somewhat ironic that the "What's wrong with Blogger" page doesn't display? Just curious.

I'm leaving. Saturday morning. On a jet plane. Headed to sunny Mexico. Until then, keep it real kids. And remember --- don't shop at the Galleria, or I'll have to add you to my revenge list, where you'll sit for the rest of days, along with John Quincy Adams, McDonalds and the Dewey Decimal System, waiting my righteous retribution. Or something like that.

Boycott!

You know, it's bad enough that that asshat, Jimmy Fallon danced around the field at Busch Stadium after the Red Sox kicked the Cardinals' asses.

And it's even worse that ESPN has completely bought into the idea that the rest of the country actually gives a damn about the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry (and they hold the other 48 states hostage with unending footage of their games).

Worse yet, Johnny Damon "wrote" a book, where apparently he brags about all the chicks he's bagged since leaving his wife and daughters. Nice.

But I'll be damned if I'm going to go to a local mall and see posters for that fucking Fever Pitch movie wallpapering the place. No. I'm calling for a Galleria boycott. Who's with me? They injured our pride last October, now they're just slapping us in the face!

Well, Galleria, you're going to have to do without the roughly $50 I spend there every year. Just remember that, punks. We'll show them what it means to keep forcing more Red Sox propaganda down our throats. Power to the people!

Rage

There was once a time where I sat in my car and twitched like a caged animal. Traffic lights caused me to growl. Slow cars ahead of me caused me to alternate between whimpers, screeches and howls. OK. It was last Tuesday.

But I've been trying to work on it.

Take today, for instance. I'm driving home, headed down Kingshighway, when I glance up in my rearview mirror, and all I can see is ECONOLINE. If this car was any closer, we could have discussed the baseball game together.

Once upon a time, I would have flipped him off and started raging. Or I would have taken a handfull of funsnaps from the glove box and tossed them out the window (I have done that to a friend when he wouldn't stop tailgating me), but not the new me. Instead I slowed down.

He finally roared around me and flipped me off. Because, apparently, I'm supposed to want him climbing up my ass. My base instincts screamed "RUN HIS PUNK ASS OFF THE ROAD". So I waved at him, pissing him off even more.

Then I realized that he was driving a contracting truck, and he was probably headed back to the office. Since there was nothing written on the side of the truck, I considered following him back to home base so I could compliment his boss on the quality of employee he's hired.

But that would be crazy and vindictive, so I let him go on his way.

It's hit me lately that life is too short to be driving around pissed off and raging at the world. Besides, it's easier to laugh at jackasses when the jackass isn't looking back at you from the mirror.

Farewell

We weren't cat people; that was one thing we knew. Cats were inscrutable and mysterious. They didn't come to you when called. They're standoffish. But I don't recall ever seeing a prettier face on a kitten; he stood out - no one in that litter was more playful either. Holding him was like lifting a cloud - you barely knew he was there.

After much debate and changed minds, he finally found a name: Tigger.

Tigger was like all cats. He was kind of lazy and did as he damn well pleased. But he also enjoyed curling up in a nearby lap for a quick nap, and he loved being brushed. He would come running for two things: food in his bowl or his brush in your hand.

Over the years, he adopted each of us for a brief time. At first, he was my cat - until I left for a week's vacation; then he was done with me. Next, he moved on to Mike - until Mike went away for school; after crying by the door every night for a week, he moved on to Mom. Where he stayed for several years.

Mom's lap became Tigger's favorite haunt; that, or the arm of her chair. And while he never really trusted Dad (who once sat on Tigger as a kitten), he tolerated him. When Dad was very sick, Tigger finally put aside years of mistrust to rub up against my very sick father. Unfortunately, we figured out how to get the oxygen cylinder working right at that moment, and the hissing sound scared the cat right out of the room, breaking up the long-awaited reconciliation.

Recently, Tigger became my cat. With Mom living in an apartment temporarily, Tigger had to stay with me. After a few weeks of adjusting to one another (and cleaning up cat droppings from around the house), we finally came to an agreement. Tigger, Trudy and I enjoyed a peaceful coexistence, where every morning, I would pet and brush my cat before I headed off to work.

Yesterday, Mom and I had to say goodbye to our friend of 14 years. Tigger was diabetic, and growing very ill. Realistically, I wasn't going to be able to give him two insulin shots daily and monitor his diet enough to guaratee he would be able to live any kind of life.

I know we did the right thing for him, and that he was able to die with two people who cared for him. But I'm still going to miss scratching his head before I crawl into bed at night.

Pawn

This sums up how I feel about the whole feeding tube debacle. It's sad that this poor woman has become a political sideshow and a means to get more votes.

Good thing there's no other problems facing the country right now.

Worry

I couldn't figure out why I was wet. Wet made no sense, but at that moment, nothing else did either. As I began to process what was happening, for a second, I feared it was blood.

No - it was too cold for that. A quick survey told me it was the remains of my Diet Pepsi, flung throughout the passenger compartment, soaking me, my dashboard, my floors, and Darcy.

Jesus. Was Darcy okay? I looked over and there she sat, looking a lot calmer than I felt. She said she was okay, but her car door was buckled in; pushed by the front end of the jeep staring into the passenger side window.

I climbed out of the car, and the other driver was there - apologetic and okay. He ran the red light. He felt awful; I could read it in his face, see it in how he carried himself. I was more worried about injuries. Darcy was hurting; she sat alone in the backseat, keeping warm and not moving. No; she didn't need an ambulance, but she was sore and aching.

Information exchanged. Numbers. Digits. Information. Insurance companies called. Police reports filled out.

I held it together until we made it to her apartment; then I lost it. Seeing someone I care about hurt is like punching me in the stomach; I can't breathe. I can't think straight. I can't talk. While there was something to do - paperwork to fill out, stories to tell, damage to assess, I can handle it calmly and rationally. Afterwards, when the crisis has passed, that's when the panic sets in along with the fear and terror. My car can be fixed or replaced, if necessary. She can't be, and that's something I never want to face.

Later, I sat in the ER waiting room. Hospitals and casinos are similar in one respect - they're their own worlds; they never close; there are always people present, no matter what the time of day or night. But hospitals are the opposite of casinos - instead of garish colors, blinking lights and laughter, you get bland but relaxing paint, calm lighting and solemn silence. But the hell of it is that they're not all that soothing. You're there because someone you love is broken, and you pray to God that he or she can be fixed. How can you relax when all you can see when your eyes close is a jeep barrelling at you with no time to react? How can you relax when your hands won't stop shaking because you haven't eaten in ages but you can't eat a thing?

Families gather, waiting for words about their grandmother (I always wonder why you need to bring the whole clan along to the ER - wouldn't you be more comfortable sending one or two relatives and leaving the kids at home?), friends bring in their friend suffering from too much partying (apparently this was the seoond time she'd been in for a little stomach pumping; and hey, if you can't give yourself a little case of alcohol poisoning on amateur weekend, when can you?). And there we sit, joined in tension, hoping to hear that our loved ones are okay.

Darcy finally walked out of the back; tired and sore but okay. I took her home and made sure she was comfortable.

Tomorrow, I get to deal with more insurance agents, paperwork and probably rental cars. But I can live with that. Darcy is okay; maybe a little bruised and sore, but otherwise okay. Me? I'm fine; a little shaken up and scared, but relieved.

Now I'm sitting here, Duke Ellington helping to soothe me; I'm prepared for bed, but I still see the jeep flying in at us. You go through a lot of meaningless routines every day, worry about many, many trivial problems. Sometimes it takes a cold splash of reality to make you see that perhaps you should treasure these routines and appreciate the pointless problems.

Perhaps there's something to be said for dull routine.