Rope = Awesome

This morning, I helped my friend Angel move a mattress up 3 flights of stairs. I was notified I would be doing this a few days ago, so it left me little time to prepare. Feeling very Boondock Saints like, I hit the store and picked up a length of rope. 100 ft of nylon goodness. I head to Angel's, rope in car, and assess the situation. Kim would have been there, but her hair was not the right color blue for such a situation. Angel's family told her cousin and I that the box spring was the heaviest, so we should move that first. The box spring was a lie. That was pretty light. We got that up the stairs no problem. The mattress was a different beast all together. So I get the rope out of the car, unwind and make a futile effort to untangle it, drop part of it from the balcony on the 3rd floor, and go back down to secure it to the mattress.

At this point, it was noted that it would have been quicker for the 2 of us to just carry the mattress up the stairs. Those pointing this out were all women, so didn't understand the awesomeness of what was taking place. We ran up the stairs and heaved the mattress up to the 3rd story, arms shredded in nylon ripped glory. Fuelled by victory, we carried the mattress to the bedroom, where it sat atop the box spring and formed a bed that was about 4.5 feet tall.

Unnecessary, you may say. But you were not there. The day belongs to the rope. Also, I now have 100 ft of rope for adventuring. I'm sure it will come in handy soon.

Random Thoughts

I think I have maybe 3 actual friends, 10 or so acquaintances I'm friendly with, 20 or so more people I'm kind of neutral with, and a good deep loathing for just about anyone else. I don't hate people specifically, only in general. Face it, people do stupid stupid things for stupid stupid reasons.

I've been told I should look into becoming a politician as I seem to be able to speak clearly and with candor and have some decent ideas. People who tell me this obviously don't actually listen to the words that come from my mouth, as me being in charge of anything would be a very bad idea. I should not be in control of anything more influential than the TV remote. I have no tact.

I've been told I should do stand up, as people seem to think what I say is humorous. I really just say what's on my mind. I don't think I'm all that funny. I also don't think I care enough what people think about me to stand in front of an audience. I would probably offend many people. Maybe this isn't such a bad idea.

I think most Floridians are self absorbed douche bags. Any time I go to Ybor, I feel like this is confirmed.

The "guys in skinny jeans" trend makes me want to throw punches. Knock it off. Seriously. Wear clothes that fit properly and quit being girls.

Speaking of wearing clothes that fit properly...quit buying the over-sized clothing so you can look cool in the hood. Tall people like myself need these clothes as they actually fit. I'm tired of my options being limited to bad Hawaiian shirts and ill fitting pants when I actually decide I need more clothes.

I feel anyone who wears boxer-briefs are indecisive about their position in life. Boxers or briefs, man. It's not that big a deal.

I am tired of women complaining they end up with assholes when they essentially go out with the express purpose of finding one. You want a guy that respects you? Don't go to the bar and act like an airhead. Problem solved.

I blame Girls Gone Wild commercials for my inability to take the Steel Drum seriously as a musical instrument.

Can anyone tell me what Samuel L. Jackson's actual age is? That dude's like Dick Clark (pre-stroke.)

Quitter.

I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard to quit smoking. But those cigarettes are sexy little sirens and they keep calling me to the rocks. I've cut back, I've even gone a sporadic day or so without one, but the sinister urge is still there. I tried signing up for the state of Florida's assistance site, but the navigation of it alone sent me outside with a square in hand. I called their help line, they're going to be sending me free patches, gum, lozenges, and having a free counselor call me and help me out, but that doesn't start for a week or so, and I won't see the gear for a week after that. I want to be done with it now. As it stands now, I've gone from smoking a pack a day down to about 5 cigs a day, but I want it gone. From what I've heard, it's easier to quit heroin. Damn the Camel.

I'm pretty sure I can take a Prius in a fight.

So I'm walking to the grocery store during my new morning routine to grab some breakfast and get some exercise in at the same time, the soulful voice of Chuck Norris singing the theme song from Walker Texas Ranger in my head, when I walk past a parking lot entrance and am almost hit by a Prius. The odd little lady who was driving it seemed to be a bit angry that I was occupying the space where her car should be, even though I was there first. After a brief stare down, I moved out of the way and allowed her to pass. It was at that moment that I started weighing my odds against the compact menace that was the Prius.

1) Weight - The weight advantage would go to the Prius, as I'm not constructed of plastics and metals. However, I'm pretty sure that if the same thing had occured 6 months ago, I probably would have had the advantage in this category.

2) Height - I definitely take the advantage here. The Prius came just about up to the bottom of my chest. I think that if I were to lay down flat next to the vehicle, I'd still have it beat by a few inches. Those cars are pretty tiny.

3) Reach - Advantage: Me. I have a wing span of about 6 and a half feet, where as the Prius doesn't have arms. You could count its front tires as arms, I suppose, but even then they don't extend past the body.

4) Agility - I also take the win here, mainly due to the fact that I can jump without the assistance of a ramp and a stunt driver. Even then, I think I would take this category.

5) Speed - This is a tough one. Sure, if the Prius has room to excellerate, it will go much faster than I'm capable of going. However, there's not much room to speed up in a boxing ring, so I think I would hold the advantage here.

6) Psychology - This is pretty much a draw, mainly due to the car's inability to speak and my inability to effectively communicate words that a car can understand.

The main reason I think I would win, however, is my opposable thumbs. They give me the ability to grab baseball bats I could use to beat the car down with.

I'm open to any opinions you all may have on this, but I'm 97% positive I would win the fight.

Adventure!

I was sitting around the apartment, bored off my ass and tired of just sitting and killing time until I had to be at work. I longed for an adventure. I hopped into the car and headed to where I knew there would be plenty of entertainment today. The Brandon Town Center.

For those that are unfamiliar with the Brandon Town Center, this is the largest mall in Florida. The structure itself is visible from space. It encompasses well over 2 miles of consumerism and features not one, but TWO Starbucks within pissing distance of each other. (This holds true if you are capable of peeing through walls.) I went to the Pantera Bread on the outskirts of the monolith and set myself in a decent spot for watching the crowd.

Above: Pantera Bread in Brandon Town Center

The mall itself was a wretched hive of scum and douchebaggery. Abercrombie as far as the eye could see. Mothers dressed as if they were wanting to be tracked down by the folks at MilfHunter strolling with their inappropriately dressed daughters returning gifts given to them from the heart for "something they really wanted." I understand returning an item if you got a double gift or if someone bought you clothes that don't fit, but because someone didn't get you just what you wanted seems to be kind of shallow to me.

Anyway, I sipped my coffee and enjoyed some broccoli cheese soup, noting the vapid conversation going on around me, as if the dialogue from Juno had lost all of it's charm and humor and was re-written by Billy Mays in an effort to make his knock-off Bedazzler sound cooler. There was preening abound as twenty-somethings primed themselves for mating season. I had to force myself not to go around un-popping collars, as my trip was merely for analytical purposes.

Above: approximation of average guy walking around Brandon Town Center

To avoid being swept into the crowd of fake tans and designer clothing, I left the mall, watching 3 near deaths in the parking lot before making my way out of my parking space 20 minutes later.

It was a nice reminder as to why I avoid that place at all costs, but a valuable life lesson none the less.

Big Head Todd

It has been over a year since I've washed up on the shore. It's been quite the adventure. I've switched jobs, focused on classes, honed my skills, and went through the Quickening. I've had my heart ripped out and beaten, twice, and it is now kept in a box I have buried just outside of Poughkeepsie. Ladies, get your shovels. To those of you that will continue reading my blogs, I thank you. To those of you who don't read my blog, you'll never see this, so rest secure knowing that I've probably said some fairly horrible things about your mother. For those that are new to my blogging, it's usually not for the weak or easily offended.

Now, on to the subject of this blog. The character I have dubbed Big Head Todd until I can think of a better one. I am currently in the middle of a 6 week training class for my new job. The trainer is some guy who's about as old as I am, looks 12, has a severe Napoleon complex, and isn't too fond of yours truely. But that will be another blog for another time. The current barnacle keeping my ship from sailing properly is a fellow who may or may not be in his mid 40s. His admitted past of heavy drug abuse could have aged him and he may well be 17, but I never bothered to ask. I do what I can to avoid conversation with him. His head is roughly the size of an overinflated basket ball and he's one of those characters that has something to say about everything, which in my experience means he knows nothing about anything.

He has the voice of someone who has smoked since he was in the womb, and it constantly says stupid, time wasting things. I'm very curious as to how he made it through the interview without the person doing the interview stabbing him repeatedly with the closest piece of office equipment that would do the job. You can't mention a thing to him without his wanting to "one up" everything.

I will elaborate further on later a later occasion, as right now I'm going cross-eyed from thinking about it.

Fly On Thunderbird.

It was 1994. A somewhat cool if not humid evening on field for the Brandon Eagle's homecoming game. It was the one game during the year we were almost guaranteed to win, as we were playing the Bloomingdale Gucci-Crew. I don't remember the details of the game, but as halftime rolled around we were treated to the sounds of Chris Isaac, playing "Wicked Game" 3 or 4 times in a row, as he didn't remember any of his other songs. There was a brief pause as the field was cleared of middle-aged women who swooned themselves into a drunken stupor. Then, from out of the sky parachuted none other than legendary rock band Quiet Riot, instruments in tow and perfectly tuned upon landing so they could belt out their 1 facemelter "Cum On Feel Da Noize". Metal health drove the crowd mad.

Ok, this didn't actually happen. But it was talked about constantly as being the greatest possible high school half time show ever.

I bring up this memory because Kevin Dubrow, lead singer of Quiet Riot, passed away this weekend. I'd actually gotten to see the band once in Louisiana, playing in a mansion that was converted to a sort of underground rock club. It was entertaining, if not a little sad. But for all the jokes about Quiet Riot that myself and others have made, I really don't think a band has entertained our imagination more. So fly on, thunderbird. Hopefully you'll get to your destination in a slick black cadillac.

Nell!

Yes, that is a very dated reference to the animated mounty, Dudley Doright. Why do I make this reference? Because I have come to realize that I am a veritable Magneto. No, not for iron and metals, which would admittedly be awesome. Instead, my powers of polarization seem to attract the Damsels in Distress. The Queens of Quandries. The Mistresses of Mental. I am their masculine Statue of Liberty, holding the torch in the middle of a sea of instability.

Case in point: Today I'm sitting at my desk when this absolutely gorgeous girl walks in. Picture a young Joan Jett, sans 80's hairdo. The other technicians damn near fell off their seats watching her come in. She comes up to the desk and coos that she needs some help getting her amplifier out of her car. So, I stroll out to her mid 80s Volvo station wagon, grab her amp, and walk back in, the lady smiling at me the whole time. During the entering of the information, she's flirting with me like mad, leaning over the desk and laughing way too much at things I say that are slightly sarcastic. As I move her equipment to the back, she starts singing. Tuneless....tuneless singing. I come back to have her sign her paperwork and notice the wedding ring that she's been gamely trying to hide.

From this I gathered that a) she's in a crappy marriage and I seemed like just the morally corrupt fellow to help her out of it and b) she's stark raving mad.

I could write this off as a one time deal if I hadn't noticed that this has been a sort of pattern for me ever since I was at least 18.

I know all women are crazy. This is a scientific fact. The only reason the study hasn't been released is because all women ARE crazy and actually having the documentation to proove it would only drive them further over the edge. The thing is, the ones that always find me are the ones who already pulled a mental Thelma and Louise and the car hasn't landed yet.

Look for me to be making an appearance on Springer some time in the not too distant future.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 4 - Color Me Badd

So one day, Kenny G., George Michaels, Vanilla Ice, and Terence Trent D'Arby got together and decided to capitalize on the all male singing quartet fad that was sweeping the nation. After the huge success stories that were Boyz II Men and Jodeci, Color Me Badd burst onto the scene with "I Want to Sex You Up," which casually invites women to come inside, take off their clothes, with the promise of being made to feel at home. I, for one, don't know a single woman that feels at home when taking off their clothes, unless they spend an ample amount of time in their own home running around with the lights off yelling "don't look at me." Looking past the accidental financial success that this group became off their one hit (yet somehow managed to have a "Best Of" album) this is one terrible, terrible mistake.

Lacking the fun, sincerity, and even somewhat philosophical nature of Boyz II Men, and the testosterone to pull off the "dirty" songs like Jodeci, Color Me Badd estrogened their way to a hit single, relying mainly on pretty boy posturing and the stupidity of teenage girls (see: New Kids on the Block). Despite all this, the group enjoyed fairly large financial success of their first 2 albums.

Then, out of the clear blue skies, the success that Color Me Badd had enjoyed was pulled from underneath them on the release of their 3rd album. Some would say it smells like justice. Others would say it smells like inevitability. The record, however, will clearly show that it Smells Like Teen Spirit. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. The smooth, corporate white-boy R&B sound that was Color Me Badd was shut down by the crunchy fuck-it-all white-boy sounds of Nirvana.

Having lost their contract after their 4th album went no-where fast, the band split. This is not the end of the story though. One would figure that this would be enough, but this group has been responsible for far greater travesties post mortem.

Sam "I Swear I'm Not Kenny G" Watters went on to become a music producer, responsible for polluting our air with Celine Dion, Anastacia, and 98 Degrees. Kevin "I Probably Am Terence Trent D'Arby" Thornton went on to the lucrative gold mine that is gospel based hip-hop. Mark "one of the other white guys" Calderon is now...god help me...an insurance salesman. Bryan "Ice Ice Latte" Abrams is star of VH1's "Manband" and is currently recording a single with the Insane Clown Posse.

It's eerie how some of these are tying together.

Dennis Kucinich has balls the size of watermelons.

I say this without ever having seen them. It would explain why that red headed amazon is married to him, though. The reason I bring up the testicular fortitude of our would-be Elrond the Elf King of America is this:

Dennis Kucinich has put forth a motion to impeach Vice President Cheney.

I can seriously see Kucinich hiking with Sean Astin as they move to through the mechanical heart of the Dark Lord Cheney into the fires of Mount Doom. I also know for a fact that Cheney has an army of orcs and the viscous Nazgul at his disposal deep inside Number One Observatory Circle.

I expect a massive smear campaign against Kucinich to hamper his presidential hopes to come directly from the White House. I also expect an oath to smear his face with the blood of the elf-kin to come from Cheney.

The reasons for the impeachment stem back to the infamous claims of chemical weapons that were supposedly being held in Iraq, with Kucinich boldly calling The Dark Lord a liar, and selectively picking apart intelligence for his own purposes. Having summoned all the courage of his friends Pippin and Merry, and with some help from the wise Gandalf, Kucinich presents his argument to the grand council of Man, the Judiciary Committee:

"The Vice President's deception upon the citizens and Congress of the United States that enabled the failed United States invasion of Iraq forcibly altered the rules of diplomacy such that the Vice President's recent belligerent actions towards Iran are destabilizing and counterproductive to the national security of the United States."

And merrilly did Tom Bombadil dance and play his flute as Kucinich continued:

"In all of this, Vice President Richard B. Cheney has acted in a manner contrary to his trust as Vice President, and subversive of constitutional government, to the prejudice of the cause of law and justice and the manifest injury of the people of the United States."

"His treachery runs deeper than you know. By foul craft, Cheney has crossed Orcs with goblin men. He's breeding an army in the caverns of Isengard. An army that can move in sunlight and cover great distance at speed. Cheney is coming for the Ring!" Screamed Ted Stevens as he donned an ashtray as a helmet and shot Wayne Allard (R -CO) with a bow and arrow he'd apparently been keeping under his desk.

In all seriousness, may this pass, and may God have mercy on Kucinich's soul.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 3 - Woodstock '99

The 30th anniversary of the beloved original Woodstock was an attempt to recreate the success and feelings of community from the 1969 outdoor festival, where there was a celebrated "sense of social harmony, the quality of music, and the overwhelming mass of people, many sporting bohemian dress, behavior, and attitudes."

Woodstock '99 was pretty much the polar opposite of that original spirit of peace, love, and understanding. To quote MTV News anchor (and collossal douche bag) Kurt Loder: "It was dangerous to be around. The whole scene was scary. There were just waves of hatred bouncing around the place, (...) It was clear we had to get out of there.... It was like a concentration camp. To get in, you get frisked to make sure you're not bringing in any water or food that would prevent you from buying from their outrageously priced booths. You wallow around in garbage and human waste. There was a palpable mood of anger." In short, a cluster-fuck.

There were plenty of acts playing at Woodstock '99 that sort of fit the mold of the artists that played the original, including The Roots, DMB, Alanis Morrissette, and Elvis Costello. However, the inclusion of Rage Against the Machine, Limp Bizkit, Metallica, Megadeth, Insane Clown Posse, and the ever present ne'er-do-well Moby ended up working an already frenzied crowd into even more of a frenzy. The fires, looting, and violence is pretty well blamed on Limp Bizkit, who's song "Break Stuff" apparently worked the crowd into a frenzy. (This is either because of the songs lyrics inviting people to "give me something to break," or because Limp Bizkit sucks so horribly bad that the crowd grew angry and restless.) Further adding to the fire, literally, was an on stage burning of the American flag by Rage Against the Machine, and an apparent attempt by the Red Hot Chili Peppers to encourage more bonfires by playing a cover of Jimi Hendrix's "Fire". (It should be noted that Kiedis stated the song was played as a request from Jimi's daughter who was in attendance.)

By the end of the night, there were 4 rape charges being made, at least one of which took place in the middle of the mosh pit, a small bus in flames along side a few of the towers and booths, ATM machines and concession stands robbed, and 7 arrests.

Surprisingly, noone died. This is the only thing that puts the '99 Woodstock ahead of the original, which saw 3 deaths (none due to violence.)

It's hard to say whether or not promoters will try to pull a 40th anniversary Woodstock out in '09. Given that greed is a strong motivator, I'd look for this next accident waiting to happen to be promoted by the middle of next year.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 2: Celine Dion

Some might say this is an easy target. It is. However, I'm not focusing on the expanse of Celine Dion's reign of musical terror that harkens back to the days of Disney soundtracks with Peebo Bryson, cluminating in her Hitler-esque domination of the music charts thanks to the Titanic soundtrack, and her current status as the new Las Vegas mainstay. No, Ms. Dion has committed a far more greater and savage act of audio-terrorism with her performance at the Divas Las Vegas show:




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FONt47Z0KZg

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. She covered AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." For those of you that live in the South American rain forests in grass huts, "You Shook Me All Night Long" is a song full of thinly veiled innuendo essentially referring to the lead singers sexual exploits with an American woman, which is only properly belted out in the gravelly yowl and male machismo that is Brian Johnson's voice. Now, it may come as a surprise that this song has been covered previously by other female artists, such as Kelly Clarkson, Tori Amos, and most understandably Melissa Ethridge. But none has made such a Hindenberg-like disaster of the song as Celine Dion, who tainted it with her vile Canadianess and Singier-than-thou attitude. This is including the Apologetix Christian version entitled "You Booked Me."

Somewhere, deep in his subterranian lair, Peebo Bryson has seen this. He has seen and he is pleased. For decades he has watched as the reanimated skeleton that is Celine rise to untold pop fame and pop fortune. And he bides his time, knowing that this musical nugget is the beginning of Celine's inevitable decline, and he will rise again...

Unconscionably White

The other day, a fellow came into the shop looking for us to do a repair on an arm for a record player.

"This is a vintage arm for a vintage player and..." blah.

As this precious "vintage" arm was in the back having contacts soldered, I noticed that this man was unconscionably and invariably white. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm white. However, I carry myself with a degree of sullenness and attitude that prevents me from being "white". What do I mean by this?

Picture Dave Chappelle's parody of the average white man. Throw that character into some khaki shorts and a polo shirt, give him some bad wire rim glasses, and add an irritating sniffle, and you have the unbearable whiteness of being that was this guy.

To top everything, he's trying to look into our storage area and keeps asking "Do you have any vintage _ for sale?" where "_" was any piece of audio equipment that happened to pass through his head. After about the 5th time telling him that no, we do not have anything for sale and no, we are a repair shop not a vintage item store, I finally took the tone of annoyed asshole and plainly told him "No. Nothing. Period."

To this he kept trying to peer in back to see if perhaps I was lying to him and was stashing all the "vintage" audio equipment on the planet in some kind of National Treasure-esque masonic storage chamber, when finally the tech came out and handed him his contact arm.

As he left the shop, he kept looking back, not at me, but at the storage area, shuffling his sockless dock shoes as he walked away to a life filled with listening to Michael Bolton on his vintage audio equipment while scarfing down numerous egg salad sandwiches with massive amounts of mayonnaise on white, white bread.

Seriously, I could easily see this guy doing that.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 1: Godsmack

Hello, dear readers.

I have decided to start ranting about one of my favorite subjects. Music. When the spirit catches me, I will be bringing up bands, musicians, and songs that I feel are a detriment...not only to music, but to society in general. I call it The Musical Travesty Tour. I'm kicking this event off with rock station favorite, Godsmack.

Popular belief is that this band got their start as an Alice in Chains cover band. This is not the case. However, their musical stylings have been compared to AIC frequently, and the name of the band itself comes from an Alice in Chains song. If you can listen to the music long enough during the many Marines and Army commercials they are featured in, you can almost pick up the influence.

This is where any favorable comparisons to Alice in Chains will stop. Unlike the Layne Staley headed AIC, Godsmack is one of the most lyrically retarded bands to grace the airwaves. The music is alright, if you're into the more contrived end of the hard rock spectrum, but the words come off as hastily written attempts to end each line with an "ay" rhyme scheme.

Examples:

"I'm not the one who's so far away..." - Voodoo (rhyme continues throughout the entire song)

"Twistin’ everything around that you say (Yeah)! Smack me in my mouth 200 times every other day." - Keep Away

"I feel for you: better fu**in go away. I will behave, you better go away. I'm doing the best I ever did. I'm doing the best that I can. I'm doing the best I ever did. Now go away. " - Whatever.

"And I can’t take it any f***ing way! Can you feel it? I gotta live with it everyday. And I can’t take the pressure, I’m going insane. Now go away! " - Bad Religion

"Hey, why don't I just go and eat some hay. I can lay by the bay, make things out of clay, I just may, what'd ya say? " - Happy Gilmore

Ok, the last one wasn't a Godsmack song, but it easily could have been.

Despite the band being a musical Wal-Mart version of Alice in Chains and as lyrically capable as an Alzheimer's patient with Down Syndrome, this band maintains a sort of popularity. Personally, I blame monster truck shows, NASCAR, and crystal meth. They get steady airplay on most rock stations, and are featured on a number of motion picture soundtracks. I hope one day the world will catch up and realize what a crap band this is, and leave them in the same place I first saw them: Broken down on the side of the road, waiting for a tow-truck to haul them away.

Disclaimer: The above content is solely the opinion of the author. Anyone who thinks otherwise is entitled to their opinion, however horribly wrong it may be.

The Greatest Trick the Devil Ever Pulled...

David Copperfield. For those who don't have their fingers on the pulse of current events, here's a brief rundown of the situation:

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - FBI agents have raided a Las Vegas warehouse owned by magician David Copperfield -- for reasons they did not disclose -- and media reports said that they seized nearly $2 million and computer equipment.

...

Media reports said FBI agents seized nearly $2 million in cash from the building, along with a computer hard drive and a memory chip from a digital camera system during Wednesday's late-night operation.

...

"We understand there is an investigation, are in touch with the investigators, and are respecting the confidentiality of the investigation," Copperfield's attorney David Chesnoff said in a statement cited by Las Vegas broadcasters.

I know this is going to sound cynical, but any time you see siezures of computer hard drives and memory chips from digital cameras, there's usually only one conclusion.

For his sake, I hope he knows how to make pictures of child pornography dissappear from his computer.

This from the guy who managed to pull Claudia Schiffer in her hey day.

This is the kind of thing I would have expected from Doug Henning. He always seemed a bit creepy. But David Copperfield? The guy did a cameo on Scrubs, for chrissakes.

Finally, a candidate I can get behind.

Mr. Colbert has announced his bid for the presidency of the United States, running in South Carolina and South Carolina alone on both the Democratic and Republican tickets. Announcing that the ticket would possibly be Colbert-Huckabee, Colbert-Putin, or Colbert-Colbert and attempting to fill out the paperwork to be part of the debates, you know this is a gigantic joke. Sadly, it's a joke that the country can get behind. If he actually decided to pursue this to it's apex, he could actually pull it off. He managed to get a bridge, a sea turtle, a state of the art 747, and a hockey mascot named after him. What would stop him from rallying his "nation" from pulling off the ultimate joke? As Colbert himself put it : "...it's clear that the voters are desperate for a white, male, middle-aged, Jesus-trumpeting alternative."

This is going to be one hell of a ride.

Dante's Lament

"I'm not even supposed to be here today!" - Dante Hicks

This, technically, isn't true for me. I'm supposed to be here today. Part of me enjoys the fact that I'm working again and getting paid steadily. The downside is that I'm worried that my class work will suffer. When I had an abundance of free time, the projects I turned in for class were masterpieces of technological artistry. This is not my opinion, but that given by my instructors and fellow class mates. Now I feel my class work will suffer as I don't have much free time at all to complete the assignments. Gotta love Catch-22s.

On the work front:

Things are going alright, despite the butting heads of the 2 owners and their conflicting ideas on the direction the company should go. This usually leaves me as the involuntary red-headed stepchild of disagreements, as one of them will tell me to handle a situation one way, while the other wants it handled another way, leaving me to bear the brunt. It's pretty shitty, but I'm used to handling that on a much grander scale, so it's not too big a deal.

On the school front:

I have no idea how things are going. I'm failry sure I'm passing all of my classes with at least a B, but I never can tell. My Tuesday night teacher is usually in a rush to just get us out of there, which is fine as I want to be home in time for House. Thursday and Saturday classes are the same instructor, who is cool as the other side of the pillow, he just drags class out beyond the time they're supposed to end, mainly because he has a lot of information we'll need and not enough time to get it to us. As there's nothing usually pressing on these days, it's no big deal.

Anything else:

Britney Spears. Holy fuck. If there's a white trash Hall of Fame, she'd be the main attraction. The local morning DJs have said that the only mother who's worse than Brit is the prostitute in New York that was busted for snorting cocain off her 2 month old's stomach while breast feeding. Those kids are screwed if K-Fed is the positive rolemodel in their lives.

Danny Bonaducci (sp) is now my hero.

And I'm bored off my ass.

The CSI Suite and the Trip Home.

While in North Charleston, SC, stay at the lovely Masters Inn Motel. Amy and I had booked what was apparently the CSI Suite. This wasn't just because the strong probablity that if you shined a black light on the comforter it could be picked up by Voyager as far away as Neptune, but because the box spring of the bed had what appeared to be a massive, massive blood stain on one side, and blood spatter on the other. This was a bit disconcerting. The staff, however, was very friendly.

I had to spend a good deal of time in the room as 1) Amy couldn't get off work for most of the weekend and 2) I had no form of transportation other than my 2 now blistered feet. My first morning spent there treated me to a car horn in the parking lot that went off for no apparent reason, and no visitor to the motel stepped outside to claim it as theirs. I walked to a local check cashing place (to cash a check of course) tripped a bit over some broken sidewalk to be ridiculed by a passenger in a passing vehicle. On my way back to the hotel, this same vehicle was at either Subway, Burger King, or the encased ATM between the 2, where I was met with "Haha...you're the guy that tripped." "Yes," I replied. "But I'm walking fine now, and you're still a douche."His friend got a kick out of this.

Sunday met with the hotel being visited by the local constables 3 times, once with a paramedic. The first time was about a drunk white guy beating on peoples doors demanding to use their phones. The second time included a paramedic. Not sure what this was about as they had shown up during a trip to Subway. I can only assume that 'something bad happened.' The third time was about a domestic dispute between an "ashy crack head" and a "no good chicken head ho." I caught this part as I was leaving to go to Subway again, and caught the tail end with the cops as I got back.

The trip home was fairly uneventful. There was a drunk guy and his girlfriend (Yes, Ashley...the same one as on the trip up.) There was the disgruntled asian employee. The overly chipper bus driver taking me from Orlando to Tampa. (Though, admittedly, he was better than the first bus driver I had.) Then the hour wait for someone to come pick me up at Tampa Union Station. Now I am home, road weary but glad the weekend was, at the very least, eventful.

For a little added fun, enjoy the pool rules for the Masters Inn:

Adventures in Railway Travel

I'm in South Carolina visiting Amy. I got here via Amtrak. Long gone are the visions of yesteryear when railways were steeped in victorian grace and style. The only things that haven't changed are the Stations, and most of them I've seen are worse for wear if not in complete disrepair. The journey started simple enough. It began with a bus.

Tampa Union Station is being refurnished, having long passed it's expiration date. The service there is akin to that of the Wendy's on East Hillsborough Avenue - people who generally could care less about actually performing their job so much as collecting a paycheck for whatever their weekend vices may be. I'm betting with this lot it was cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon followed by an evening of leering over strippers and/or child pornography.

The bus driver was possibly the most competant employee in the Amtrak stable, with excellent timing and a somewhat genial attitude. Upon arriving at the comparatively modern Orlando Union Station, I was treated to a sleazy looking nacho vendor who was doing his best to peer through the windows of the building and ogle the women or men or children and a train that was close to an hour late. The temperature and irritablility were rising quickly as the stench of perfume, cologne, deoderant, body odor, cigarettes, and spicy spanish cooking intermingled.
When the train finally did arrive, the second most competant Amtrak employee ushered us in, assigning everyone a seat. As I went to the number I was to sit in, I found there was an elderly gay gentleman already sitting there. This was a bit off-putting. I walked my way back to the usher, and told him of the situation.

"Well, you the one I assigned to it. I'll tell him to---wait a minute. My mistake. Just take the next seat." So, in a train car full of empty seats, I'm seated next to "a gay" that keeps looking at me oddly. I don't have anything against gay people. I'm not even uncomfortable around them usually. This guy was giving me the creeps though. As soon as the train starts moving, I head to the Lounge Car, get a Sam Adams, and head to the dining car. This is where I met my new friend Ashley. After finishing a flavorless chicken sandwich and she a cheesecake that was apparently quite good, I made my way to the Lounge, and she to the restroom to take a smoke break. (For those of you planning to travel by train, Ashley clued me in to the almost flawless method of smoking in the bathroom. There's a fan that sucks air outwards, so if you just blow the smoke into it, noone will be the wiser.)

The train continued, and as it proceeded further north, the clientel boarding began to look shadier and shadier. I attempted to watch a few movies on my lap top, but apparently a large part of working on a train involves sitting in the lounge car, talking loudly, then complaining that your movie is too loud and interrupting the conversation.
We entered South Carolina at about 8pm, Ashley went to grab some dinner and brought another new friend back to the table with her. Her name was Inot (sp) and she was from Israel. We shared stories about how effed up the US Foreign Policies have become, the pros and cons of rail travel compared to train travel, and various other interrupted conversations.

The interruptions came from another table in the lounge, where a 48 year old wigger (I shit you not) was in a heated discussion about how his life is blessed and that 50 is the new 40, and some how these two items are related. Thankfully, the train arrived at my stop. I bid my new friends farewell and began my weekend in Charleston, SC.

Unfunny.

Saturday morning's class is Audio Visual study. Essentially we're learning how to make and edit film, which is great, because that's sort of the area I want to get into. It's an interesting class, the instructor is awesome. Our first day, we watched 12 Angry Men followed by Dark Star. If you've never seen Dark Star, it's Mystery Science Theater 3000 fodder at its finest. Anyway, after viewing this, everyone was talking about how bad it was, when the teacher said "Guess what? You think you can do better, you're getting the chance to prove it." This weekend, we were split into groups and given a small script to film, and it took our group roughly 1/2 an hour to get what will break down into about 1 minute of film.

This class would be awesome were it not for the slovenly bastard sitting near me.
I've referred to him as the unfunny re-animated corpse of Chris Farley. Same delivery and off-timing of Farley, with only 1/4 the comedic content. That, and he can't complete a sentence without saying "fuck" at least twice.

During the films, this jagoff would not shut up. And it's not a quiet aside comment to his near by, comparatively reserved buddy. It's a loud, obnoxious mood breaker. A bit like a fart in a nice restraunt on a first date.

During the explanation of our project, he went on for half an hour in five minute intervals about the history of Mr. Rogers, based solely on the mention of a sweater and one "beautiful day in the neighborhood" reference.

As he sits near me, I loudly expressed my sudden sympathetic attitude towards the young asian gentleman from Virginia Tech. (What...too soon?) After a moments thought, he silenced himself for 3 minutes, spending a majority of that time in front of the classroom scratching his crotch.

For those of you familiar with "Super Troopers" picture Farva, and take away his charm and grace, and you have this guy.

Saturdays are going to wear me very...very thin.