So, by now, you've probably heard of my plot to take over the world. I was thinking about just a modest few lines of longitude, but, then I thought, "Why take only a few slices when you can have the whole orange?" I didn't need any more convincing.
The problem with conquering the world is finding a starting point. It's like ordering a large pepperoni at the pizzeria. When it is delivered on one of those wobbly, dented pie pans, you spin it around until you find a slice worthy of your appetite. Then, you tuck in. The same thing with conquering the world, except you don't have the pain of hot cheese slapping against your chin,
So, I figured I'd start at the local Eckard's.
I started by taking the back entrance to the drugstore, but ended up in the Arby's parking lot. This was going to have to be a ground assault. The parking slots were all at diagonals - facing AWAY from my car. So, I had to do that awkward, hand-over-hand drive-reverse-drive-reverse-drive-reverse-drive maneuver. I am sure our alien masters watching from above, upon seeing me, shrugged their shoulders and said "This is a planet of idiots." Great, I have single-handedly turned Earth into the Baltic Avenue of the solar system.
After finally parking my car and stealthily avoiding the glare of the Arby's short-sleeved manager, I stormed the automatic doors of the Eckard's. Not much of a defense. I figured some cool-handed espionage would allow me to avoid suspicion. Only after I had taken over the strip mall and a few Subways would I have the bombast to order a press conference and shake a threatening fist in the direction of the department stores. Know what? This conquering the world thing is going to be hard work. I'd better get in shape.
Anyway, there I was by the Miss Clairol, preparing to storm the photo lab. Suddenly, I was spotted. A jolly manager and pimply-faced assistant manager were eyeballing me from that cube-shaped crow's nest. I disappeared around the corner, pretending to play with the plastic M&M's dispenser shaped like a foot. I could feel the hot breath of the pharmacist only two, three...maybe 50 feet away. I quickly grabbed a bottle of Fleet and a box of Anusol. To disguise my ruse, I engaged the pretty young girl in my aisle in conversation about the products I was holding and asked if she would recommend them. She struck a vaguely familiar martial-arts pose and dropped a lot of F-bombs. These people just won't go quietly.
I decided to just go for the gusto and shanghai the front register. The girls behind the counter, in their fascist powder-blue smocks, smacked their gum like Chernobyl Geiger counters and gossiped back and forth about guys half my age and twice my level of cool. I reached for the rack of bargain CDs, preparing to fashion some sort of Frisbee-like weapon out of The Best of Johnny Mathis and Freedom Rock, but, the damned CD case caught in the shelving and everything spilled to the floor in a symphony of failure. I decided to ask for a pack of cigarettes to get them to turn their backs to me and grab it from the shelf behind them, but, clever people that they were, they asked, "What is the year of your birth?"
They were on to me.
Apparently, in an effort to curb underage sales of tobacco products, they are asking even obviously older people like myself the year of their birth. And they're strict, too. In the line next to me, there was a bearded gentleman waving his arms frantically shouting, "But,I'm freakin' Methusela! I don't HAVE my ID on me! Ever hear of me? Old guy? Bible? Likes to hang around for a thousand years or so?"
I figured this was the time to put my world domination on hold and skidaddle out the door. Think I'll get me a slice of pizza.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Blasting, billowing, bursting forth, with the power of ten billion butterfly sneezes...
So, I went to the beach this weekend. No, not the beach of my youth when we would go to the Jersey shore and stay with relatives, eat sandy french fries, swallow whole gallons of sea water, and get hosed off naked on the side of my aunt's house while everyone and their mother walked by and clucked their tongues...
No, it wasn't even the beach of my young adult days when I was fresh out of college, cracking a beer in the shower, doing shots with names like "the Blue Gorilla," "the Eyeball," and the "Heave Ho," and eating copious amounts of hot wings with my buddies while teetering on concrete parking slabs.
No, dear reader, this was the beach where my mom and her husband live. The mature community. Not a puking teenager in sight. It was quiet and sedate, with all the charm you could pack into a sandy lane; the cacophony of wind chimes spicing up the otherwise spacious silence.
And, somehow, I loved it.
Don't get me wrong. My days of summoning the Dark Lord in the name of boozing and chasing anything tan, hairless, and legal were grand days. Grand days indeed, fellow citizen. But, the bucolic nature of just turning the volume down - WAY down was much more pleasing than I anticipated. What can I say? I dug it.
So, there we were: Mom, her husband, my brother Dave, his wife, and two of their four kids, all huddled together and whooping it up as only lame white people can. Food was eaten, advice was given, and ice cream was sought and conquered. Let the good times roll. We all gathered together to watch a movie, which I promptly fell asleep on halfway through, and, several hundred hours later, woke up and hauled my crusty carcass back to my clinically antiseptic bedroom and passed out.
I was awaken a few hours later with what felt like a stiletto right beneath my shoulder blade. Apparently, it was an acid reflux attack. Let me tell you something, tough guy - I have a decent pain threshold, but I was not prepared for the fury of an acid reflux attack. I was in agony. I was twisting and writhing like a wash rag being wrung out by an obsessive-compulsive maniac. You simply cannot get comfortable. I started machine-gunning Tagamet down my gullet to fend off the nastiness, but to no avail. I sought out my Zen-center to will the pain away, but all I could do was envision the "Tao of Pooh" book that used to sit on the tank of my toilet in my old condo. Finally, the pain subsided, but it left a dark mark on my soul. I have met my enemy and he is a bastard.
So, there I was, two hours from home and The Simpsons starting in, yep, two hours. I gunned the engine, the car rattled like an epileptic Elvis impersonator, and I shimmied up the highway. Racing against the clock, I drove so fast that I actually went back in time. I looked at my Mohawk and rat-tail in the rear-view mirror and decided to slow down. I figured that I would make it back just in time to catch Danny Elfman's overture. I pulled in, grabbed my bags, raced up the steps, threw said bags in the air, raced to the television, turned on Fox, and...
It was a freaking NASCAR race. The screams of anger set off car alarms up and down the street. I HATE NASCAR, or any other kind of racing.
Yeah, and this coming from a person who was doing 100 on his way home. Think I'll go buy a wind chime.
No, it wasn't even the beach of my young adult days when I was fresh out of college, cracking a beer in the shower, doing shots with names like "the Blue Gorilla," "the Eyeball," and the "Heave Ho," and eating copious amounts of hot wings with my buddies while teetering on concrete parking slabs.
No, dear reader, this was the beach where my mom and her husband live. The mature community. Not a puking teenager in sight. It was quiet and sedate, with all the charm you could pack into a sandy lane; the cacophony of wind chimes spicing up the otherwise spacious silence.
And, somehow, I loved it.
Don't get me wrong. My days of summoning the Dark Lord in the name of boozing and chasing anything tan, hairless, and legal were grand days. Grand days indeed, fellow citizen. But, the bucolic nature of just turning the volume down - WAY down was much more pleasing than I anticipated. What can I say? I dug it.
So, there we were: Mom, her husband, my brother Dave, his wife, and two of their four kids, all huddled together and whooping it up as only lame white people can. Food was eaten, advice was given, and ice cream was sought and conquered. Let the good times roll. We all gathered together to watch a movie, which I promptly fell asleep on halfway through, and, several hundred hours later, woke up and hauled my crusty carcass back to my clinically antiseptic bedroom and passed out.
I was awaken a few hours later with what felt like a stiletto right beneath my shoulder blade. Apparently, it was an acid reflux attack. Let me tell you something, tough guy - I have a decent pain threshold, but I was not prepared for the fury of an acid reflux attack. I was in agony. I was twisting and writhing like a wash rag being wrung out by an obsessive-compulsive maniac. You simply cannot get comfortable. I started machine-gunning Tagamet down my gullet to fend off the nastiness, but to no avail. I sought out my Zen-center to will the pain away, but all I could do was envision the "Tao of Pooh" book that used to sit on the tank of my toilet in my old condo. Finally, the pain subsided, but it left a dark mark on my soul. I have met my enemy and he is a bastard.
So, there I was, two hours from home and The Simpsons starting in, yep, two hours. I gunned the engine, the car rattled like an epileptic Elvis impersonator, and I shimmied up the highway. Racing against the clock, I drove so fast that I actually went back in time. I looked at my Mohawk and rat-tail in the rear-view mirror and decided to slow down. I figured that I would make it back just in time to catch Danny Elfman's overture. I pulled in, grabbed my bags, raced up the steps, threw said bags in the air, raced to the television, turned on Fox, and...
It was a freaking NASCAR race. The screams of anger set off car alarms up and down the street. I HATE NASCAR, or any other kind of racing.
Yeah, and this coming from a person who was doing 100 on his way home. Think I'll go buy a wind chime.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Let's Take Some Calls From the Audience
I have noticed that there are no comments on my rantings by the untold zillions of people who regularly look to me to provide relief from the drudgery of their world. You'd think that someone would at least have something to say. How about a smiley face, the utilitarian "LOL", or at least a "get a life, loser."?
Actually, maybe it's best if I don't get any comments. I'd probably just get all full of myself or fly off the handle, knives flashing, as I sink them into my tormentor's throat. Stabbing and slashing and ripping, and rending and...
1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..10
Okay, I'm cool.
Vanity, of course, dictates that I need to check from time to time to see if there have been any surface-to-air missives fired in my direction. So, I will be peeking in periodically to patrol my pathetic personal pjournal. So, stop by, set a spell, and if you have something to say, just say it.
Or better yet, maybe not.
Listening to: "Sir Psycho Sexy" - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Actually, maybe it's best if I don't get any comments. I'd probably just get all full of myself or fly off the handle, knives flashing, as I sink them into my tormentor's throat. Stabbing and slashing and ripping, and rending and...
1..2..3..4..5..6..7..8..9..10
Okay, I'm cool.
Vanity, of course, dictates that I need to check from time to time to see if there have been any surface-to-air missives fired in my direction. So, I will be peeking in periodically to patrol my pathetic personal pjournal. So, stop by, set a spell, and if you have something to say, just say it.
Or better yet, maybe not.
Listening to: "Sir Psycho Sexy" - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Gram
Gram was a very special person who always seemed to have a story for everything - and I loved hearing every single one of them. For the past 10 years or so, when she had begun to lose her faculties, our conversations were still very lucid. When being told that she would not be able to recognize anyone anymore, she still recognized me and we still told those same stories over again.
Before I go any further, I think we all owe a tremendous amount of debt and gratitude to Aunt Nancy and Uncle Joe's family for taking her in, caring for her, and basically taking responsibility for her well-being. That is not a damnation of anyone else, but an honest appreciation of the truth.
Gram's passing signals the end of an era. We are no longer a family of young parents with kids or teens with visions of adulthood. We are now the grandparents, and the older parents. We have leaped one, and in some cases, two, generations, and as we have grown, some of us have grown together while others have grown apart. I am personally guilty of that
But, this is about Margaret Francis - mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, mother-in-law, aunt, friend, sister, wife... There was a time when being a member of this family did not feel like you were a member of a family, but of a dynasty. That began to change once grandpop passed away, and we've been doing our best ever since. Being part of this family felt like being a part of royalty - and no matter if you were born into the family or married into it, you felt it.
This is not my grandmother here. This is my grandmother here (point to heart), and she will live until the last one of us in this room shuffles off their mortal coils, and when we are lucky enough to see her in the next life, we will see the smiling, laughing, loving person we all remember her best to be.
I love you, gram, and I miss you, and I'll see you again, with grandpop, and feel like a member of royalty again. Hopefully, I can do my part to restore that feeling back here on earth first.
Before I go any further, I think we all owe a tremendous amount of debt and gratitude to Aunt Nancy and Uncle Joe's family for taking her in, caring for her, and basically taking responsibility for her well-being. That is not a damnation of anyone else, but an honest appreciation of the truth.
Gram's passing signals the end of an era. We are no longer a family of young parents with kids or teens with visions of adulthood. We are now the grandparents, and the older parents. We have leaped one, and in some cases, two, generations, and as we have grown, some of us have grown together while others have grown apart. I am personally guilty of that
But, this is about Margaret Francis - mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, mother-in-law, aunt, friend, sister, wife... There was a time when being a member of this family did not feel like you were a member of a family, but of a dynasty. That began to change once grandpop passed away, and we've been doing our best ever since. Being part of this family felt like being a part of royalty - and no matter if you were born into the family or married into it, you felt it.
This is not my grandmother here. This is my grandmother here (point to heart), and she will live until the last one of us in this room shuffles off their mortal coils, and when we are lucky enough to see her in the next life, we will see the smiling, laughing, loving person we all remember her best to be.
I love you, gram, and I miss you, and I'll see you again, with grandpop, and feel like a member of royalty again. Hopefully, I can do my part to restore that feeling back here on earth first.
Gonna Wait Til the Midnight Hour....
No, it's not midnight. In fact, it's a far uglier time of evening.
It's 3:30 AM
Hell, it's not even evening anymore, it's morning. And it's not even proper morning, either. Its some sort of quasi-morning. It's a Rod Serling-time of day, somewhere between shadow and light. On TV, Homer's singing Nena's 99 Luftballoons. Earth must be spinning towards some sort of cosmic wood-chipper. I am hopeful that I can fall back asleep, but I am becoming more and more convinced that, by the time I fall asleep, I'll eventually sleep through my alarm and wake up sometime this afternoon - just a tad later than my usual 7:00 AM start time.
I also realize my last rant may have had a bit too much jalapeno in it, but perhaps it's the wooziness in me talking. And no, dear reader, before you ask, it was not directed towards any particular individual. It was inspired by those fiends of the fiery pit at my cable company. Sure, I've unleashed my fury on those who have crossed me, but the severity of my recommended punishment was more for cathartic release than anything else. And boy did it feel good! Cathartic release usually does.
Anyway, I am feeling unnaturally chipper and high-spirited at this time of night/morning. Time to crawl back between the sheets and dream about naked women who disappear just before it gets interesting.
It's 3:30 AM
Hell, it's not even evening anymore, it's morning. And it's not even proper morning, either. Its some sort of quasi-morning. It's a Rod Serling-time of day, somewhere between shadow and light. On TV, Homer's singing Nena's 99 Luftballoons. Earth must be spinning towards some sort of cosmic wood-chipper. I am hopeful that I can fall back asleep, but I am becoming more and more convinced that, by the time I fall asleep, I'll eventually sleep through my alarm and wake up sometime this afternoon - just a tad later than my usual 7:00 AM start time.
I also realize my last rant may have had a bit too much jalapeno in it, but perhaps it's the wooziness in me talking. And no, dear reader, before you ask, it was not directed towards any particular individual. It was inspired by those fiends of the fiery pit at my cable company. Sure, I've unleashed my fury on those who have crossed me, but the severity of my recommended punishment was more for cathartic release than anything else. And boy did it feel good! Cathartic release usually does.
Anyway, I am feeling unnaturally chipper and high-spirited at this time of night/morning. Time to crawl back between the sheets and dream about naked women who disappear just before it gets interesting.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
The Good Word
People are becoming more idiotic and worthless.
Don't believe me? Try getting someone to keep their word. Invariably, people will give their word to you with absolutely no intention of keeping it, or conveniently "forgetting." What's the point? If you don't plan on keeping your word, don't give it, and if you do not think you will be able to fulfill your obligation (again, to YOUR word), at least contact that person ahead of time so you aren't wasting anyone's time. I took off from work Tuesday to wait for the cable guy. The cable company said he would be there between 11 - 2. I also had to get my car serviced and visit my accountant. Still plenty of time to get all three done. My car appointment was at 3:30 and my accountant visit was after that.
You know, I had a story here, but nothing sucks the marrow from the bone like a LONG bitch session about ONE thing. Let's move on.
I don't know about you, but trust is the number one quality I look for in a person, whether it is in a buddy or a relationship or anything in between. Well, this may be a surprise to you, but, giving your word and keeping it is a gloriously shining example of that trust on display. I don't care if you say you are going to help your friend gun down his enemies or promise your girlfriend you are going to clean the hair out of the drain. Your word is your word, and you are a complete zero when you violate it.
Maybe I'm one of the last of a dying breed. When I give my word, nothing short of my hospitalization or death keeps me from fulfilling that oath. It's simple common courtesy. It's also called acting like an adult. If you cannot be trustworthy by not keeping your word, you may as well do this world a favor and put a bullet in your head, because you are a piece of garbage and you are worthless to every person with whom you come into contact.
Word.
Listening to: "Joy to the World" - Three Dog Night
Don't believe me? Try getting someone to keep their word. Invariably, people will give their word to you with absolutely no intention of keeping it, or conveniently "forgetting." What's the point? If you don't plan on keeping your word, don't give it, and if you do not think you will be able to fulfill your obligation (again, to YOUR word), at least contact that person ahead of time so you aren't wasting anyone's time. I took off from work Tuesday to wait for the cable guy. The cable company said he would be there between 11 - 2. I also had to get my car serviced and visit my accountant. Still plenty of time to get all three done. My car appointment was at 3:30 and my accountant visit was after that.
You know, I had a story here, but nothing sucks the marrow from the bone like a LONG bitch session about ONE thing. Let's move on.
I don't know about you, but trust is the number one quality I look for in a person, whether it is in a buddy or a relationship or anything in between. Well, this may be a surprise to you, but, giving your word and keeping it is a gloriously shining example of that trust on display. I don't care if you say you are going to help your friend gun down his enemies or promise your girlfriend you are going to clean the hair out of the drain. Your word is your word, and you are a complete zero when you violate it.
Maybe I'm one of the last of a dying breed. When I give my word, nothing short of my hospitalization or death keeps me from fulfilling that oath. It's simple common courtesy. It's also called acting like an adult. If you cannot be trustworthy by not keeping your word, you may as well do this world a favor and put a bullet in your head, because you are a piece of garbage and you are worthless to every person with whom you come into contact.
Word.
Listening to: "Joy to the World" - Three Dog Night
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
The Cheese Stands Alone
Starting off with a reference to the child's game "Farmer in the Dell" seems an appropriate place to launch my invective upon the unsuspecting world. Why? Because we are under attack. All of us. Constantly under attack. Be it from psychotic ex-lovers, bill collectors, rabid animals, or in some cases this could all be the same person, we are being beseiged by unsavory knuckleheads. So what should we do?
Go on the offensive.
And I am here to lead the charge, dear reader. In the following days, months, years, reincarnations, etc., I shall rain fire down upon the unsuspecting world (or at least get in some decent bitching). I am not sure how this whole "blog etiquette" works or if there is an Emily Post-ing (and the first bad pun has been launched), and frankly, I couldn't give a hairy squat. What I can promise you is that there is no shortage of garbage to throw on my neighbors' lawns - and I'll attempt to lovingly distribute it to the deserving, unwashed masses.
If you have any ideas for topics, that's great! Start your own blog. Me? I'll be sitting here in my disgrace, maniacally shaking my fists at the heavens, and fixing the problems of the world.
Time's yours.
Go on the offensive.
And I am here to lead the charge, dear reader. In the following days, months, years, reincarnations, etc., I shall rain fire down upon the unsuspecting world (or at least get in some decent bitching). I am not sure how this whole "blog etiquette" works or if there is an Emily Post-ing (and the first bad pun has been launched), and frankly, I couldn't give a hairy squat. What I can promise you is that there is no shortage of garbage to throw on my neighbors' lawns - and I'll attempt to lovingly distribute it to the deserving, unwashed masses.
If you have any ideas for topics, that's great! Start your own blog. Me? I'll be sitting here in my disgrace, maniacally shaking my fists at the heavens, and fixing the problems of the world.
Time's yours.
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