Atlas Hugged

We've Moved...

2005-09-20T12:34:00.000-07:00

I have serious doubts that anyone will read this, but just in case, you should know that we've moved, and are doing our thing here.

Hold onto the nights / hold onto the memories / I wish that I could give you something more / that I could be yours

Your Local TJ Maxx

2005-08-23T16:08:00.000-07:00

I was looking forward to a highly pleasant lunchbreak today, as the weather was sunny and a little cool, and I had something to do. A mission. For me these usually require searching for a particular album or article of clothing. Today it was the basic white ribbed tank. Now, I know what you're thinking: Those are everywhere, it would take five minutes!
Not so any more as summer garb is rapidly being replaced with the "must-haves" of fall fashion. I nearly wept when I espied a skinny scarf display. However, I thought between H&M, American Eagle, the Gap, Urban Outfitters, and Filene's I'd be able to come up with something. Alas. The five left at H&M had too skinny of straps (sleeves?), American Eagle now carries only camisoles, Gap Body has tanks, but not ribbed, the Urban Outfitters ones are so thin and filmy I might as well just wear a Hane's wife-beater and practically bare my bra to the world, and Filene's was just a catastrophy I don't even want to talk about. I had hoped to avoid it, but I now must go to the Prudential Center. Or "the Pru" if you're one of those people. It makes me spendy. And I don't want to order online because the basic white ribbed tank is my second favorite article of clothing following my jeans, and I simply cannot wait.
But anyway, on my remarkable mission (because, you must admit, it's quite a feat to hit up all those stores in one measley hour considering they're not all next to eachother), I had the unfortunate experience of stepping in gum. I'm still obsessed with my month old skinny-strap black Rainbow flip-flops, and was dismayed as I felt that unwelcome initial pop as my foot pulled free of the nasty sidewalk. Is it even possible to get gum out of the tread of your footwear? Or do you just wait until it wears down? Today I acquired a leaf, green glass, and a new ecosystem on my wonderful wonderful flip-flop (I can't call them "thongs" because I'm eight years old and I'll giggle). All around Filene's I made that embarrassing unsticking sound with every other step. It's like having a squeaky shoe.
One of my first actions upon arriving at home was to get at the offending gum with a butter knife. I think it's worked somewhat because I removed the glass, leaf and ecosystem, and I'm not sticking anymore. I had errands to run and didn't want to wear anything other than my Rainbows because I love them.
The most notable errand is box-hunting (for the move), and it's brutal. I won't go into it, except you know how sometimes you can just raid big supermarket recycle bins and call it a day? Oh man. Bums. They just camp out by the carboard! Fortunately the goldmine was discovered behind TJ Maxx. And I may go back to salvage heaps of bubble wrap that were still in the unbroken-down boxes. So to all you box (or, hell, bargain)-hunters out there: Go to your local TJ Maxx.

backfat for cubie

2005-08-09T17:27:00.000-07:00

is there anything more frustrating than walking out to your car to head off to the office - when the sun is shining brightly but has that tinge of sadness around its edges because summer is well on its way to being over - and so you unlock the door to your car to head off to a job that you are grateful for because it pays bills but when you sit down and honestly think about it you aren't exactly sure how you landed this job or how you've managed to acheive success and whatnot even though your heart - as they say, is not in it...

but you have the aforementioned bills that beckon and a rudimentary escape plan forming in your head so you decide it's probably best to go ahead and go into the office take your lumps and be done with it because hey, it's already tuesday and tomorrow will be wednesday which means the weekend is just around the bend...and so you put the key into the ignition of your suv of choice turn it just so and nothing.

well, not nothing...it cranks, and cranks, and cranks but it simply refused to turn over and you think to yourself, hey wait a second - i didn't take on a car payment to have car trouble - in fact the very reason we took on this car payment was to eliminate car trouble once for all - but alas...and so you fiddle with wires under the hood and consult your owners manual and crank some more but the result is the same...and as you sit there staring through the windshield, you consult the rolodex in your head and begin diagnosing the malfunction based on your past experiences with car trouble and you wonder what those cartalk guys would say if they happened by and realize the inevitable - faulty fuel pump...because it's really the only thing that makes sense in this scenario...the starter is engaging and the plugs are firing so it can't be an electrical problem - and fuel pumps are notorious for going without warning - sometimes there are intermittent signs but then at other times they just leave you stranded - so you call into work and a co-worker graciously offers to pick you up because after all, there is work to be done - not that you can concentrate on work because you spend the bulk of the day wondering what to do about the car trouble - that is, when you aren't wondering who will be crowned the next lead singer of inxs - even as you dream of ways to arrange a chance encounter with the newly single brooke burke

but i think i realized today that life can be alot like car trouble sometimes all it takes is a simple breakdown to make you realize that you just might be stuck and i wonder at the people in the cubes around me and in cubes across amerika...is this how they envisioned life turning out? waking up each morning going to a job they could really care less about? it's like something out of a camus novel the way we go through the same routine every day for years as our hair thins out, our waist lines expand and back fat forms on our -- backs and our face takes on the look of someone who has settled because of the mortgage and the car payment and the kids need to get into a good college so they won't have to go through what we are going through at this very second - and i wonder is all of that stuff really worth it?

wouldn't it be far better if we pursued those things in life that we were/are truly passionate about? is it really over idealistic to presume that we could find a way to make things work if we were doing something we could care about deeply? and maybe, just maybe if we were pursuing our passions maybe money wouldn't matter so much - perhaps we are all cowards when it comes to stepping out into the unknown...and that, ladies and gentlemen is why i have decided to quit my job to go back to school to pursue my dream to become a professional fencer and as such, i will be taking applications for people willing to be my foils until i can build up enough confidence to compete professionally

spork & beans

2005-07-28T21:04:00.000-07:00

so this past weekend i had occasion to attend that dreaded event formidably known as the family reunion replete with all the eye-rolling - green bean casserole - and warmed over deviled eggs that we have all come to expect over the years...and somewhere between the slip 'n slide and the family sing it donned on me that i might be a member of the strangest collection of relatives known to man. and i say that with the full realization that most folks feel much the same about certain relatives that always turn up at family functions even though you're pretty sure that they weren't invited. and even though they somehow got the memo detailing the date, time, and location of the gathering they seem to have missed the part that encouraged the bringing of food & or beverages - so they conveniently have just enough tallboys to tide them over for the aftenoon but that cooler lid stays locked up tight anytime you happen to walk by.

and so by the time the dinner bell rings a distant cousin has to drag you kicking and screaming from your prone position in the kiddie pool where you were only trying to put yourself out of your misery because a: it's unbearably hot & b: your hot aunt just reminded you of the time you accidentally saw her naked because she had the audacity to use the very same restroom that housed the linen closet that you chose as your hiding spot....and also, you're drunckle keeps getting emotional because he's half lit & really can't believe how much you've grown and wasn't it just yesterday that he was baiting your hooks and teaching you how to throw a football...and really it's amazing that he could remember any of that because he was constantly stealing pieces of your home chemistry set for reasons you still haven't been able to ascertain.

but just as you're recovering childhood memories probably better left alone - you are saved by the family photo because it's important to gather everyone together and preserve this moment in history because really, how often do we do this? and that's probably why no one seems to mind that random kids from the neighborhood somehow make it into the shot - because when will you have the chance to see those little brats again...and also, it would take a great amount of time and effort to chase them away and the sun is going down and the mosquitos are buzzing because your fat relatives reek of pure unadulterated sugar & sugar bi-products...and you wonder how none of them are diabetic, but this thought is quickly chased away by the rage that wells up within you when you realize that there are at least 5 more cameras left and at least three of those will have features so complicated that the owner of said camera (after 15 minutes of shouting out instructions) will have to go up to the front and demonstrate how the blessed thing works which means they'll have to repose themselves...and really it makes no sense in this modern age of technological whatnot that so many pictures should need to be taken...

i mean couldn't we just take one picture and send it out in a lovely e-mail? better yet, give me the memory card, i'll print up the photo onto a t-shirt and send it out to everyone complete with a clever reunion themed top ten list on the back...that, dear friends would be the bomb.com

i might even photoshop our heads atop the bodies of penguins posing on a glacier for my cousin who is obsessed with penguins. seriously, it's pretty much the only thing he talks about...he is well past the age where his hormones should have borne forth in him an interest in the ladies, but really...all he cares about are penguins....which, i know that penguins are strange and mysterious in that sort of austere, flightless way...but come on when you are a student living in a dorm at a major university you might want to dial back the wierdness a notch. or two...and i wonder how that happens. i mean how do you become interested in something like penguins?

i will openly admit to being interested in many diverse things - if by diverse you mean action figures with hinged knees and real hair...and maybe that is strange...maybe, many of my relatives stand and wonder heads agog and mouths agape about my strange obsession with action star hair when i should really be thinking about settling down and starting a family...and of course i don't even want to think about that because i am currently in the throes of one of the worst breakups i have ever had to endure - and it's a miracle that i even make it out of bed most mornings...and i don't know if it makes it better or worse that i never even spoke to this woman - because for all the fuss that gets made, i often find that communication can be so over rated. i mean seriously, how many times have you liked an attractive stranger less after you had a conversation with them? it happens to me alot. still - the no talking thing? sort of makes it difficult to acheive closure or to find out where things went wrong...so the best that you can hope for is that your real hair will be in perfect order in anticipation of a chance encounter because it's hard to be taken seriously as a super action star/former lover if you have fake hair. seriously. just ask ben affleck.

You Are Where You Eat

2005-07-21T05:37:00.000-07:00

Restaurants are peculiar things, so much so that I'm willing to say I'm fascinated by them. Like a lot of us, I enjoy eating really good food. Part of this is no doubt attributed to my southern upbringing (where eating really good food is a crucial aspect of daily life), but I also simply enjoy food for what it is. The preparation, the creation, the sharing of it with others, and of course, stuffing my own face...it's all part of the experience of food. As a kid I was fairly picky, but as life has progressed my palate has expanded (oddly enough, so has my waistline, but that's what the gym is for, right?) to the point that I'll try just about anything at least once. Some people never grow out of being picky, but, to avoid the negative social stigma, refer to themselves as being "selective." To those of you I say this: you do not fool me...I saw you in the Circle K parking lot gobbling down a whole box of Zingers then chasing it with your soft drink of choice. Selective my ass. These are the people I want to force feed, just so maybe they'll realize there's more on the menu than meat loaf, or fried rice, or whatever the case may be. Very few people take kindly to being force fed though (if they do, you might want to find a new friend before they go all Rex Vandekamp on you) so I'll just keep marching around the local Applebee's holding up a sign that reads: "Didn't you get the pot pie last time?"

Conveniently, this brings me back to the subject of restaurants (coincidence or clever ploy?), and in an effort to be up front, I'll admit my bias from the beginning: I do not like chain restaurants. Obviously a large portion of our society does, but I do not count myself among their ranks. The idea that I can have identical bacon cheeseburgers at TGIFridays, whether I'm in Portland or Pascagoula, turns my stomach. It would be like going on vacation and sitting in your hotel watching Family Feud all day. For the sake of the saints, couldn't you do that at home? I'm all for a blended, melting pot society, but at the same time appreciate it when people embrace their unique culinary heritage. That means the good folks of New England should keep cooking their clam chowder and Boston baked beans, and my fellow southerners need to provide the barbecue, fried chicken and sweet tea. Southern California/Texas, we're counting on you for the tacos and tamales (Northern California: bring more wine). We can rely on the Northwest for the coffee, but I'm also going to put them down for the seafood. For those of you in the Midwest...just keep doing...whatever it is you do (I don't know, potatoes...cabbage maybe?). When I go to a new city, or am traveling in a new part of the country, I like to know where the locals eat, not where the closest Olive Garden is. Not only do you get a great meal (nine times out of ten), you get a taste of the local flavor, the local gossip, and (if you're lucky) a little bit of local music. The next time you're in that city you'll know where to get a damn good meal, where to get your flat tire fixed, and maybe even who sleeps around. For your benefit (and to shamelessly plug these establishments to the five people reading this) I've included a few of my southeastern favorites below:

Nashville:
1) SATCO
2) Rotier's
3) Davinci's Gourmet Pizza

Charlotte:
1) Fuel Pizza
2) Taipei Express
3) The Penguin

Metro-Atlanta:
1) The OK Cafe
2) Marietta Pizza Company
3) Willie Rae's

I try to steer clear of anything that might look like preaching or coercion in this venue (leaving that to guys who stand on street corners or lurk in back alleys), but let me implore you to stop being such a jackass. Support your local diner, or the burgeoning Mexican restaurant on the other side of town (even if no one in there speaks a lick of English...you took Spanish in high school, figure it out). Give that Mom & Pop dive a shot (get to know the Mom or the Pop while you're at it), and think of it as an investment in your community, your neighbors, and yourself. These are the places and people that will take the time to get to know you, to remember your name, and be glad to see you when you come back. If you simply must spend your money in a chain restaurant (and sometimes I do...the [christian] chicken biscuits of Chick-fil-A are an albatross around my neck), just remember this: they really couldn't care less.

Go to East Asheville Hardware / before you go to Lowe's / you'll help to keep them opened / I'm worried they might close / from the stiff competition / from the national conglomerate / with the full-page ad in the color section of the Sunday paper supplement / and, stacks of plastic swimming pools / and, seven brands of power tools / with rows and rows of registers all having nice days

That Most Sacred Tradition

2005-07-18T07:37:00.000-07:00

After two years of getting sucked into the great frenzy that is "Red Sox Nation," I finally went to a game a few weeks ago. I believe we were playing Toronto, but honestly the memories that really impacted me have nothing to do with baseball. The pitching was exceptional, and that made for a quick and boring game for which I was grateful since a.) baseball is boring anyway and b.) it was pretty hot outside. The weather was actually picture perfect for America's pastime. The Boston haze had burned away, and the colors of the grass, sky, green monster, and uniforms were vibrant and delightful. Near the end of the game, things picked up because it seemed the Sox might be making a comeback, so that was actually really fun and intense. Everyone standing and screaming...and we lost. But here's what really stayed with me:

1. The man next to me with a gigantic bag of peanuts, resulting in a gigantic pile of shells... and how on earth is he comfortable in these chairs, he's gigantic!

2. Two rows up, there's a very tan, tooley guy (probably very early twenties) and 3 high school girls who fawn on his every word and laugh excessively at his jokes. He has a bleached teeth laugh. I don't know how else to say it. Somehow they get beer (fakes id's must be damn good), and it all gets louder and dumber. I'm sickened and fascinated at this display. He's a collar popper.

3. The baseball I almost caught/got knocked out by. The outfielders were loping in and Johnny Damon flicked the ball into the crowd; it bounced off something and came careening toward me. Sans glove, I ducked. Two rows back caught it. Lesson learned: bring a glove. Do I even still have one?

4. We never once got to scream "CHARGE."

5. But I did sing "Take me out to the ball game" with gusto.

6. A lopsided sunburn. I spent a good amount of time trying to shift so it wouldn't be quite so extreme, but... the old left shoulder took the brunt.

7. Frozen hot dog? Awesome. Cake, ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate syrup. No napkin, but not a single wayward, oozing drop. Shaped like a hot dog.

8. Possibly the greatest part ever? "Sweet Caroline." Yes, I do mean the Neil Diamond song, as a matter of fact. It was played during an inning switch (gracious, what the hell is the proper lingo?), and we all start singing along, with everyone screaming it out by the time we get to "TOUCHING YOOOUUU!!!!! SWEET CAROLINE!" music cuts out and the crowd goes "WHOA WHOA WHOOOOAAA" and it comes back on and cuts out again for "SO GOOD SO GOOD!" The players take the field right at the end of the second verse, and even though the music has stopped and the game is going, everyone keeps singing. It was amazing. It was beautiful. I'll never forget the thrill, and the wonder at how everyone in America knows the words to Neil Diamond songs, even if said songs are passionately hated.

I did inquire about this "Sweet Caroline" phenomenon the next week at work. Does this always happen? Everyone seemed ready for it so surely it couldn't have been a one time thing. And in fact? It's played at the same time at every single game. Why "Sweet Caroline"? Why not, like, "America?" Why Neil Diamond? How did it start? Is there an entertaining history? Or is it just really freaking fun to sing along to, with thousands of other maniacs? Because if it is the latter reason, that totally makes sense to me. Turn's out, yeah, it's just a fun song. Mystery solved.

I can't wait to get to another game. I can't wait to be in the crowd with a plastic cup of beer, peanuts crunching underfoot, ponytail looped through the Sox cap, the only time I wear shorts, eating hot dogs, screaming, high-fiving, and a stranger's sweaty arms touching me. . . "TOUCHING YOOOOOUU!!! SWEET CAROLINE! DUN DUN DUUUUN! GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!"

elvis frappuccino

2005-07-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

so you're inxs and you find yourself lost in the ipod shuffle of yesteryear desperately wondering how you can make your own particular brand of music relevant again - no small task for any band whose best years are clearly behind them (yes i'm talking about you u2) but then you factor in the fact that your charismatic lead singer with the golden vocal chords and latent sex appeal happens to be dead - well you're sort of screwed...

unless of course you have the good fortune to cash in on the reality television juggernaut that is sometimes referred to as the reality television juggernaut which, not only gets your band back into the public eye - it also happens to generate tons of free publicity for this upcoming album that will be released with the singer who prevails in this televised audition of e.p.i.c. proportions...it should also be noted here that any opportunity to appear on television with the stunning brooke burke (not to be confused with brooke burns of north shore/dog eat dog infamy whose porcelain veneers haunt me. and i don not lie.) is never a bad idea...in fact, i auditioned for the show (the show being rockstar inxs) and did fairly well for myself all the way through regional finals where i performed every day i write the book. only, instead of saying book - i substituted the word brooke. and even though she found this adorable (my word not hers) the producers found it cloying (which...is that even a word?) and i got the boot - but brooke and i are pan pals (seriously. we trade bread recipes) and it's great.

- thus i can comfortably proclaim that even though i am not going to be the new lead singer for inxs the forthcoming record will most likely do bang up business - i'm predicting at least 500,000 sold domestically (probably 7 or 8 billion sold in australia) - which is still a gold record, and a measure of moderate success - even though said record probably won't be very good...and let's be realistic, it won't - the career of inxs was in the tank long before michael hutchence checked out - the same michael hutchence who once publicly complained that u2 had co-opted the inxs sound on achtung baby (which, yeah i guess i can sort of see that on a song like mysterious ways) and this - and this alone was the reason that record sales had begun to flag...but come on mike, people didn't stop buying radiohead records just because those asshats that call themselves coldplay co-opted their sound. but we'll forgive michael for this oversight because i think the real trouble with him was that he never really got over ubermodel helena christiansen - most famous for her romp on the beach with elvis frapuccino aka chris isaak in his wicked game video - and i could see how michael might have trouble getting over a girl like that - she's gloriously beautiful with the kind of eyes that one could really get lost in...seriously. just ask debbie gibson.

where was i? oh yes. don't get me wrong i don't begrudge inxs any (inx)success that might come from this latest venture - i mean seriously, they could have tapped david lee roth to front the band - or that dude from extreme that totally (& ultimately) ruined van halen once for all (and thank holy heaven for that). and this is really a pretty clever marketing ploy on their part and they will no doubt line their pockets with large sweaty wads of cash - and also? how can you be angry with the band that gave us never tear us apart hands down one of the greatest songs of my lifetime - and i'm not just saying that because of its recent inclusion on the donnie darko directors cut...because any of us who have seen the classic donkeyman video recognize immediately that donnie darko is nothing short of plagiarism and poor man's tobey macguire can just kiss it

- also, i'm not just singing the praises of never tear us apart because of the phenomenal sexophone solo that features prominently - even though it does totally rock - it's simply a perfectly crafted/and executed pop song with the strings and the sax and that nifty guitar break between the chorus and the verse - that song seriously fights for my allegiance with the promise by when in rome as the greatest song of the almost 1990's and thank you napolean dynamite for bringing it back.

I Do What I Likes & I Likes What I Do

2005-07-12T05:46:00.000-07:00

I was in Las Vegas recently. While it would be much more glamorous to tell you I was there to compete in one of those poker tournaments that ESPN televises (for reasons I'll never know), or that Brooke Burke and Jenny McCarthy had called me up and, in unison, shouted "Go west, young man!" such was not the case. Not that the poker jackpot wouldn't have been nice (sadly, the only poker rules I know involve the removal of clothing), or that a scripted party at the Palms wouldn't have been side-splittingly funny...it's just that it wouldn't be true. Rather than bore all of us with the mundane details of tradeshows, exhibits and other industry nonsense, I'm more inclined to tell you about some of the people I encountered.

A lot of folks play the slot machines, but apparently only dunces play in the daytime. One such dunce was an elderly woman and her (I assume) husband. They both appeared to be in their early eighties (this might not seem so old if you're reading this and are 95, in which case I'd like you to know that I'm proud of you and your internet savvy self, so keep up the good work). Anyway, this woman would press the "spin" button then feverishly rub the screen with a small circular piece of cloth. In fact, she would keep rubbing until the machine stopped rotating. I watched for awhile, then asked her what she was doing with the cloth (as a sidenote, I asked politely, because that whole cynical jackass thing often falls flat with our senior demographic...trust me). She claimed, as the husband took another hit off the oxygen tank, that her cloth had been blessed. I smiled knowingly (knowing that to continue in this conversation would be a one-way ticket to Crazyville) and walked away. I could have understood (and maybe even acknowledged) a lucky cloth, but a blessed one? Who blessed it? I've got a sinking feeling it was this guy, although I guess it could have been this guy, or even her, but most definitely not him because we are talking about gambling here people.

If you've ever heard the rumor about there being a lot of prostitutes in Las Vegas, then allow me to confirm it. It wasn't unusual to encounter four or five on the brief walk from Bally's over to the Bellagio. How do I know they were prostitutes? Well, that's a good question (albeit one I'm asking myself). I don't have a special radar that sounds an alarm when I'm within a certain proximity to venereal disease, nor do I boldly approach people and inquire about their livelihoods, so let me break it to you this way: Nice girls will not walk up to you and start conversations, at least not in Vegas. If you are approached it's probably not with the intention of sitting down for a few hands of Old Maid while you each enjoy an ice cold Coca~Cola Classic, followed by a few rounds of "Father, I Adore You." If you're in Las Vegas and a girl smiles at you, ten bucks says she's a hooker (and, to be fair, that ten bucks won't go far). If said girl invites you to join her and her friend Natasha (my apologies to all women named Natasha who are not prostitutes) for a few drinks, they're both hookers, and you're automatically out-numbered. Finally, if either of these girls suggests "negotiating" (which is synonymous with "dickering," although I was afraid using that term might confuse a few of you for obvious reasons) the price once inside your room, then you should be aware that these girls are not selling Amway. I'll never admit to agreeing with Sting on anything else, but you really shouldn't feel obligated to either 1) put on the red light, or 2) sell your body to the night. If, like me, you've never had to pay for sex before, there's no reason to start just because you're in Nevada. On the other hand, if you've made a habit of soliciting the services of a prostitute, look out...one of these days she's going to be a cop, or a man, so go ahead and take your chances every chance you get.

I would have been glad to only spend one day in Si(lico)n(e) City, but instead it was five. I flew the red-eye back into Atlanta early (like 12:35am early) Thursday morning, and ended up sitting next to a Mormon couple in their early twenties. I was against the window, having taken my seat first, and Kayla and Jeff shortly joined me. Jeff took the aisle seat and promptly went to sleep, and Kayla (who was traveling back to South Carolina to visit her family) took her place like most people who get stuck in the middle seat do...slowly and with regret. Obviously I didn't know that either of them were Mormons at first (neither was wearing a white short-sleeve dress shirt with a black necktie, and neither straddled a bicycle), but when they mentioned they were from Utah I all but knew. I wanted to ask Jeff where his other wives were, but thought that might be a bit forward. Kayla and I ended up chatting for the majority of the flight. As it turned out, she had gone to high school with a fraternity brother of mine, proving that, like that damn song says, it is a small world after all. We talked about God, about Mormonism, about being married in Heaven, about Monks stealing parts of the Bible and hiding it in caves, about family and death, the realities of being newly married and paying things like car insurance, about politics and cigarettes, and of course we talked about music (a direction that I will always steer the conversation to eventually). One thing impressed me more than anything during the time we talked, and that was the degree with which she embraced her beliefs. I asked a lot of questions about her faith, and honestly, she believed some pretty wild things (come on...the whole golden tablets stuff is out there), but she didn't question it. Sure, we can argue all day long that such firm conviction is the product of indoctrination, never knowing anything different, or even brainwashing. But I don't think I can explain away her passion that easily. I can do what I do best though (because I do what I likes & I likes what I do), and leave you with a bit of music...

Are you, are you ready for that great atomic power / will you rise to meet your savior in the air / will you shout or will you cry / when the fire rains from on high / are you ready for that great atomic power

cape codpiece

2005-06-28T15:41:00.000-07:00

do you ever wonder why more workplaces don't have a formal friday every once in awhile? because as nice as it is to see co-workers dressed up like the slobs that they probably are outside of the office - i think it would be a nice change of pace to put on a tophat and tales and sip martinis and chew on fine cheeseballs as you sit in your cube waiting for precious death to save you from your self-imposed doom - this thought ocurred to me whilst i was on vacation last week in the tiny hamlet of sandwich, ma - home of michael sweet, erstwhile lead singer of christian rock super group stryper -

after the legal fallout from the break-up of our cult there had been a bit of awkwardness betwixt us and i thought i quick trip to the holy coast (as mike refers to it) might be a good chance to kick back, relax, and allow mike and i the opportunity to iron out our differences...well, i don't know if any our differences were ironed out but we did iron out the wrinkles in our black and yellow spandex and jam for the lamb at the local y.m.c.a. - the crowd was small - not because we didn't totally rock it because you know we did - unfortunately our outfits had been in storage for such a long, long time we reeked of mothballs - our capes refused to roil or furl and the cod-pieces? well they reeked of warmed over cod.

and it was there on the holy coast as i stood in the glassy sea praying for a shark attack or a tidal wave, or even a really severe case of s.c.u.r.v.y. so that i wouldn't have to return to the dreaded office...and then suddenly as if by magic i began to formulate a plan in my mind for the implementation of formal friday which at the time seemed like such a brilliant idea i couldn't wait to get back to the office - in fact i threw away the cyanide capsules that i'd packed just in case the reunion didn't go so well and headed home several days ahead of schedule...only to find out that formal friday had been tried before - only it wasn't called formal friday - was called on golden prom - and it was called on golden prom because the senior partners would ask the junior partners to a raging cocktail party that took place on the promenade - and even though it was pitched as this gloriously classy event - many woke up days later with that icky horrified feeling that they may have made out with their b.o.s.s. - which wouldn't be such a bad thing if your b.o.s.s. didn't have a penchant for intitiating a little flex time with various & sundry t.e.m.ps. - which for those of you not in the corporate know is akin to leprosy or some other impossibly disgusting malady....

anyway, it was at one of these proms that a senior partner in an instance of ill-advised, overly inebriated pillow talk let slip that maybe - just maybe the company was thinking of exploring outsourcing options - of course over the next several days rumours spread around the office like wildfire (if by wildfire you mean the cyph) and lines were drawn and factions formed - and then there was a minor civil war between those that preferred the electric stapler to the standard manual stapler - the standard staplers eventually won out - not because the electric staplers weren't more powerful, or efficient, or even lethal - because you know they totally were...but unfortunately fourteen days into the campaign, the power went out for an hour and a half leaving the electric soldiers to flail away impotently with rubber bands and paper clips -

at any rate - after the dust settled and the wounded were tended to with peroxide and cotton swabs the company made the official announcement that the great outsourcing myth had been just that - no one would be losing their jobs...which was true, but then two weeks letter word came down that the company had decided it might be a good idea to outsource our lunch breaks - because hey, it would cost them a lot less money to pay some poor soul in a third world country for that hour - plus they'd get a nice tax break and that heart warming good samaritan feeling you can only get from buying lunch for the impoverished or watching extreme makeover - the rest of us were forced to sit at our desks for that hour (which we were no longer paid for) sharpening our resolve and our staple removers as we sustained ourselves on the briscuit and beef jerkey that were sold in the break room vending machines - and then one day they to were packed up in shipping crates and outsourced to the less fortunate....and that my friends is why formal friday will never be celebrated in our office especially if there is any alcohol involved - because the results are not always so sexy.

that sexy guitar - they play it on the high strings

2005-06-16T17:27:00.000-07:00

sometimes i long for the soft soothing sounds of the sexy saxophone as i canter about some trendy bistro with one of the various women i meet in my weekly semaphore class down at the community college - and if you are now doubled over laughing because i have openly announced that i attend classes at a community college i should re-emphasize that i meet scads of eligible women in the aforementioned semaphore class - which, hopefully raises a few red flags for some of you...but back to the sexy saxophone which i often refer to as the sexophone - when you happen to be seated on a softly lit patio with a bottle of wine whilst a stockinged foot caresses your well-toned calf - you begin to feel like rob lowe in that movie that practically invented the sexophone - st. elmo's fire...

and now i should take a moment to point out that both of my calves happen to be highly toned and completely lethal - a fact i feel i must mention not only because i firmly believe that my calves are my b.e.s.t. feature - but also because my calves are highly competitive and can often be found engaged in epic flex-offs pitted against one another like bitter rivals...my psychiatrist tells me that calves have no ego and suggests i stop sleeping in the legwarmers already and my doctor dismisses it as mere cramping but friends, i'm here to tell you, my calves are trying to kill each other - if anything ever happens to either one (even though i secretly expect it will end in a murder/suicide) remember what i have said here today and tell the world the truth!

but getting back to rob lowe - when he plays the sexy soul soaring theme song to st. elmo's fire (the instrumental - not the version with words which is so, so lame) no one can resist - not even the sad suicidal demi moore who just can't help but pick herself up off of those harshly polished hardwood floors and decide that yes, life is worth living after all - unless of course you happen to be judd nelson and one of your nostrils is dispraportionately larger than the other one - but cheer up, because once the music takes control you're not ashley judd, nor are you judd nelson, heck, you're not even one half of the identical twin supergroup nelson (matthew or gunnar - take your pick...it doesn't matter because you're still not one of them) because you're rob lowe...

at least you're rob lowe until he hooks up with the homely girl - you know the one, with the chalky white skin...you know the one...i can't for the life of me remember the three named actress who played her - but the good folks at imdb would be more than happy to satiate your curiosity...because homely girls don't attend semaphore class - you can find them down the hall in creative writing because they just can't seem to grasp the nuances of non-v.e.r.b.a.l. communication.

i have noticed recently that many film and television soundtracks have begun using the guitar quite a bit to score a particularly emotive scene - a trend i like to refer to as that sexy guitar - they play it on the high strings - which okay, i guess it's nice and tastefully bland but it just lacks the cadence, the throaty timbre of the sexophone - so instead of kissing passionately oft times you end up sitting on the hood of your car down at the quarry trading air guitar solos with the woman who might have been the love of your life if only your life didn't have a soundtrack that absolutely sucked - that's why i now carry matching ipods filled to capacity with sexy sax sounds and i'm not talking about safe sax either - because we aren't trying to recreate the mood of a doctor's waiting room here - no, no dear friends what we are after are the sexy results. what? you think that should read saxy results? no. no it shouldn't - that's just dumb. and also you might think that matching ipods might interfere with the chemistry that can only come about through conversation - but seriously how many dates have you been on where an interesting conversation took place? me either.

and also, if you're like me and you happen to exclusively date women from your local community college semaphore class you don't have to speak - just let the sax do all your talking for you - well, the sax and you're handy coloured flags of silent communication - just make sure you read the signals properly - because those flag sticks tend to be sharp.

Nothing Against Polos

2005-06-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

Does anyone really look good in the polo shirt dress? I saw a girl the other day - pretty girl - wearing a baby blue one that made her legs look really stumpy. They remind me of those oversized t-shirts with cats on them that old women or young girls might wear to bed. I confess that I once had a pink oversized t-shirt with a cat on it years ago. Frumpy, shapeless, and generally a bad idea. Sure, every now and again someone tall and lithe will manage to make the polo shirt dress seem okay, but how great can a very long polo look? It just seems silly to me. Some people may try to class it up with the collar flip up. But that's another issue entirely.
And lets talk about that. I'm still deciding how to feel about it. There's the jacket collar flip up that's perfectly practical when used as protection against the wind and rain. Very secret agent looking. Catherine Hepburn looks fantastic with her collar up and her sleeves cuffed. Classy and strong. But old Hollywood starlets aren't our most recent exposure to this trend. When I see these guys wearing two brightly colored polos, collars up, running around, it brings to mind the decade dominated by the likes of Rob Lowe, John Cusack, Andrew McCarthy and James Spader - especially James Spader for some reason - the 80's. I'll see women going to work with collars up and think it looks really cool, but my hesitation arises due to the way I associate this style with leg warmers and tapered jeans. I used to be staunchly against it until one day as I was putting my hair up (which happens fairly often now that I live in fear that I look terrible with my hair down, thanks a lot Carl) I realized the back of my jacket collar was flipped. At first I was irritated, but then I did the side to side self check-out, and I thought I looked pretty cool. My prejudice towards the flip up is primarily with polos. On guys it's very frat, requiring a front tuck and a keg, and on women it should be paired with boat shoes and a weekend on the Cape. Long sleeved button down shirts flipped, I like. They also have stiffer collars so the one-side-flopping-down thing is better avoided. I have nothing against the polo in general, as it may seem. I really love polos. I have a number of them in various textures and colors. But a polo dress? A polo collar flip? I just...can't.

Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn

2005-06-11T17:02:00.000-07:00

I stay in a hotel every week, and I've done so for the last five months. We all have our crosses to bear in the business world and this apparently is mine. We can probably all agree that, for a short period of time, staying in a hotel is nice. For starters, you have someone to clean your room - which, unless you're two years old, or an irresponsible forty-two year old who still lives at home, is a bit luxurious. Hotels also have something called a continental breakfast, something that does not exist (at least not for me) on the outside. These breakfasts consist of breads and pastries, assorted juices and yogurts, eggs and sausage, and various cereals. Believe it or not, the hotel staff serves breakfast for several hours, so in reality, if I wanted to, I could eat bear claws and bagels from six in the morning until 10:30am. Who wouldn't want to live like this? This is the life of kings...

After five months in the hotel it's beginning to get old. Sure, they still clean up my room, and breakfast is still being served, but the new has worn off (just like when you got your first po-go stick and thought you could jump around your driveway until next Christmas). I now find myself thinking of ways to avoid going back to the hotel, even if it means killing time in the nearby Waffle House. It's out of this hotel malaise that the following list has been conceived:

Top 10 Things To Do When You Get Bored In A Hotel

10) Rummage through the couch cushions for loose change
9) Call the front desk to arrange a series of wake up calls for yourself...with 45 second intervals
8) Go door to door introducing yourself to your new "hallmates"
7) Put up signs advertising a keg party in someone else's room - show up on time with a plastic cup
6) Walk towards the pool and exclaim "Sharks 'n Minnows in five minutes!"
5) Sit down with a table of strangers at breakfast but don't say anything
4) Poll the hotel staff to find out what their favorite "Adult Feature" is
3) Create parking tickets using the hotel provided pad of paper in your room. Distribute them late at night.
2) Order a pizza for the room next to you. When they refuse to pay, offer the pizza guy five bucks for it.
1) Knock on other people's doors. When they open it appear incredulous. Shout "get out of my room you pervert!"

Relax said the nightman / we are programmed to receive / you can check out any time you like / but you can never leave

Sudden Stoppers

2005-06-09T17:05:00.000-07:00

The temperature has soared, denying us that buffer zone they call "spring" to ease us from the bitter, bitter cold into the ridiculous heat. I recently purchased an air conditioner for the apartment, but damn that whole assemblage thing to actually fit it in the window? Sucks. But it's all right, all in good time. It'll be worth it.
The worst thing about this time of year is not the heat. Oh, no. No, it's the people. The damn tourists. Somehow they make everything hotter and dumber, and all of Downtown Crossing smells like stale cigarettes. They meander around like you do when you spin in circles and then try to go in a straight line. I mean, why is that? Does being out of your hometown and in unfamiliar territory turn you retarded? Seriously, what happens to people? So, you're on this crowded sidewalk during the lunch hours, and there are obvious business people walking at a good clip all around you, and you just stop dead in your tracks? This is a familiar rant, but one that all tourists should hear. If you're visiting a large city, for crying out loud, get the hell out of the way. Today was my first sudden stopper experience of this summer. WHAM! Right into some sweaty asshole's back. Yeah, it was as gross as it sounds. I implore you tourists, especially those of you coming from out in the sticks where you're unfamliar with basic rules like "don't talk to strangers": move quickly or stay to one side. We're not rude. You're just too slow.

s.a.r.s & stryper

2005-06-09T12:30:00.000-07:00

i'm a little bit worried that i don't do enough in my life to prevent another outbreak of s.a.r.s. sure i make a boiling hot shower a big party of my daily routine and i'm often known to wash my hands for no good reason - but still...wasn't it just a few short years ago that s.a.r.s. threatened to wipe out the continent of asia?

and now i'm wondering if asia is a continent...if it's not it certainly should be...at least this was the premise of the cult that i once belonged to known simply as the continental dividers. which, yes, the name in and of itself can be a bit misleading because we really didn't want any part of dividing any continents - in fact the one thing that we all had in common - the very thing that drew us to one another in the first place (aside from the public nudity ritual of certain surprise of course) was an intense hatred for long division.

also the cult was founded by several members of the formerly great christian heavy metal band stryper who were much more cold, calculating, and money hungry than your average christian rock outfit (with the possible exception of c.a.r.m.a.n.) - in fact it's come out only recently that the only reason they started this cult is because they had the hair brained idea that if there were at least 5 more continents they could stay on tour forever - and also, one of the guys was originally from lincoln, nebraska and he secretly confided in me that it was his dream to create land masses in hopes that someday by a group vote of 3 to 2 stryper would agree to change their name to the lincoln continentals and who knows what that would do for t-shirt sales & headband sales...i kept trying to tell them that no one really sports the headband anymore - but i was shouted down and nearly excommunicated so i simply gave up -

and also, the lincoln nebraska guy died from a case of the as yet undocumented s.a.rs. all because he refused to wear the biohazard suit - i say undocumented s.a.r.s. because this was like 1987 if memory serves and s.a.r.s had not yet been discovered - all we knew was that a plague had stricken our tight nit community and was threatening to wipe us out - our critics asserted that this was some sort of divine judgment for our love of the rock 'n roll & our cultish ways. we, of course naturally assumed it was a result of our fast track lifestyle and exposure to explosive compounds - so we decided to take some safety precautions with the biohazard suits (in nifty yellow & black of course) but dude decided there was no way in holy heaven he was wearing one because it wasn't form fitting enough - and he also thought he could ward of germs by wearing a snorkel instead of a sterile surgeons mask - he was a wierd guy. of course his untimely passing led to my short term gig as the bass player for the world's greatest christian heavy metal band - but i was ousted when i attempted to fulfill our departed comrades wishes by casting a vote for the band name change.

so after this unpleasantness we set about our goal of adding 5 more continents - because in case you hadn't noticed the continental shelf has been barren for several centuries. and i think that maybe the malaise that plagues so many young self-starters like myself is due in large part to the fact that there are no new territories worthy of exploring. of course if we'd only been a bit more intuitive we could have discovered s.a.r.s. or the internet or yogurt in a squeezable tube - but we weren't that intuitive. so we at the continental dividers undertook the task of developing new frontiers which we attemtped to do by draining several large lakes and setting dynamite charges in an effort to separate chunks of existing land masses thus creating new continents. we also added a second tier to antarctica which looked totally rad because instead of being remote and icy it was all tropical with oily natives drinking coronas by the sea - but then the folks at osha got involved and because they lacked vision and we lacked backbone (we were a rock 'n roll cult - what more do you expect) the project never really got off the ground. okay that's not true because we totally built it, but then we had to tear the whole thing down...but i still have some of the fake patio grass in may garage to catch any unsightly oil spills.

well, long story short apparently all the blasting and the draining that i just mentioned happen to be highly illegal and had i not turned states evidence against my fellow dividers i'd probably be sitting in a white collar prison somewhere enjoying the best that satellite television has to offer - (like stryper live from costa rica for example) while exploring various & sundry escape routes which no doubt would have led to great adventures (in babysitting) instead i chose to sell my soul for the freedom of a 37.5 hour work week - my parents warned me that stupid cult would brainwash me.

Nodding Yes While Saying No

2005-06-06T04:20:00.000-07:00

If New York is the city that never sleeps, then Atlanta is the city that never sleeps well. Which goes a long way to explain why some people in this metropolis appear so groggy behind the wheel. I fully support speed limits, and will even nod yes while saying no when you ask me if going five, six or seven miles over the posted limit is morally and ethically okay. It's the people who drive below the speed limit that bother me most, and even they wouldn't bother me that much if they drove that way in the right lane (or even better, in the emergency lane). I've asked them (with a gentle tap on my horn, or the quick flash of my high "gimme a damn break" beams) to do just that, but in a show of childlike defiance they consistently fold their arms and settle into the left lane (some driver's education instructors might have the audacity to call this the "passing lane"), cautiously approaching their top speed of fifty-five. If only these people got a better nights sleep...

The same could (and now will be) said for the guy I passed a few weeks ago during the morning commute who was both driving and shaving. In this case I would have preferred that he had been driving more slowly...instead he had his big mug pressed into the rearview mirror, electric razor cutting across it, all the while changing lanes. Where are the local police when you need them? Oh that's right...Krispy Kreme.

One day, when no one drives cars and we all have jetpacks, this will be a non-issue (I know some of you had your fingers crossed that I would use the word "moot," but I think that card has already been played below). I'll be the first to get the jetpack, while the rest of you are worried about something called safety issues. Sure...you might have gotten the first i-Pod, or the first digital camera, or the latest and greatest cellular phone, or that god-forsaken salad shooter...but who's got the jet pack? Ha ha! The joke is now officially on you.

Happy Birthday Bjorn Borg...you're forty-nine.

All the old paintings on the tombs / they do the sand dance don't you know / if they move too quick (oh whey oh) / they're falling down like a domino

the fear of nudity

2005-06-02T21:30:00.000-07:00

there are probably one million reasons why i will never marry - fear of commitment, social anxiety, night blindness, fear of nudity - but one of the primary reasons the prospect frightens me so impossibly is the whole drama of the ring (not to be confused with the pop culture phenom film of the same name) thing...first, selfishly i'll admit that i've never owned a ring in my entire life unless of course you count those plastic rings with the giant candied gem on them or the unfortunate ringworm incident back in the eighth grade which i still don't like talking about...i think the primary reason for this is could be that my stumpy useless hands that have always served me so well when it comes to retrieving lost objects from behind or beneath household appliances, look rather foolish when adorned with rings...and having never been a ring wearer (or even a ring bearer for that matter - even though i do have an adorable cowlick and cherubic cheeks that would elicit gasps and sighs as i walked down the aisle with the fluffy pillow of promise and destiny - still i'm not bitter) i don't know that i would be qualified to pick out the perfect ring for the l.o.v.e. of my l.i.f.e. - seriously. for me picking out a three ring binder is an all day affair.

and how exactly does that whole ring shopping thing work anyway? because i have always been under the impression that popping the question was supposed to be some big event fraught with deep knee bending leading to sky writing followed almost immediately by gymnastics of the heart - but then you talk to friends who are (mating while) dating and they will tell you unabashedly that they are ring shopping which sort of makes the whole dramatic proposal event moot don't you think? i know rick springfield certainly does.

and rick springfield would know - because from what i hear he finally consummated his long awaited love affair with jessie's girl - and you might think that jessie would have been pissed. and he was. at first. but then he realized that rick and jessie's girl really were the better match so instead of losing a friend and a lover he decided to just cut his losses, swallow his pride and be the supportive friend. and it really is great you know? like a real life dawson's creek finale equal parts e.f.f.e.t.e. and e.d.g.e. i ran into the the three of them down at the food court last weekend sharing an orange julius (three people one straw - metaphor for the tie that binds or fasttrack to mono - you be the judge [reinhold]) and they were laughing and having a grand old time because apparently they had spent the morning ring shopping at zayles (the galleria of jewelry) have mercy indeed!

and that i guess, is when i realized that ring shopping is probably a good idea - because yes it does sort of spoil the mystery and the intrigue - but then again you'll be waking up to the same person for the rest of your life so it's a nice bit of foreshadowing for how all of the mystery and intrigue are about to be sucked out of your life. forever. and also, ring shopping gauruntees that you don't end up dropping some hideous piece of whatnot on the woman that would have been more than happy to fill the role of your future wife until she saw the hideous ring - which, yes i know that it may have been your great grandmothers but dude....it's still hideous -

no self respecting woman wants to be seen walking around with that much filigree on her fair knuckle...if she really wanted something that bulky she would have worn your class ring on her chubby toe thumb instead of on a chain around her neck...i'm just saying. if you insist on forcing that thing on her you might find yourself with a garage full of invitations that will serve as a lifelong reminder of what a cheap bastard you were - because seriously...if you wanted a woman to wear your great grandmothers ring - maybe you should have married your great grandmother.

Who Else Says That?

2005-06-02T06:58:00.000-07:00

So I went downstairs yesterday for some Tylenol Cold & Sinus and a Gatorade (for some reason that drink, the lemon-lime flavor especially, is something I always associate with sickness...thank you childhood). There's a sundry shop in the lobby that some people call a newstand, but I think "sundry shop" is much more appropriate. The man who owns the shop is named Sam, and he's from Iran, which almost rhymes (sometimes I laugh to myself when I think about this...Sam from Iran). Sam's the nicest guy you would ever want to meet, a true gentleman who takes time to get to know each person who comes in his shop, and conversely, everyone gets to know Sam. I should also mention that Sam's prices are way too high (like fifty cents for a postage stamp and three dollars for a tin of Altoids), but because he's such a great guy, and because it's more convenient than leaving the building when you need a greeting card, condoms or a Twix bar, we all spend our loose change and crumpled dollar bills with Sam. Now, I have no doubt that, were I to come into the building shirtless, Sam would generously offer me his...he'd also smile and tell me to "have a wonderful and blessed day" as he charged me six dollars for a pound of gummy worms. But, as much as I like Sam, this post isn't about him...his little shop, little shop of sundries is only the means to an end. The action really took place after I left Sam's.

There were seven or eight people on the elevator when I stepped back on...a full house (you'll soon learn how ironic that statement is) for sure, but someone had been kind enough to hold the door for me, so I got on. I immediately did what you're suppossed to: I pressed my button and turned around, looking my reflection square in the eye. Now let me go ahead and publicly confess that I think it painfully awkward and even slightly creepy to banter with people you don't know on the elevator (unless the elevator gets stuck, at which point someone will undoubtedly break out the chips and salsa and we'll all become fast friends), in fact, I think total silence on the elevator is great. Our elevators have little television screens that allow you catch fifteen seconds of news, celebrity gossip and a word of the day all on the ride up to your office...brilliant! We can all watch the TV, or look at the numbers as we hit each floor, but please dear friends, don't begin introducing yourself, cracking jokes or pontificating on the new pontif...have a little bit of self control and respect for the humanity around you. Now if you'd like to chat or play the name game once we get off the elevator by all means do so, I'd like nothing better...but the elevator is almost like a sanctuary, a quiet refuge in the middle of a phone ringing, fax sending, e-mail receiving jungle. I don't want to assume too much of people, but I get the feeling that most people understand and abide by this unspoken code. But, as with everything, there's always an exception.

We passed floors two and three without a glitch, but as we approached the fourth floor someone, some man with a fairly deep voice, exclaimed "Have mercy!" I looked over my shoulder, just as you would have done, with curiously raised eyebrows, fully expecting to see Uncle Jesse standing behind me, because really, who else says that? I observed three things:

1) We all looked at the same guy, indicating it was he who had asked for mercy.
2) The man we were all looking at was not John Stamos.
3) He was, however, completely engrossed in the aforementioned TV screen and had apparently, in a moment of shock and awe (news of Pacey and Dawson beating up an unsuspecting Tom Cruise perhaps?), lost all self-awareness. I don't think he even knew we looked at him.

Aruba, Jamaica / ooh I wanna take you to / Bermuda, Bahama / come on pretty momma / Key Largo, Montego / baby why don't we go / down to Kokomo / we'll get there fast / and then we'll take it slow / that's where we wanna go...way down to Kokomo

some other dave entirely

2005-06-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

there are things in this world that i simply do not understand - for example why do people in airports feel compelled to scroll through the address list in their cell phones calling each and every contact listed simply to say so...yeah, i'm at the airport - is there some law that states that you are not allowed to simply sit quietly with a book, a muffin, and a juice box? this makes absolutely no sense to me...

of course it also makes no sense to me that dave matthews continues to sell his own crappy brand of not rawk to the adult contemporary crowd but he does and those poor yuppie bastards eat it right up and attempt to recreate his funky not rawk sound on the ovation they purchased at the local music megacenter - but of course they can't because dave is guitar genius - (if by guitar genius you mean a guy who bothered to learn a few suspended chords in alternate tunings and appreciates the (tift) merits of a chubby drummer) - a guitar genius who opened wide the door of our hearts to allow that damn john mayer to seep in, but a genius nonetheless

although you'll never get me to admit that dave is a genius unless we're talking about some other dave entirely: letterman, barry, lee roth, hasselhoff, soul, coulier, koz - this list is not meant to be all inclusive it's just a brief overview of the many famous daves that walk this planet with more genius genes than that moderne day sting clone dave matthews - and you know what? i'd bet one million damn dollars that dave matthews talks on a cell phone while he sits around airports - that is when he's not walking around with a soft salted pretzel asking all the ladies to hike up their skirts a little more and whatnot as his face shimmers from the airport beer glaze - crash into me? ....is that kind of talk really appropriate for an airport dave? seriously.

cigarrettes and carrot juice/ get yourself a new tatoo/ for those sleeveless days of june

Everything I Know About You I Learned From Your Car

2005-05-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't been on the highways and by-ways of North America in the last three and a half years, you might be the one lone soul left untouched by the magnetic ribbon phenomenon. In the event that you are that lone soul, perhaps I should briefly explain. It's a ribbon, see, and it's magnetic...are you with me so far? I imagine these were originally made by loving hands in cottages (i.e. the cottage industry...for those of you who have always wondered what this meant), but have now become so incredibly popular that they're probably mass produced in airport hangers, graphically designed by oompa loompas, and sold by the gross...like bottle rockets. If this is all seeming a bit deja vu, you're right...it happened ten years ago and we called it WWJD.

Anyway, these ribbons come in every color and endorse every generic theme possible. There's a "Support our Troops" ribbon, a "God Bless the USA" ribbon, and a "These Colors Don't Run" ribbon, but these magnets aren't limited to unabashed nationalism. You've got your various cancers represented, a smattering of military-specific organizations acknowledged, a call for organ donation, a reminder to not forget our POW's and MIA's, and even one that simply says "Peace," although I've never seen one on a car (at least not in the South). The proverbial Pandora's Box has been thrown wide open and everyone who's anyone is sporting a magnetic ribbon (or two) that will allow you (in the car following a bit too closely) a brief glimpse at what it is that makes them tick.

And maybe that's my biggest problem with these magnets. It seems that we, in the United States of Exploitation, have opted for an easy way out when it comes to the causes we support. Really, we're busy people, and in reality it's much easier to slap a magnet on the back of the SUV than actually do something about bringing the troops home, or raising money for cancer research, or bettering the country (or community?) we live in. Maybe these ribbons are just a way to make us feel better about ourselves, to make us feel better about our friends or the people around us in traffic. "Honey, did you see the Johnson's put a 'God Bless America' ribbon on the back of their Hummer? I told you they were our kind of people." We've reduced our morality to a piece of brightly colored plastic, while our understanding of what being a change agent means is stuck against the bumper.

I remember standing 'round / in a vacant corner of some playground / hoping we would get you back / dying to make contact, contact, contact...with America

cubetob sanspants

2005-05-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

have you ever found yourself subjected cruelly to disciplinary action around the office? well, up until today i could have answered that question with an emphatic no! (is there really any other kind?) but then this morning - after arriving at work one full hour before the office opens - i received an ominous voice message from those hr types telling me that we needed to have a little meeting to discuss a few small performance related items and of course i immediately panicked because i thought that everyone knew my worst kept secret - that i in fact, wear a hair piece - and this is not just any hair piece...its my own special design - a design i like to refer to as my performance enhancing rug not only because it helps me out with the ladies - but also it has to be nurtured by various & sundry steroids or it just ends up looking all loose and limp - and anyone who knows me knows that i like my hair like i like my body...rockin'

and as you may suspect, in my line of work random steroid testing is pretty normal procedure - so i figured i must have finally been busted due to my own carelessness or because when my anonymous homeless urine donor confessed that he'd been turned on to the juice he wasn't just referring to the juice newton box set i had given him as a thank you gift for all the clean samples...so of course i've got my story all prepared as i head into the hr interrogation room - and really i sort of feel bad for those people because they're alot like those poor bastards who work in internal affairs on those police procedural dramas that i hear the kids go nuts for - those guys never catch a break...

anyway, hr wasn't interested in my steroid use or lack thereof - they wanted to address some complaints that had been filed by my fellow co-workers (anonymously of course) directly relating to what was referred to as my excessive need to call attention to myself out on the floor which, i don't really get - and then they showed gratuitous surveillance footage of me slamming down my phone leaping into the aisle giving an emphatic (and totally rad) first down signal - which is something i like to do after i've resolved a job task - and it's not meant to show any one up - it's not meant to call attention to myself - it's merely a symbol that i'm on to the next big thing. and apparently all these anonymous coworkers feel threatened by my drive and ambition - and these are probably the people that settle for field goals in life...and i'm sorry but that's just not me...but since i've chosen to work alongside a bunch of nancies' (no one in the office is actually named nancy) i have been asked to tone it down and keep my celebrations within my cube....so being the passive aggressive type i have proudly re-displayed all of my awards atop my credenza and whenever anyone walks by i stop whatever i happen to be doing - leap onto my desk drop my pants (in one seemless motion mind you) point to my cubetop festooned with trophys and whisper scoreboard! only i don't whisper it if you know what i mean.

Not For the Season(ing Salt)

2005-05-26T06:45:00.000-07:00

The month of May is almost over, the seasons are changing once again, and in the land of the free (checking) and the home of the (Atlanta) brave(s), this can only mean one thing...slip'n slide. Well okay, maybe three things. To avoid any unitentional confusion I'll use a seemingly complex but admittedly simple numbering system:

The slip'n slide
Barbecued ribs
Embarrassing family mishaps

The slip'n slide is obvious. Anytime you combine warmer weather, a long weekend and a twelve pack of your favorite domestic longnecks, you better be prepared to hurl your body onto a yellow strip of plastic that's been lubricated with dish detergent and hose water. Secondly, don't be surprised if the ground below said plastic contains protruding roots, rocks the size of your knee caps, rusty nails or cacti. My suggestion is to find a strip of grass that's not infested with fire ants or littered with dog feces...set up shop right there, it will make the whole experience slightly less awkward. Not to skip ahead to number three too quickly, but often times the embarrassing family mishaps occur right here. How many times does Grandma's bikini top have to wind up around her waist, or Uncle Ken's swim trunks catch on his ankles, before these people (these family members) realize that they are making the decision for future generations not to reproduce all the easier.

The barbecue might be the only saving grace for the end of May. I'm not necessarily the biggest proponent of ribs...it's very laborious (to me they're akin to the chicken wing - quick sidenote, who thought calling them buffalo wings was a good idea?), and for what...some fatty meat that has been rubbed, rolled, dunked and dashed with seasoning salt and something called Dale's Sauce (thank you Dale for being so self-absorbed). Before you rib fanatics start lobbing charcoal briquettes in my direction let me confess that I have eaten some delicious ribs before. Perfectly seasoned, meat falls right off the bone, tender juicy ribs...but those, I'm afraid, are the exception rather than the (ja) rule. I had a roommate in college once who loved McRib sandwiches, something I could never understand or stomach (he also wore a Mossimo hat, if that tells you anything about his judgement). However, bring on the barbecued chicken breasts, the plates of pulled pork and beef, and brisket by the bowlful...that's what I most enjoy, just make sure you wait at least an hour before getting on that slip'n slide.

Candy left over from halloween / the unified theory of everything / love left over from lover's leaving / books we all know they're not worth reading / it's not for the season

hair-up hotties

2005-05-25T17:34:00.000-07:00

i'd like to expand if i may on this recent discussion of cigarette smoking around the office - because i'll confess sometimes i think it would be nice to be a habitual smoker if for no other reason than to break up the monotony of what is sometimes known as the workday - i'd say well over half of the people on our floor are smokers & i'm not really sure what our corporate handbook says about smoke breaks or the regulation thereof but seriously - there are people who take a minimum of ten smoke breaks a day - i walk down the aisle to retrieve a fax and find myself faced with so many empty desks that i worry that the rapture must have come and i was left behind - which is really just crazy - because we all know that there won't be smokers in heaven - and also, our office has low rapture-proof ceilings...and these smokers, they may be hellbound but boy are they down right savvy - i kid you not, i mean the way they bookend their lunch hour with smokebreaks...that kills a good two hours of the workday right there - and of course there is the unscheduled smokebreak whereby they slam down a telephone or the sheaf of papers they have been shuffling back and forth across their desk and exclaim judas priest! i need a cigarette! and head for the elevator...even though they just returned from a smokebreak five minutes hence.

and i know what they say about the health risks and probably most of it is true but seriously are you killing yourself any less slowly by spending the better part of the day staring at the bland fabric walls of your cube hoping to holy heaven for a power outage or a fire alarm? i'm just saying...and also if i smoked i could be standing right now around the ashtray with my most recent dearly departed crush who appears to be one of those cigarette for the road kind of gals - and to see her standing there with her hair up and her arms akimbo laughing and chatting with all the other nico-teens almost makes me wish i hadn't cast any sidelong glances her way thus ending my last best chance at finding love in post 9/11 amerika - and you know part of me wonders if she isn't just one of those hair-up hotties and stop me if you've never wondered the same thing - because some girls with their hair up...hotties! (hence the name hair up hotties) but you see them with their hair down and...it just doesn't work...but boy hair-up hottie or no, now that i think about it sharing a cig might have been a better way for us to meet rather than throwing myself in front of her speeding vehicle - which in hindsights smells a little bit like an act of desperation, but what can you do - like the great prophet don henley once sang sometimes love just aint enough and its true - even patty smyth thought so as she sang the plaintive harmonies - and when the woman who sang the warrior tells you its time to just give up on love and/or personal grooming - well...enough said

and now, in the midst of picking up the broken pieces of my broken heart (important to note here that during the initial cleanup of the pieces my broken heart i failed to stretch properly, got a cramp in my hamstring, and promptly dropped the detritus thus rendering my heart even more shattered and irrepairable than it was in the first place) i also have to pack a bag for the warmer climes of home - which should be an exciting adventure fraught with peril and airline peanuts - and boy am i looking forward to some sun on my face and some soft sea breeze brushing lightly against my skin - as my taught thighs ripple ominously down the boardwalk even as i try to mask the fact that i am not a tourist in my own hometown - even though i really sort of am...not that i'm complaining it's an excuse to get that bikini wax i've been pining for.

Parliament is Now in Session

2005-05-25T15:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I was still a smoker. I ate lunch outside today (if Baked Lays, a blueberry muffin and a Gatorade is considered lunch). It's a nice day, a little breezy, but still very nice. There were a lot of smokers outside...some stand by themselves or in little groups, others sit at the glass top tables blowing contented clouds of nicotine and tobacco in my direction. I remember those days, trouble free days for the most part, when the only worry was losing your lighter or realizing that the OAR song you'd just downloaded off Napster wasn't the one you wanted. When I see people smoking now, especially outside this twenty story hive full of worker bees, I almost automatically assume their lives must be fairly trouble free. I mean, if you've got time to stop your work day, ride the elevator down to the lobby and stand around outside leisurely smoking a cigarette...or two...or three ("one more for the road?"/ "sure! why not..."), then I can't imagine anything too pressing is going on in your life.

But maybe it's the opposite. When I smoked I would have argued that smoke breaks (especially those in between classes) were the only moments of sanity in my day. I'd get out of Statistics with ten minutes until Political Science, my brain would be shot to hell, but the moment the filter hit my lips and the flame shot up out of my plastic Bic, I was good to go. PolySci was ninety minutes long, which means half way through I'd have to excuse myself for a cigarette or two on the balcony deck of Jacobs Hall...just to get through to the next break. Everything in my life was pushing, pressing and pulling me...I had to smoke just to keep going.

My life is much more complicated than it was in college, but somehow I get through each day without a smoke. I guess it's just a choice (I'd rather decrease my chances of getting lung cancer...I'd rather be able to run without wheezing and hacking), but sometimes it would be nice to push away from my desk, take the elevator down to the lobby, and stand around outside with a Parliament in my right hand like I've got all the time in the world.

I could spend three dollars / and sity-three cents / on diet coca-cola / and unlit cigarettes

it's friday i'm in love

2005-05-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

call me hopelessly cynical, but when tom & katie announce their lovefest just in time for the press tours for their respective summer films - there is a part of me that rolls my eyes. because there's no way in this world that tom & katie are actually an item - maverick & joey? really? maybe in some alternate universe where dr. pheel is a changer of lives and shaun william scott is considered to be a fine comic actor this might be possible - but i'm here to tell you kids, this is not the world that i live in. in my world i live in fear that joey will ruin the next batman film with that smooshed up face of hers - and there's no way she knows the words to santa fe
of course my rambling discontent could be directly attributed to the death of my most recent crush - not literally of course - i should probably clarify that for those of you that are rushing to dial 911 (which by the way, is a joke in your town) even though i fear it may be too late as my surveillance cameras are informing me that my trailer is now surrounded by the fuzz. which, by the way also happens to be the name of the dance club where i met my first wife casiopia & you might thing that it was her peternatural toplessness that caused our love to go awry, but in the end it was her poor spelling and diction, i mean seriously, casiopia? - anyway, have you ever had a mad crush on someone for no apparent reason and then all of the sudden it just vanishes? that sucks. i'm here to tell you. i officially killed my crush on friday - and that's a shame because i really think i did love her - which happend to be casual friday, but that is neither here nor there since our office does not have casual friday...anyway, i had arrived at the office earlier than usual on friday and had headed up to the dreaded fourth floor when i suddenly realized that i had left my chequebook in the sexplorer and this would simply not do because i had to write out a check for the chicken tenders that i have been dreaming about ever since the girl scout cookies went the way of the dodo - anyway, as i stepped out into the parking garage i saw her drive by - in fact i was contemplating jumping in front of her speeding vehicle thinking this might be a great way for the two of us to finally meet because they say that dramatic meetings are always more memorable - and also, if i were laying there moaning plantively or something there would no doubt be some sort of physical contact of some kind that would ensue which is never a bad thing and maybe if she held my hand as i lay there internally bleeding we could have some of the forbidden hand sex that you hear adults talk about after all of the love has gone completely out of their lives - sadly, i thought of this after she had already past me by so after making a mental note of it i headed over to the sexplorer to retrieve my chequebook - long story short, we ended up standing side by side on a crowded elevator and i totally could have touched her or given her a wet willie - which in my experience has always been a better than average way to break the ice. and also - it's hard to mack on someone when they are standing directly beside you, because all you can really do is cast a sidelong glance which is what i did - which is what ended up killing the crush because i suddenly realized that - at least in my peripheral vision, she reminded me of someone back in college that i really didn't care for very much - and also, her casual day outfit? not so great - which was disappointing to say the least because she showed so much promise - and really, how can you love someone with your whole heart when you know full well that if you happen to catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of your eye it's all over....i'm often told that i am too demanding, but for the life of me i just can't see it.