the first time I saw this movie . . .

it was called Chinatown.

This is disgusting even by Woody Allen standards. I really hope this lady is a grifter. Even if she is, the old guy is totally f'ed up.

art is a dish best served drunk

So, I went to the Cursive show tonight with Alan (blog non-updater buddy).

This story really begins at the physical therapist's. My left hammy has been bothering me lately - not something fierce. It's just running at like 85%. Not hindering me from doing anything, but not really helping out, you know? At any rate, I went to the doctor and she sent me to the PT.

The PT is a sadistic one. The first two weeks all I had to do was stretch. Ok, not so bad. Then I went for another session this week. My PT added a few strengthening exercises for my hamstring. I did them in the PT-type area - that was fine. Today, Alan was coming to pick me up and I had to make a decision . . . dinner or hammy . . . hammy or dinner . . . what to do??? Ok, hammy.

Minutes later, sweat, torrents, streaming down my face, swamp ass building strength . . . I can't even begin to explain the type of thing I was doing. Ok, I can begin. Left leg straight, right leg raised behind me, right arm holding something (a football in my case) in front of me, back straight . . . ? Huh? Yah, the back is supposed to be straight, like a table. WTF PT? It's not easy. All I'm sure I accomplished was an uncomfortable increase in body temperature.

On to the show . . . it was very good. I enjoyed it and I was a little empty-stomached, so the Pabst was having an accelerated effect on me. After a couple of cocktails, I went to the "merch area" as they were calling it. I bought a poster (1 of 64, woot!), a t-shirt and a CD. These were all good things. The poster especially. It was ten dollars. The first piece of art I actually wanted to buy and it was only 10 bones? How did I pull that off? Not sure, but I told the artist that 10 dollars was too cheap and I gave him a two-dollar tip. I'd take post a picture, but, alas, no camera - sorry.

If you'd like to sell me some art, please see me this Friday evening (later on) - thank you.

a few things . . .

• theMonica says that when she sees the map-of-the-world shower curtain in my bathroom she sees an old man. Well you know what I see? Somebody that'll be really good at geography.
• I'm not sure who owns the Ramones catalog these days, seeing as how they all off and died, but Sunday's episode of the Simpson's featured Beat on the Brat. Now, I'm all for shilling, if that's your bag, but the Ramones didn't do much of it whilst they were in control of things (no, Pet Sematary doesn't count). It's kind of sad that so soon after their passing, their legacy is being whored. Good song though.
• This is where the third thing goes which I can no longer remember what it was going to be. They say the memory goes first - or maybe it's the eyesiight.

so this lady . . .

Has a television in her cube. I never write television, always TV, but I didn't want you to be confused. You would have been thinking, "Certainly he didn't mean television. No one could have a television at their desk." And you would have thought I was doing random acronyming (as I sometimes do). Maybe TV was meant to stand for Trumpeting Venezuelan or Traveling Visigoth or Truncated Variables. But no, friends, such was not the case. It's an honest-to-God TV with a small piece of paper covering 80% of the screen (presumably to make it 20% less ridiculous or 100% completely baffling).

I am steering clear of this one. For she must have fierce mind-control powers. She should probably get fi - promoted. She looks really smart and resourceful. Maybe we would all do well to have a TV in our cube.

moe szyslak

Is a contractor that sits next to me. WorkBuddy left work, leaving me buddiless (at least in terms of him) and his cube occupantless. I so lonely. I have another workBuddy, but I'm not sure if he's ready to be bestWorkBuddy. These things take time and a deft hand (there is an obstacle course, written exam, drinking portion), neither of which I have as the black cloud of melancholy hovers over my cube.

At any rate, the body was not yet cold when the new contractor moved in. This guy only looks like Moe from one side. The side on which he claims he was run into by a bike (the kind you pedal). He has the hugest shiner/tumor above his left eye, creating a very pronounced residual crest. I have a small gap between a pillar and the cube wall through which I can view the little shop of horrors that is his face. And view I have. Every couple of minutes - peek-a-boo! It's grotesque, really, but damn is it intriguing. It's sure to be a special on TLC anyday now. "The Girl with Radioactive Pigtails," "The Man Who Ate Half of Nevada," "The Contractor Whose Face Exploded." I am contacting their producers today.

Anyway, reference the picture below for an idea of what I'm looking at here . . . spectacular.

loyal subjects

I got home last night and the temperature was 30 degrees cooler than what it was in Jacksonville. Fortunately for me, both of these temperatures fall into the shorts and t-shirts realm of my wardrobe. That's a wide-range, true, but I'm a Clevelander damnit and I'm tough or something. Actually, most of you are probably tougher than I and wear shorts and sandals during a blizzard with maybe a tank top or sleeveless tor something.

Anyway, I don't have much to add now because not much has happened over the last case of hours. (That was dumb, but I'm not going back to delete it.) So, here is a link for you . . . a link of royalty. That's right. I'm connected to the highest powers of . . . well, procrastination. Presenting the Queen of West Procrastination. I'm not sure the exact geographic area she's in control of, but presumably if you try to usurp her, she'll get around to conquering you or sinking your battleship or whatever at some point in the indeterminate future. Although I have to admit she updates way too much to really be a queen of procrastination right? Unless a blog is the ultimate tool OF procrastination - assuming life outside of blogging.

I also added Maria to the sidebar (don't read this before I actually upate the sidebar). Thanks for saying hi to her, although she's already slacking. I mean, seriously, she should be updating three times a day like me. Or something.

i was going to wear my goatee tonight and wouldn't that have been embarrassing

What's up my homies? Embarrassing, 2 Rs, 2 Ss - ? I'm asking. One-click answers seems to prefer the safe confines of the mouse as opposed to the laptop ouji board interface. It is not responding to my alt-clicking. I swear, wtf? All that aside, you really should go download it. See how co-dependent I am of it?

Anyway, I went to the Pittsburgh v. Jacksonville game tonight. Thumbs down on that one as "my" team lost 9-0. The tailgating was awesome, the food and drinks were extra-plus awesome and the seats were mega-ultra-plus CLR awesome. I would provide you a link and whatnot, but really, why? If you had any reason to care whatsoever, you would already know and if you had no reason to care, I'm sure the assured excitement of reading about a game featuring three field goals would have already driven you away PRE any linkage by me. If you know the kind of thing I'm talking about.

theMonica (I am missing her right now - too long away from the girl) asked me about potential inappropriateness in attending a football game on the heels of a funeral. I thought about it and decided it was not inappropriate Mitch. The clincher is that my uncle (who passed away) and my dad (his brother) used to tape Steelers games for each other. They'd mail them along and even though they'd know the outcome, they'd still watch the tapes. (Sometimes the game was televised in one's region, but not the other's.) I know he would have wanted us to have been there. He would not have wanted a 9-0 loss however. Oh well.

At any rate, I'm off to watch Kicking and Screaming. (I'm not actually going anywhere, but I will be alt-tabbing my windows' applications, so there.) If you are a Netflix friend of mine, I'm sure I've already recommended it. The movie is hella-good, but it just now came out on DVD. I own it on VHS - hell, I own it on fucking stone tablet. That's how good it is. Watch it. The Monkees' Head - yah, you can skip that one.

I gotta go. Blogger has scheduled an outage for 4 p.m. Who knows how long this post has taken me. God forbid it not get released into the ether.

30 is the new 28

Due to a death in the family, I've been unblogavailable. I saw a cousin and he said 40 was the new 30. I was thinking that would mean 30 couldn't be the new/old 30, so it had to be something else, right? I was thinking 30 couldn't be the new 20 because you can't legally drink when you're 20. Nor could 30 be the new 25 because really, when you're 25, maybe you're like me and you have a full-time job, but maybe you're still like me and you go out all the time and you're generally young and fancy-free (is that a real construct wtf does fancy-free come from? Maybe I'm confusing it with something else, but one-click answers is puttin' on the fritz, so you're left to your own devices.) Finally, after much thought and a delcious, moist brownie, I decided that 30 is the new 28. 28 is the earliest age that feels the same as this age 30. Keep that in mind those of you in the under-30 crowd. Really makes you think.

At any rate, I will return to you as soon as I'm able. Enjoy my links in the meantime.

Open Memo Department

To: All Male Gym Members
RE: naked time

Dear Sirs,

While I appreciate your inalienable right to naked time, I feel it is not my charge in life to share naked time with you. I understand that the harsh convines of a nice boxer-brief may not be to your liking, but it is for the betterment of other gym goers, nay, society, that you should don your drawers before appearing in the communal locker room area post showering. Said showers have a nice little ante-room in which you can comfortably dry off and cover your unmentionables long before running into others.

I am no prude. But I do not wish to revel in the oddities of the human form. I do not feel it is necessary for you to blow dry off your entire body. Possible, yes; necessary, no; guaranteed by the Constitution, certainly not. And while you might also find it unawkward to then chat with me in your state of undress, rest assured I find it horribly awkward. Please put on some cover. Even if it's one of those ridiculous yellow speedo thongs that the old guys like to wear at the beach.

Regards,
Roger

Netflix: The Seventh Seal (1957)

The Seventh Seal starring:


That guy from Strange Brew . . .



Oksana Baiul . . .



Death . . .



And introducing in his first motion picture appearance - Rotten Human Head . . .


I joke, because it's what I do, but it was a very good film.

just sit right back and you'll hear a tale . . .

Ahh, yes, a man walking down the street wearing a captain's hat exactly like one you'd see on Gilligan's Island and wearing a red and black striped shirt, much like a modern-day sailor shirt. You know, the kind I must have seen in a movie at some point. He was approaching a group of people in front of me. He said, "Excuse me, I know you work hard for your money," - so you better treat them right? - "but if you wouldn't mind, could you please spare me some change?"

Now, you know me. I was cracking up to myself, trying not to make it obvious what I was laughing about. I was really happy to discover a new hobo. By then, we were near each other and theSkipper hobo, seeing the joy on my face, said to me, "You look like you're having a good time." Oh I was. And off I went in search of littleBuddy, millionaire and his wife, movie star and the rest! hoboes.

1-Click Answers

I have told you before how utterly awesome Answers.com's 1-Click Answers utility is. Previously, you'd alt + click on any word in any application on your desktop and a new browser window would open with information on that word or group (via highlighting) of words. Well, now, it's utterly awesomer in that instead of a browser window, a little cartoon dialog bubble pops up with the pertinent info.

See the image below for an example:

You can download this wonder of technology here.

a two good words

And now, a public service announcement about vocabulary from Marginally Clever . . .

I often hear people conflate two words (one of which is probably in my top-20 favorite all-time words, maybe top-18 - haven't completely hashed that out yet) that share similarity in sounding, but not meaning. Those words are commiserate (To feel or express sorrow or pity for; sympathize with) and commensurate (Corresponding in size or degree; proportionate: a salary commensurate with my performance).

People want to use commensurate, but instead use commiserate. While I could see how the words might be stored in the same part (of the vocab part) of the brain, they are entirely different. (Fyi, commensurate is my top-18/20 word.)

The world of vocabulary is riddled with such verbal pratfalls. Proceed with caution friends.

something I just now figured out

Shakira is saying her "hips don't lie." WTF Shakira? That would certainly be a fancy trick if they could.

no man is an island nor a perfectly self-contained pretzel consumer

I chew with my mouth closed. I swear. I make a point of it. So why did I just brush 3 pounds of pretzel crumbs off my shirt (in full-view of a passerby, I might - well I will - add)? Because the crumbs of a hard pretzel are uncontainable. It's a law of nature. When you bite into a pretzel your mouth must be open (when the pretzel's total size is too large for a single-bite encounter), this opening must leaves wayward pretzel crumbs to leap forth from your mouth, scattering about your clothes and loved ones. This is a problem which has always vexed me.

The only way I can come up with to contain pretzel crumbs is some kind of mouth flowbee to vacuum the crumbs into your pretzel hole as you bite. You could install a small engine in your brain that runs on brain power. Results and ampage may vary. That's probably the simplest solution out there.

unbreak the hobo heart

You must read this first. I mean, you must read this. (Say the "period," for proper emphasis.) Normally, I'd comment and leave it at that, but there was too much to say. My comments will generally follow the post.

Ok, off to a great start! Linking me like 15 times. You are kind Ky. That being said, I am afraid I will have to delete all my hobo stories because when held up to the light that is the awesomeness of this hobo story, they disappear into the considerable glare.

I think Ky overestimates "chemistry." It occurs more often than one would think and it doesn't have to be in a potentially romantic situation. Ky was very likely experiencing chemistry. It is actually pretty cheap. A chemistry set will run you like 20 bucks these days. I would guess Ky would experience it a lot more if she weren't so painfully shy. I am introverted by natural disposition, so I know what this is like, but generally I go for it with my dumbass estoteric jokes regardless of audience. Isn't it fun to discover a kindred spirit in this way? Besides, strangers aren't so mean so as to laugh at right right in your face. And if they do, they were bad news to begin with and who wants them around? I think chemistry can happen between any two people of either gender. Usually it's all good until one person is feeling a romantic chemistry when the other is not. At any rate, chemistry is, at best, an initial compound in the great equation that is love.

I have a theory about asking women out. Well, not really a theory, more hard anecdotal evidence. Don't surprise them. When I was still in school, I just decided I was too passive with the ladies. I spent a lot of time not dating, mainly because I had this ridiculous PG-13-brat-pack-romantic-comedy-style notion that some girl would see through the eyeglasses and unkempt wardrobe to the inner-beautiful Roger. Not to say this is impossible (or even improbable), but it's not exactly feasible to make friends with scores of girls in the hopes that one of them has x-ray vision and one day she will use said vision to go on a date with me. Plus all the annonying, cliched scenes I'd have to endure in which she is complaining about her boyfriend, where, there I sit, right under her nose, cute as a button. This is the kind of fantasy-land drivel we all pretend to believe, but when we get down to brass tacks, we know it's only true to the extent you force yourself right under her nose by making her decide if she should go on a date with you or not. (That's how I netted, like a beautiful dolphin, theMonica. What do you mean you're not supposed to net dolphins?)

So, I said, "Hey, I am not going to be so worried about rejection. If I see someone I want to get to know, I will ask her out." I didn't so much carry this philosophy over into regular life. College is littered with the kind of random interactions where this strategy plays well, but not so much in the "real world." Actually, it didn't play well in college at all. You see, when you ask a girl out and she is not expecting it, bad things happen. Invariably, unable to recover from the shock or confused by the events, she says yes to your offer, but later on figures out what happened or consults friends who tell her what happened. (theMonica also found my initial invite to a party as too forward. I thought it was charming.) Such is the case with Ky. Who expects a hobo to ask them out? You expect them to ask you for money. Caught in this haze and trying to be nice, Ky inadvertantly agreed to her first ever (I assume) hobo date.

I am sure I have personally broken many a hobo heart over the years, but I have never agreed to a date with one. Is he going to pick Ky up in a shopping cart? Will there be panhandling immediately preceding the date in order to pay for Mexican food? By what factor will Ky increase the monetary take for that night? Will he shower? There are so many questions I would love to explore. Ky, if I ever write a movie, can I include this story? Better yet, can I film this as a documentary?? Please? I am so there.

Oh, this is so funny. I mean, it's not, but think of all the extra, heart-healthy, exercise Ky will now be getting in order to avoid the hobo AND how easily she'll be motivated to do it. I kid Ky. She is in a tough spot. If she's unable to avoid the hobo, she can tell him her boyfriend thought it would be a bad idea, even though she and the hobo we're going out "just as friends." Oh, and then you could get Oil Change Guy to pose as your boyfriend to intimidate hobo guy and then Ky and OC guy fall in love. Now THAT would make a great movie.

real quotes

I was at lunch, stretching my arm - my elbow got wretched around playing basketball last night - just as a woman was passing next to my seat, unseen by me.

buddy: Wow. You almost punched that lady in the crotch.
me: Yah, she almost went on the ride of her life.

who loves you wednesday?

Another list of things, this time numbered for easy reference when discussing with friends.

1. I have this thing where I want to title all my posts with questions, but think it's bad form (for some reason known only to my subconscious). But since this is a paraphrase, it's kosher, right?


2. This title is in reference to the fact that I was off work yesterday (as well as Monday) and Wednesday being the first day of the work week is pretty all right by me. AND I have my a fantasy draft this evening (yes, the night before the season starts) - so much excitement for one day.


3. The world in general seems to be taking the Steve Irwin death pretty hard. I mean, it's sad. He leaves a wife and two young children. But, I guess I've always been mentally ready for it. Like having an old sick grandma, who maybe is fighting cancer or something. It's always sad when they pass, but it's made some small bit easier by the preparation you undergo due to the circumstances. Steve Irwin's circumstances were that he was intentionally putting his life in danger on a regular (daily?) basis. I guess I was ready for this to happen. The surprising thing to me was that it was a stingray. I would have pegged him for death by snake. It's like Grizzly Man being killed by a woodpecker - not shocking, but surprising.


4. A friend of mine started a blog recently. I promised her AT LEAST two strangers would go visit and say hey. Volunteers? It's called ria6677. (Fair warning: If you crack the code, she will end you.) Someone explain sitemeter to her. . . May-B? You went from disbeliever to master internet stalker in like 3 weeks.


5. A co-worker tells me the "kids" these days are again using "fine" as a synonym for attractive. It strikes me that some teenage kid's creepy uncle controls a large part of teen culture, especially slang and wardrobe.

memorandom ii

• Don't bother me when I'm watching Planet of the Apes on TV. It was like old times around here this morning. When I say "like old times," what I mean is that I'm hungover. I forgot how fun/incredibly irritating it is to be oh-kinda-queasy while at work. You see they were selling a beer for a dollar a bottle last night. What beer? Who cares? I said it was a dollar. Hello. As you could guess, that is a recipe for disaster. It's also a recipe for me kinda-drunk-dialing my work voicemail from the bar. Yah, I did. I wanted to remind myself to email a friend a happy b-day, uh, email. I am not afraid to admit that I laughed when I listened to myself tell myself to wish him a happy birthday and tell him that he's a "fucking talentless hack." I did not have a lot to eat for dinner last night. Dollar beers have a more pronounced effect on a near-empty stomach. While I had a chuckle, I was also disturbed. My voice sounded really funny. I sound like such a girl when I hear myself. I guess that means I sound like a girl. It's humiliating. It's like when you're 12 and telemarketers think you're your mom and call you ma'am. Yah, that's neat if you're a chick, but when you're a guy, it stings - bad. In my head I do not sound like my mom calling my friend a talentless hack. I sound like Barry White, except more of a ladies' man. On the phone I sound like Jerry Lewis in the Nutty Professor - the dorky Jerry Lewis and even the French hate me.


• The long and winding road leads me back. Remember how the dollar lot became the 2 dollar lot and I cried? Well, the new lot was a 2 dollar lot (but closer) and then it became a 2.50 lot. 2.50 lot? WTF? Doesn't roll off the tongue at all. So, vestigal tail between legs, I moved back to 2 dollar/dollar lot. It is amazing how spoiled I got from walking 100 fewer yards. I hate the dollar lot with a passion now. It being really, really, reallllly far away. And you have to navigate so many more hoboes . . .


• America, Fuck Yeah! So, the Cleveland National Air Show (Cleveland National is kind of an odd construction, isn't it?) is going on this weekend. And yesterday, I have to admit I didn't mind the long walk to my parking lot at all. Why? Well, the Blue Angels were using downtown Cleveland as their personal practice facility and I got to see some of it first hand. I would say at times they were flying lower than the tallest buildings downtown. They were basically stopping at red lights, honking at slow-moving commuters, flipping off jaywalkers, the whole deal. I was really into jet aircraft (not bullshit commuter jets, but kickass war machines) after I attended my cousin's graduation from the Air Force Academy when I was a wee lad. (Quick aside, you know how the graduates toss their caps at the end of the graduation ceremony (Look here under "Tossing of Graduation Hats")? Well, I was under 12 at the time and that little girl will never forget the hip check I gave her to get one of those freaking caps.) Are there any greater man's men then fighter pilots? Anyway, I studied jets a lot, considered applying for the Air Force Academy, then found out I was nearly blind in both eyes (ok I exaggerate) and that's a deal-breaker for jet piloting.
  
  As I watched those F/A-18s soaring overhead, flying in formation mere yards away from each other, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. The little boy inside me died yesterday. His name was Tony.



• Superhero refresher. My workout buddy is a big dude, tall, strong, you know the deal. I have a protective layer of fat around myself in case I get caught in a snowdrift and have to survive off my own girth. We work with someone he graduated from high school with. One day we were in the gym and he (the high school friend) was commenting on how we're always together. He said to workout buddy, "You're like Superman," then, looking at me, "you're Robin."
  
  I thought of this today because workout buddy is on vacation and he missed omelet bar. When omelet chef saw me without him, he said, "Where's your boy? Where's Batman? You guys are like Batman and Robin." WTF? I am older and wiser, why am I not Batman? I shouldn't complain. The way things started I'm lucky I didn't end up as Underdog.