A couple of noteworthy passings...

BOB LASSITER

Tampa talk radio legend Bob Lassiter passed away after a long illness. Impossible to agree with 100% of the time regardless of your political leanings...by design...Lassiter artfully employed bombast as one weapon in an arsenal that included humor, sarcasm, pathos and every once in a great while, when he felt like it, genuine warmth. Either brutally honest or just plain brutal (depending on which side of the day's argument you found yourself on), Lassiter was equal parts amused by and frustrated with the foibles that mankind inflicted upon itself. He was also one of the last practitioners of radio as "theatre of the mind". I could say he will be missed but anybody who owns a radio already does...whether they know it or not.

CBGB

I'm not a Starbucks hater. far from it, in fact. I rather enjoy the occassional $5 coffee! Hey, it's good...get over it. But the fact of the matter is there are plenty of Starbucks around. But there was only one CBGB, and now it's closed. That's right, the breeding ground of The Ramones, Blondie, Television, Sonic Youth and Talking Heads among others is no more. We can figure out a way to have a Starbucks for every 2.5 adult human beings in the United States but we can't figure out a way to keep a single, solitary, sweat-and-vomit soaked birthplace of great American music in business? Unbelievable.

This is exactly the kind of cultural blasphemy that would have delighted/pissed off Bob Lassiter.

Socks to be me

No doubt you've been out somewhere and witnessed a stray item of clothing in a strange, public place. It might be a baseball cap on an empty seat in a movie theatre or a lone shoe on the side of a busy interstate. If you thought about it, you'd realize that you see this more often than, well, than you had previously realized.

Today, leaving work, we saw a black sock laying on the sidewalk. Of course, everyone in the group had to offer some sort of commentary on this. "Look, it's a sock", "Eww gross", "Where the hell did that come from?", "How does someone lose a single sock?", "Where's the shoe?" "Is there someone walking around with one bare foot?", etc. etc.

Here's the thing: I'm pretty sure it was one of my socks.

While it's a pretty plain, basic, black sock, I'm familiar enough with my own clothing to recognize it when I see it. I'll just say that if it isn't my personal sock, which I highly doubt, it is the exact same brand and make of some of the socks I do own. And since it was laying on the ground right outside of a place where I spend a great deal of time, well, you figure the odds. What I think probably happened is yesterday I wore black pants to work and through the magic of static cling, the sock was stuck to my pants, I just didn't see and it fell off on my way into work. At least, I hope it was on the way into work. I really don't want to believe I walked around for 14 hours with a stupid sock stuck to me.

Anyway, I didn't say anything about it being my sock. For starters, I doubt anyone would believe me. Secondly, I hadn't thought about it enough to explain why I believed it was mine. Third, it rained earlier and the sock was all wet, limp and dirty looking. So I just walked along with the group and left it there.

The problem is, I wanted to pick it up and take it home. I could have shrugged my shoulders and forgot about it. After all, it's just a sock. Not exactly a high-ticket item, it's not like I'm still paying it off. And socks wear out or get lost for other reasons all the time. I'll buy more socks at some point and not give much thought to the old ones that wind up discarded via natural causes. Still, for lots of reasons (including raging OCD and the stress of knowing I have an odd number of socks that accompanies that), I really wanted to rescue it. After all, it's mine, damn it. I paid for it, I own it, I maintain it with regular laundry cycles, I am responsible for it (until yesterday, apparently). It's my sock and I am entitled to full and complete rights of ownership, which include, but are not limited to, picking it up if/when I drop it on the sidewalk.

My first thought was to lag behind the group and then reach down and snag it when they weren't looking but I figured there was too much risk of getting caught if somebody turned around to see why I wasn't keeping up. Not keeping up with the group when you're heading to your respective cars at the end of the day is a good way to get branded a weirdo, especially if it's because you're picking up soggy, stray socks off the sidewalk. Then I thought I could drive around the block, pull over real quick, get out, grab it and jump back in the car and take off. This was also too risky because the street is pretty busy and doesn't have parking spaces or a breakdown lane to pull over into. Retrieval of one's sock is probably not the reason you want to give the police or your insurance company if you cause a major traffic accident.

So anyway, unless somebody else picked it up, my sock is still sitting there on the sidewalk. And I still want it. So if you go retrieve it and return it to me, I will give you $5. No joke!! That's a pretty good cash reward for a sock that isn't even yours. Of course, I'm no sucker and I'm not going to give five bucks to every jamoke who finds a sock laying around (gross!), so you will need to verify the true identity of the sock by describing it and where you found it. We will then need to arrange to meet in a dimly lit parking garage or an abandoned warehouse down by the docks or some other place suitable for the exchange of the sock for the loot (come alone, do not contact the authorities). Hurry, this is a limited time offer. Because if it's there when I get to work in the morning, I'm just going to pick the damn thing up.

Butt seriously...

The other night, the subject of BUTT PLUGS came up in casual conversation. Don't ask me why, it really isn't important. Honestly. No big deal, actually. Other than the fact that it kept me up very late thinking about it. And after all that thinking, I've decided that I don't want any. I know the holidays are coming up and many of you have started your shopping lists, so I'm sorry if I'm throwing a kink (ha!) into your plans by saying "Please don't get me a BUTT PLUG; I probably will not use it". So just cross the words "BUTT PLUG" off your list when you come to my name, please.
Although, I do have to say, to some degree, I appreciate any object whose purpose and instructions for use are so clearly defined in it's name. I mean, if you say "bulldozer" or "oven mitt" to someone, it is possible that they may need some explanation of what you're talking about and how it works. That's not a concern with BUTT PLUGS. Simply say the words "BUTT PLUG" to someone and they should instantly have a pretty clear idea of what is going to happen and where it's going to take place ("Why?" may be a question that needs to be addressed at some point, though that's not important for what we're discussing here). I do appreciate that absence of ambiguity.
But (and by 'but' I mean 'however', not 'ass') with all that being said, I'm going to opt out on this one. So you may feel free to skip the following fine retail establishments from consideration when shopping for gifts for me:

• Butt Plug and Beyond
• Yankee Butt Plug Company
• B. Uttplug's
• ButtPlug Crafters (Custom Butt Plugs in about an hour)
• Butt Plug Depot
• Cinn-A-Butt Plug
• Every Butt Plug's A Dollar!
• Assy McSphincter's Ye Olde Buttpluggery
• The Gap

Thank you.

You're killing me!

What? You need what?? When?!?
You're killing me.
You're kidding. I mean, this is a joke, right? You had to know there was a deadline, right? You did? You knew there was a deadline and you still come to me today? Needing this?
You are killing me. Seriously.
Oh no, it's not that I can't get it done. I will get it done. But that doesn't change the fact that you're killing me.
I'm not exaggerating. Your failure to get your orders placed in a timely manner has cast my final fate and death is near. Because you are quite literally killing me.
Gyaah! Sharp pains behind my eyeballs. I'm...I'm getting weak. It's...growing dark. I feel so cold, s-so cold.
Oh, what shall I miss most of all; smelling flowers, watching sunsets, taking a walk in the park, enjoying the sound of soft rain on a summer's evening? Alas, when all of the day's simple pleasures are weighed and measured at one's own sunset, none ranks below another.
Thanks a lot, you asshole.
I'm staring into the endless abyss, where music doesn't play and children don't laugh and sing. Staring back at me is a stack of orders that you could have easily submitted last week. Instead...
You. Are. Killing. Me.
I can't believe this is how it ends. I never imagined my life would be snuffed out just because you don't see the importance of meeting a perfectly reasonable deadline. It all seems so senseless, so meaningless. I'm too young to die. Not now. Not like this!
You're killing me.
What? Yeah, you'll have it by 3:30.

Things I don't want to do today, tomorrow or anytime soon for that matter

1. Go to work
2. Work; Go there
3. Be operated on by a deaf, dumb and blind oral surgeon
4. Vios con worko
5. Harm zoo animals
6. Go to the place that pays me money to work and do the work they pay me money for

I'm sick

Ok, I wasn't going to share this but I haven't posted in a week and this is basically all that has been going on, so this is what you're going to get.

I'm sick and have been since Saturday.

I don't know what it is, but I've got aches and pains, alternate spikes of chills and fevers, cramps, dehydration, lethargy (more than usual), all punctuated by trips to the bathroom and that dreadful "sklish!" sound you only hear when your digestive system informs you that you and solid foods of any kind are not currently on speaking terms. I don't know what my system is processing, since I basically haven't eaten since Friday, but it's coming up with something somewhere. Maybe my internal organs are liquifying. it kinda feels that way.
It might be the flu but it might also be bad clams (not literally, but close) that I ate at this charity fundraiser function I was at on Friday night. My job requires me to wear a tuxedo two times a year and this was one of them. Incidentally, twice a year is exactly the right amount of infrequency to remember that the little black-headed metal stud things serve some sort of imporant purpose without actually remembering exactly what that might be. The tux was the first step in the downward spiral that the weekend became. I don't mind wearing suits. in fact, I kind of enjoy that. Tuxes are different though. First, there's the whole assemby-required factor mentioned previously. Secondly, nobody outside of Her Majesty's Secret Service actually owns their own tux so they're always rented and there's something more than slightly skeevy about renting clothing, especially clothing that's designed to be worn as many times by as many different people as possible. Add to that a pair of shoes that fit like a prison sentence and I was on my way to not feeling well. That was followed by an evening of conversation with lots of people who normally wouldn't be speaking to me, including one gentleman whose breath bouquet was a charming melange of salami and booze. Then, by the time I actually had a chance to walk across the room in the horrible shoes to the buffet, all that was left was some Starfish Tartare, Squid Pancreas Florentine and a few other room temperature seafood delicacies that even rich people won't eat. However, I was hungry, it was late, I was in a tux with ill-fitting, shiney shoes, so I ate it and that's probably why I'm sick.
But it could be the flu.

My hobby

I think the first person I picked up against their will and carried around was probably a babysitter who had touched me inappropriately when I was small. It wasn't easy; I was a mere child and he was an older man, albeit in a wheelchair. But I managed to pick him up out of that chair and carry (ok, more like drag) him out into the yard where I dropped him into a snowbank. This was so much fun that I decided on the spot to be larger than everybody else so I could pick up whomever I want against their will and carry them around whenever I want to. So now that's exactly what I do.
Oh, and how I love it. Businessmen, nurses, factory workers, police officers, air traffic controllers, grocery baggers, old ladies waiting for the bus, anybody. I'm a people person and I love meeting new people. And I do that by just walking up to them, bending slightly at the waist, grabbing them in a big hug around the waist and throwing them over my shoulder like a sack of taters before continuing jauntily on my way. It really is just that simple. Often, they pound my back with their little fists or kick their tiny feet or sometimes just flail around furiously, all in futile attempts to make me put them down before I'm good and ready. Sometimes I whistle a happy tune while they screech like suckling baby pigs suddenly taken away from their mother. Because it's important to enjoy your hobby. otherwise, it's just work, am I right?
Let's just put it this way; When I tell a girl I will pick her up for a date at 7:00, that's exactly what happens. I arrive at 7:00 on the dot, pick her up against her will, carry her somewhere nice like a new restaurant she's mentioned she'd like to try or maybe to a movie. Then I put her down and leave. This usually gets me home by 7:45 and I have the whole rest of the evening free. I'm not so sure what time she gets home.
Of course, I understand why people don't enjoy my hobby as much as I do. I know if I were walking down the street, minding my own business and some big asshole just decided to pick me up against my will and carry me across the street and put me down in line at, say, an ice cream store, I'd be darned angry too, in spite of being in the presence of all that delicious ice cream. So I empathize with these people. Honestly, I do! But their anger at me is not going to hamper my enjoyment of something that brings me so much joy and fulfillment. If anything, it enhances it. Sometimes when I do it to my boss, I pick him up from his chair while he's in the middle of a very important business call and I wind up carrying him all the way to the far side of the building. But only because that's how far I have to carry him before he finally promises not to fire me when (if!) I put him down. As you may know, the building I work in is very large indeed so I usually have to take a minute to catch my breath while I watch him scurry like a little toy crab all the way back to his office, cursing my name all the way. Laughing as hard as I do when that happens, it's even harder to catch my breath.
I'll tell you, I think everyone should have such an enriching hobby!

Rejoice, humanity; Devil Rays split with Yankees!

Now, this is a completely meaningless development, since the Rays will once again finish in last place and the Yankees will once again be odds-on favorites to win yet another World Series. Except it is good for the collective soul of all mankind anytime the Yankees lose at anything.

People say I am jealous of the Yankees and that's why I root so strongly against them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Because I can not think of anything more boring than my favorite team winning all the time and always getting everything they want just because they want it, overcoming adversity with checkbooks instead of gut checks. Where is the drama...and fun...in that? Anybody who has ever followed a team that has struggled for years and finally won a championship appreciates that one title more than any Yankee fan ever could. Yankee fans define the 80's as "the lean years" because Don Mattingly never got to win a World Series. With a sense of entitlement that disproportinate, is it any wonder that in spite of all the championships the Yankees have won, their fans have no idea what it really means to win one?

Of course, if you like anything at all about sports, the Yankees voracious, take-no-prisoners, scorch-the-earth approach to running their business is reason enough to root against them at all turns. George Steinbrenner and the Yankee faithful (and what a laugh that is, since there's no way anybody can convince me that the vast, overwhelming majority of Yankee fans are not front running bandwagon jumpers with no connection whatsoever to New York...and for what it's worth, if I lived in New York, I would be a Mets fan, in case you're wondering. Not that they're in the poorhouse themselves, but they aren't the Yankees) don't seem to understand that the Red Sox, Blue Jays, Angels and everybody else in baseball are their competition on the field but partners in the same business off it! When one team can afford to pay one player a higher yearly salary than several other team's combined payrolls, that's a serious disparity and obviously not good for the overall health and welfare of the sport itself. Gluttony is never good. Just because the buffet is all-you-can-eat doesn't mean it's a good idea to eat as much as you can. The Yankees should be trying to take more fans (and money) from the NFL, NBA and Nascar, not the Kansas City Royals, Minnesota Twins and yes, Tampa Bay Devil Rays. They're franchises in the same league!! Even the most aggressively motivated Burger King manager who wants his store to be the best in the company in all ways has the common sense to see that other Burger Kings struggling to stay open is not good for business.

So about a week from now, when the Devil Rays are playing golf and fishing and doing whatever it is that baseball players do in the off season, I will be hoping...praying...that the A's or Tigers or Twins kick the Yankees asses and sweep them out of the postseason in the first round, leaving them and their fair weather phony fans crying just like the lil' all-star featured above.

After all, it's good for the soul.

How I amused myself today...

Today was my first day off work since, I think, last Christmas. Something like that. At any rate, I was overdue for a little down time. So here's how I spent it.

• 7:30 - Got up (for no real good reason but it would appear I am conditioned) and had the Big Breakfast (omelette, coffee, orange juice, hash browns). The Big Breakfast is something of a Sunday tradition that hasn't happened lately since I've worked every Sunday since the Reagan administration.
• 1:00 - Watched what had to be the worst imaginable start to the Bucs-Panthers game. Chris Simms threw an interception on the second play of the game and Keyshawn Johnson caught a touchdown on the third. After the game, Simms is rushed to the hospital to have his spleen removed. As R said, "Who ruptures their spleen?!? Honestly!"
• 4:00ish - K and I went and moved a couple of small pieces of furniture and boxes around and went through the McDonald's drive-thru to get a couple of Cokes. I saw a worker's compensation poster on the wall inside and said to the cashier, "Hey, wanna hear an interesting story? See that girl on the poster behind you, the one with the cast on her arm? That's my sister. True story! That was her first arm modeling job. Yeah, pretty cool, huh? The bad thing is, there was something wrong with that cast. It's a fake; she didn't really have a broken arm. But she wound up getting a really bad infection from it. Ironically, she actually had to file a worker's comp claim to pay for her hospital bills. No, she doesn't arm model anymore. She doesn't have her arms. But not because of the bad cast. That's another story. Ok, thanks for the Cokes! See ya!". I like to do things like that when I'm with K and R. They act shy and embarrassed, but I think they enjoy it. I love entertaining them more than just about anything in the world. Plus, I feel I enhanced the McDonalds cashier's day a little bit. Just think, she'll be able to tell all her co-workers "Hey, you know that girl on the worker's comp poster? I waited on her brother! Yeah, she has no arms now".
• 7:00ish - Back at K and R's place, we ordered pizza. When the guy came to the door, I wanted either K or R to answer it so I could yell from the living room (in an old man's voice), "Who's at the door? Is it that colored boy who plays the damn records so loud all night? Tell him to stop stealing my mail!". Previous times when we've ordered pizza I have yelled things from the other room like "Get in here and feed me, woman, unless you want another black eye!" and "Mother, is that daddy? Has he returned from the war?!?". But I wound up answering the door, and K and R never misbehave in an attempt to embarrass me like I do them, so nothing funny happened.

I love Sundays. Too bad I work more of them than most members of the clergy.

Okay, okay, I will solve all of the world's problems

Tomorrow morning, first thing, you guys figure out some way to get together and put me in charge of the world, agree to abide by all of my policies without question and I will guarantee you will be feeling better about things by lunch time. Here's a free sample of what's in store if you decide to do The Right Thing:

• Nobody owns a car, everybody gets free cars! How does that work, you ask? Well let me explain. When you break a car down fundamentally to it's basic, elemental purpose in life, it is nothing more than a machine designed to transport you from Point A to Point B. It wasn't until the marketers got their insidious meathooks on them that cars became toys and symbolic manifestations of our bank accounts and penises. No more. From now on, all cars are government property and will be treated like shopping carts. Millions of government cars, all over the place, free for your use as you see fit! If you need to go somewhere, just hop in whatever one is nearby (the doors won't lock), drive to where you're going and just leave it there. Somebody else will need one and will take it from there. You'll be expected to put your own gas in them, but just think; car payments, carjackings and car alarms are now instantly unpleasant things of the past. I realize cars will accumulate in certain areas, leaving others underserved, but I've already thought that out. Just think of the thousands of new jobs this will create for people who will need to go out, round them up and redistribute them.


• Daylight Savings Time, revised. Daylight Savings Time is a concept that has outlived it's usefullness, now that farmers are automated to the point of having robotic machines that pick cucumbers, pickle them and packed into jars before returning to the barn at the end of the day. So if we're going to keep it at all, let's make it work for us. You'll still be expected to set your clocks ahead one hour in the spring and behind one hour in the fall, but here's the good part: you can do it whenever you want! Feel like getting a head start on Friday afternoon traffic? Spring forward 20 minutes! Miss the first half of Conan? Fall back a half hour! Gonna be late to that appointment with your ball-busting probation officer? Not if you fall back 45 minutes! Wanna skip that meeting with the boss? Go ahead and spring forward a whole hour, you maniac! Of course, other people will be able to counter your Daylight Savings with their own, so the strategic thinkers among us will have the upper hand. But isn't that the way it should be anyway?


• On a related note, another outdated concept is the three month summer break for schools. That was necessary when kids had to pitch in and help out on the farm during the summer months, but that's not the case anymore. Plus, I'm out of school now and don't get three month vacations, so screw you kids. And teachers. Get your asses back into those classrooms and graduate us out some stray car retrievers.


• Currency of the new millenium: Orgasms. Consenting adults should be allowed to use sex to barter for goods and services. I'm not talking about prostitution, where in far too many cases, human beings with virtually no other options are basically slaves to be degraded and exploited by lowlife human parasites. No, I'm just saying that if you find yourself a little short at the end of the month and you and the pizza guy or the lady who cuts your hair can work something out, then by all means, go ahead. Besides, can you honestly think of something nicer to give another person? I can't. I've had people tell me that this concept would bring the world's economy to it's knees...yet, I don't think anybody would mind. Heh heh heh.


• Out of the UN and into the Octagon! Now, I am World Leader (you may call me King. Or just Sir) but I have absolutely no interest in getting involved in the day-to-day of every little turdburg with a flag, so each country is going to need to keep their presidents, shahs, poobahs or whatever. However, I am hereby outlawing war as we know it. So from now on, all global conflicts will be settled by fistfights between the opposing countries respective leaders. Don't like being invaded by the infidel, mongrel race across the border to your north? Then I suggest next time you go to the polls, you spend at least as much time examining the candidates height, weight and reach advantage as you do their stances on free trade. PS: Nobody is allowed to fight me.

There you have it. Completely reasonable and practical solutions to so many of life's problems. No reason we can't get these and other great ideas I'm liable to come up with when I go to bed tonight up and running, just as soon as you promote me to the appropriate position of power. I have every reason to believe that I will be great at this. However, on the off chance that I get in there and it's not working out after a few years, I'd gladly step down and abdicate all power to dogs. Let's face it, we humans have had a nice long run but we have to admit mistakes have been made. And I think the dogs might have some pretty good ideas.

Well, I'M lovin' it anyway...

• When Vanilla Ice's 'Ice Ice Baby' was out, it was on the radio every five minutes and almost twenty years later, everybody still knows all the words to it. Yet nobody owns up to liking it.


• Milli Vanilli won a Grammy, but ask anybody who was around when they were popular and everybody claims they always hated them. The National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences can say what they like about their artistic criteria, but the Grammy is not an award that's given out unless serious revenue is being produced. We all know at least one really talented musician who's better than any 10 recent Grammy winners but until their music is sold at Target and not from the trunk of a car, they are not going to win a Grammy. So somebody had to have liked Milli Vanilli...a lot.


• McDonald's sells them by the BILLIONS but nobody will ever claim the Big Mac is their favorite sandwich, even though you know good and goddamn well that when you're eating one, it's the best thing you ever tasted in your life. Sure, like that weekend where you and your roommate "were kinda drunk and just started fooling around and, well...", you may regret it immediately afterwards, but for the 4 minutes it lasted, you know you were totally into it.


• Everybody wants to murder Barney the purple dinosaur and yet he continues to exist. Like it's actually hard to commit a murder if you really set your mind to it.


• "King Of Queens". Jesus H. Christ!

I first noticed this phenomenon as a little kid when we would bust on each other for having clothes (or worse, shoes) that were bought at K-Mart, which was stupid since we were, in fact, all wearing clothes (and shoes) that were bought at K-Mart.
I wish I was good at naming stuff because I like to be able to attach labels to things that I bitch about. Sure, it's basically just a breed of good old-fashioned hypocrisy, but it needs something stronger and more descriptive. Maybe MASS CONSUMPTIVE REGRETTIVE DENIAL or just FULL-OF-SHITTEDNESS. Now, I'm not saying these things aren't bad. Indeed they are. They're truly terrible, terrible things with little or no redeeming long-term merit whatsoever. But they are/were popular so we need to just get over it and own up already. Come on America, let's celebrate our suck! In poorer countries, people don't have the luxury of deciding how to live their lives on the basis of what does or does not suck. For example, places where having food and shelter would qualify as not sucking and NOT having food and shelter is every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday , continuing unabated through every single forsaken weekend.
I don't know. Do what you want. As for me, well, I'm going to go eat four Big Macs while watching Barney perform a medley of Vanilla Ice and Milli Vanilli's greatest hits and I don't care who knows it. But I will not watch "King Of Queens". Jesus H. Christ, I hate that show.

Technology lets me down...again

Tonight, I was composing* a text message and learned that the auto-complete feature on my cell phone does not know the word "giraffe". So I immediately threw it out the car window at 70 miles per hour. That ought to teach someone a lesson (probably not me, though). After all, what use to me is a cell phone that doesn't know simple, common, everyday words like "giraffe"?

* I like how you're supposed to say "composing a text message". Like you're writing sonnets or something. I know every time I get a text message that says something like "wtf where u @?????? Lol", I wonder how long it took the auteur** to compose it.

** I also like how self-important I am that I think my half-assed blog needs footnotes. I am such an auteur***.

*** I believe auteur is French for "writer with cheese".

"Still Waiting"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRw63uHCQ-I

Party hats and balloon animals again tomorrow. Today, make some phone calls, hug some people, do what you need to do (but don't be afraid to make those phone calls and get those hugs tomorrow too).

Blog updates: Minor tweakage has taken place!

• First of all, check out the link to "Ten at the Top", a documentary film (currently in production) by Renee Warmack. This is going to be a great project and I'm thrilled to be associated with it in any way possible.
• Secondly, it's all the way at the bottom of the page but it's worth digging through my tripe to find "Cyannide and Happiness". Enjoy!

I'll jump off that bridge when I come to it

Sometimes, burdened by life's problems, I grow melancholy and despondent. And it's at those times when I, like any normal person, give serious consideration to jumping off the glorious Sunshine Skyway. What stops me, though, is that there's a $1.00 toll. It just seems kind of, I don't know, wasteful. I can't help feeling that I'd like my last act on earth to be something a little more meaningful than paying a dollar and having a senior citizen toll booth attendant in a Hawiian shirt tell me to have a nice day. Sure, there's some delicious irony there, but they would probably feel like a bit of an ass after finding out I jumped. And I don't really need that on my conscience.
I do find it interesting that they collect the toll before you cross the bridge. It seems like crossing a a five and a half mile-long bridge that rises as high as 193 feet above the water is a risky enough proposition (especially in light of what happened to the old Sunshine Skyway) that payment should be expected upon conclusion of the undertaking, not at the onset. If I make it across a bridge like that alive, I'm more than happy to pay my dollar (unless my intention was actually to not make it across alive, in which case I'm probably going to be sour about having to cough up a buck).
Personally, I believe the great state of Florida is capitalizing on those who aspire to perform The Ultimate Bellyflop, which is either resourceful or crass, depending on your political leanings.

Duh: The Bounty Hunter

Do you have a TV show that you hate but you watch anyway? I'm not talking about a guilty pleasure like "The Brady Bunch" or "T.J. Hooker", something that gives you a campy, so-bad-it's-good feeling of satisfaction. I'm talking about a television show that actually makes you so angry that you'll be switching channels, see a glimpse of it, recognize it immediately as something you hate as you pass it by...and then find yourself going back to watch it, just so your stomach will ache even more. You got one of those? I sure do. It's A & E's "Dog: The Bounty Hunter", and it's about a mulleted cro mag named 'Dog' and his family of cementheads who are all professional bounty hunters in Hawaii. Dog is sort of like the illegitimate love child of Ozzy Osbourne and Brian Bosworth, only with bigger muscles and a smaller brain. But the whole group is a bunch of dimwits who converse in movie cliches (they say things like "let's rock and roll!" to each other with perfectly straight faces) and extreme attitude (just look at their tattoos and haircuts!). They all make me want to go to Hawaii, commit a crime and jump bail just on the off chance that I might get a chance to punch one of them in the face. Jesus, just look at them! You don't have to watch the show even once to know they're stupid (although I have, and they are). I have a hard time believing they're very good at their jobs. I just have to believe there's a lot of footage in the vault at A & E that looks like this:

DOG: Well, today we gotta track down a Mr. Ramon Hidalgo. He's wanted for failing to appear on a drug posession charge. He's a bad boy and we gotta take 'im down! We'll start by calling him up at his last known residence, see if we can't get some clues (dials number)

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: Hello?

DOG: Yessir, is there a Ramon Hidalgo there?

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: Yes. Wait. No.

DOG: Are you sure? I have this as his phone number

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: He's not here. Wrong number. Disconnected. Bzz! Bzz! Bzz!

DOG: Do you know where he is?

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: Um, I think he died. And moved away.

DOG'S WIFE: (whispering) Ask him if he's lying.

DOG: Hey! Are you lying?

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: You mean now? Or earlier?

DOG: Hmmmm...both?

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: Um, no.

DOG: There you go. You've been very helpful. Sorry to bother you, sir.

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: No problem. I'm just sitting here possessing some drugs and not showing up at court.

DOG: Well, you have a good day.

MALE VOICE ON PHONE: You too, asswipe!

DOG: (hanging up) I'm stumped. I guess you can't win 'em all. Call the bondsman and tell him he's out 30 grand.

On the other hand, some seriously good crime & punishment TV is "Party Police" on Court TV. which I caught for the first time tonight. It's about the marine patrol in Monroe County. What a job these guys have! They get to drive speedboats, wear cool sunglasses and check out girls in bikinis. Nice! But the best part has to be smacking around a virtually endless supply of drunken, loudmouth morons. Like the idiots on tonight's episode who got in a fight on a boat and got pepper sprayed. After they calmed down, their eyes were stinging something fierce and the deputy advised them to rinse them out with water. So they jumped off their boat into the cool, refreshing, water...cool, refreshing, salt water. Hell, even Dog isn't that dumb. I guess that's the key to law enforcement; you don't have to be smart, just smarter than the bad guys.

Dennis the Menace is gay!

Well, he's still just a kid so not yet. I mean, he is already. You are what you are, from birth, what with your true nature being a part of your genetic blueprint and all, so he is gay already. He's just not, um, practicing. That's not what I mean. Active? No, that's wrong too. He's dormant! Well, more like...oh, just look for yourself! Oh Dennis. I know a young man is going to want to "experiment" and when you're a child, there's no more trusted friend than the family dog. But for good ol' Ruff's sake...and yours...please don't play "Hide The Harmonica" with him. Believe me, when the time comes, you will be AMAZED by what can (and can't) go where.

"Wouldn't some fresh blueberry scones an' a cappuccino machine be nice? The terrazzo floors are tres tacky and for heaven's sake, would it kill you to open up the space a little bit and let it breathe? Honestly, how many shelves full of books do you need?"

This beachside confab with his mother about his father’s shortcomings is obviously foreshadowing a future where mom will make day trips, alone, into the city to visit him and Joey (a total bottom if there ever was one) at their loft in the theatre district. And look where dad's attention is drawn. Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree, hmmmmm?

Here we see Dennis' longtime companion Joey and lifetime nemesis Margaret. This encounter further foretells a future life wherein Dennis owns a small coffee shop, supporting dancer/waiter Joey and is constantly hassled by strident lesbian Margaret for not being more active in the gay community.

Yeah. Ok. I think it's pretty obvious the only things bloomin' at this dinner table are a young boy's sexuality and an increasingly strained father-son relationship. The hot cup of coffee in his dad’s hand and the ease with which he could be backhanded right out of that chair and across the room are the only things keeping Dennis from complimenting his mother’s FABULOUS floral centerpiece. A fragrant bouquet of bitterness, disappointment and resentment will continue to blossom between the two of them, unlike the preternaturally stemmed flower on display in the bud vase.

There you have it; several factors that foretell the eventual gay path young Dennis will take, making him far more of a "menace" in some people's eyes than anything he ever did in the funny papers.

Drafty

I enjoy sports and enhancing the enjoyment of sports is my enjoyment of the fantasy sports. No doubt you've heard of this. It's now a multi-million dollar enterprise in it's own right, with magazines, web sites, talk radio and even television programs. The concept is pretty basic. You draft and trade for a collection of real life players on pro teams and then use your sports accumen to make line-ups that pit the best of your players against another person's players. Based on the real life statistics produced by of those players, your team earns points. The winner is the person who can most effectively manage his or her team to earn points and defeat their opponents. The reason it's called "fantasy" sports is because you get to be the coach, general manager and owner of a team of players! That concept sounded like a great deal of fun to me and is what attracted me to the fantasy sports realm. I relished the idea of having my own team and doing whatever I wanted with it. For instance, I made up team colors, logos, stadium names and even front office employees whose exploits I would detail in regularly issued press releases. Like this one, from my hockey team, the Wimauma Surf Midgets:

WIMAUMA, FL (October 15, 2001) - After extensive negotiations, the Wimauma Surf Midgets have reached an agreement to sell the naming rights to their home arena. The building, formerly the Wimauma School Book Depository and Sheep Shearing Pavilion, will from now on be known as the Sip N Zip Arena.

"We're very excited to have this partnership with the folks at the Sip N Zip convenience store", said Surf Midgets president and general manager Buddy 'Bud' Buddweiller. "Sip N Zip presented a much more attractive bid than the ones we got from Buy N Fly, Gulp N Go or even Shop N Suk".

After some initial resistance, the Wimauma City Council supported the re-naming of the semi-historic building. "I didn't know that they had the legal right to sell the name", said councilman Luther Gringo. "But then, I didn't even know we hadn't torn the place down after the '95 fire so I guess it don't really matter".

The financial benefit of this move is expected to pay immediate dividends for the Surf Midgets, currently in 3rd place in the Red Rocket Fantasy Hockey League. "Now we can finally put a down payment on that puck refinisher we've been looking at!", said head coach Lester Guy.

Unfortunately, most people who get into fantasy sports don't have any interest in nonsense like that. For them, fantasy sports is just another form of gambling and they invest as much creativity into it as you would in buying lottery tickets. Of course, they would have you believe that there's much more skill to it than that; it's more like handicapping thoroughbreds. Ok, I'll concede that. But I know more people who've pocketed cash scratching off lotto tickets than those who've picked derby winners. I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, yesterday I went to a draft party for a new football league I'm joining this year. The draft is the one time during a fantasy season where all the particpants are in one place, sharing camaraderie. I didn't enjoy myself, as is always the case with gatherings like that. As I allude to in the profile, the concept of male bonding is completely lost on me. A Guy's Night Out (Men! Hanging out with Men! Doing Manly things!) is pretty much my idea of a totally wasted evening. All nice enough guys at this particular draft party, but I just don't crave any desire to spend my precious leisure time among guys. For one thing, you always get the sense that everybody is trying a little too hard to get their testerone on. Everybody wears a football jersey, everybody drinks beer from cans and everybody swears a lot. Ok, I like to wear jerseys (I didn't yesterday, though) but I hate the taste of beer from a can and I already think I swear too much so I frequently find myself making a conscious effort not to. At this party yesterday, there was actually a guy playing DJ with an assortment of porn DVDs all afternoon. I guess a banner stating "THERE'S A WHOLE BUNCH OF GUYS IN HERE BUT ABSOLUTELY NONE OF US ARE GAY" in the front yard probably violated some neighborhood deed restriction. Also, anytime you get more than four guys together in any kind of sports environment, you're just about guaranteed get at least a few of the hyper-competetive jock wannabes. They're either guys who were super stud athletes in high school or guys who didn't play sports at all in high school but they're from somewhere else and nobody knows that about them, so now's their chance to show them (whoever 'them' is). You find A LOT of these guys in rec league softball but they're also heavily involved in the fantasy sports scene. They tend to laugh really loudly when somebody drafts Deshaun Foster without knowing his 40 yard dash time is 3/80ths of a second slower than it was last year. They're assholes and I find assholes tedious. Not that there were any assholes at this thing yesterday. As far as I could tell, there weren't. But it still wasn't really my kind of thing. So while everyone else spent the time between their draft choices contemplating the combined all-purpose yardage of somebody named Santonio Holmes, I was looking at the clock, wondering if I'd get out of there in time to have a quiet dinner with some friends before going back to their apartment to do some more work on the documentary film we're producing on women leaders in Tampa Bay government.
So why do I do it? Well, like I said, it is fun. Even if nobody else enjoys the silly stuff I waste time on, I do. Like the fight song I wrote for my beloved Wimauma Surf Midgets:

"Hail, Hail Wimauma

Onward maroon and black

For we are the mighty Midgets of the Surf

Always on the attack

We rant, riot, rock and rave

As we seek the perfect wave

We never, ever get uptight

Or too depressed about our lack of height

So

Bow, bow to Wimauma

Legends of the ice

For we are the mighty Midgets of the Surf

And we're cheap at half the price"

Plus, maybe this year I'll win the motherf***ing championship and show those c***suckers who's the man! WHO'S THE MAN? WHO'S THE GODDAMN MAN?!?

I am the King of the self checkout!

There are not a lot of things I brag about being good at. And if you've read any of the entries in this blog, you know that's justified. However, the small handful of things I can do well, I do very, very, VERY well. One of those things being using the self checkout line at Wal Mart. I am great at that! So great, I can't even tell you, but it's sick, how great I am. Other people have trouble getting the bar code to scan...if they can even find the bar code in the first place. I watch them running the same bottle of ketchup over the scanner 10 or 11 times, getting no result. I see them standing there, paralyzed in befuddlement, trying to figure out how to select a method of payment or where the change is dispensed or where the receipt prints out. If they have to use the scale function to weigh produce or if there's an item without a bar code, I just get out of line because there is absolutely no chance that they will ever complete the transaction during my time on earth. It's like watching a monkey trying to operate the space shuttle. I'd have nothing but seething contempt for these people if not for the small perentage of pity I allow myself to graciously give them. What these people should do when they see me coming is just back away and let me go ahead of them so they can take notes. That way they can learn the subtle wrist adjustments to make that guarantees bar code reading every single time. They can marvel at how swiftly and efficiently I bag my purchases (before the computerized voice even completes the "Please place your purchases in the bagging area" prompt, I've alreay got my stuff bagged and in the cart. Save your helpful hints for someone who needs them, Robo-helper). They can watch in awe as I grab my receipt with my left hand and scoop up my change with my right at the same time!
Sometimes, I wonder what would happen if a high-ranking Wal Mart executive happened to be touring the store when I was there checking out. I can see a group of people in short sleeves and ties carrying clipboards chattering excitedly to the Vice President of Checkout Operations about their efforts to increase sales of sugar-free gum and Archie Comics digests by placing them strategically between the TV Guides and Big Grab Doritos when he stops them and commands "Silence! Who's that guy?", drawing their focus to me as I effortlessly breeze through the process with my typical grace and pinache. "Oh, he's, uh, just a customer, sir", says one of the assistant managers. "One of our REGULAR customers, sir", says one of the more savvy, career-minded assistant managers. "Well, I don't know who he is either", says the VP, "but that kid is good. Real good!" He would come over to me as I was leaving and say, "Hi there, Bob Melmurd of Wal Mart. Say, I saw you using the self checkout line and I noticed that you handle yourself pretty good. Ever consider turning pro?" "Excuse me?", I'd say. "A career in professional cashiering for Wal Mart, the worldwide dominator in retail sales of any kind. Instant express lane to the big leagues, kid!", he'd exclaim. "Well, that's very flattering, but I already have a very exciting, rewarding and soul-enriching career", I'd lie. "Don't get the wrong idea. I'm not talking about random, run-of-the-mill grocery bagging. Leave that to these lowlife jamokes," he'd say, indicating the now deflated and resentful non-self checkout cashiers nearby. He would then go to on to detail a grand promotional plan that would make me the focus of Wal Mart's publicity campaign, starting with a video featuring me demonstrating my formidable skills that would become incredibly popular on YouTube. This would lead to the media picking up on this burgeoning underground sensation (me, checking out groceries). Appearances on 'Regis & Kelly', 'Ellen' and the 'Today Show' would follow. Conan would make jokes linking me and Star Jones every night in his monologue. Eventually I would check out an assortment of corporately sponsored commercial goods at halftime of the Superbowl while Outkast and a reunited Van Halen performed a medley of the Beatles greatest hits, at the end of which the register unit I was performing on would emit a shower of fireworks from the change dispenser and the scanner's laser would project an image of Elvis on the Goodyear blimp, just before it, along with all the halftime perfomers (except me), exploded.
But then my daydream ends as I realize that I've torn a small hole in the bag of cat litter I was trying to scan and am leaving a trail of it behind me as I slink off, embarrassed, to my car.

So I guess my oven is screwed

If you ever come over to my place, I would be happy to serve you dinner. I like to cook for people and when it comes to some foods, I think I'm pretty good at it too. However, if you come over, I can pretty much guarantee we will not be eating any thing that comes from the oven. Yes ma'am, stove top only at my place. No baked ziti, pizza pie or lasagna. No cakes, no pies, no cupcakes. No roast turkey, meatloaf or tuna casserole.
Here's why:
This wasn't always the case. I used to bake without fear or trepidation. But that all changed the other night when I attempted to broil a steak. I washed the steak and patted it dry with a towel. I prepared a marinade with wine and seasoning and let it set for 45 minutes. I preheated the oven to 350 degrees. I then set the oven to broil when I put the steak in. I then put it under the broiler with the intention of letting it cook on each side for seven to nine minutes. That's when everything went horribly, horribly wrong.
I immediately sat down on the couch and started watching the previous night's 'Late Night with Conan O'Brien' on DVR and in less than four minutes (I know it was less than four minutes, because the applause hadn't even died down enough for Conan to start his monologue), I saw some smoke coming from the kitchen. In the time it took me to get up and walk at 'OH SHIT' speed to the kitchen (a distance of about 15 feet), the entire apartment was filled, and I mean FILLED, with smoke. My eyes are stinging, tears are forming and I can't see the far wall across the room. Of course, by now the alarm is going off from the smoke detector ("Oh good, that works!") which adds to the charming atmosphere. I turn off the oven, turn on the overhead fan, pull the sizzling cinder beef out of the oven and make my way to where the smoke detector is mounted on the ceiling, hoping there's a reset, or 'all-clear' button that can be pushed to shut it off. The red button doesn't do anything. Neither does the green one. And now that I'm inches away from the screaming device, I can feel the high-pitched sound waves making every loose piece of my head rattle and throb. Being the cromag specimen that I am, I decide to pull the thing off it's mount and see if I can destroy the power source. Let's see, there's a red wire and a blue wire, just like a bomb in an action movie. Using the same logic I would use if I were in one of those movies, that being that no matter what wire gets cut, the problem is over one way or another, I yank on both wires, pulling them partially out and breaking the connection. The noise stops, which gives me a fleeting moment of satisfaction for being smarter and gutsier than Mel Gibson and Bruce Willis before turning back to what's left of my dinner.
Through the (very) slowly dissipating haze, I'm able to determine that the outer edge is burnt beyond recognition. It's solid black and flakes off into ashes when probed with a fork. Meanwhile, at the center just below the brown surface the meat is pink, slimy and cold (how in the hell is that even possible?!?). Ah, but the thin round ribbon between these two extremes is...perfect! What I have is an approximately 1" wide ring of delicious steak. Figuring the drama is basically over, I sit down to eat dinner. If concerned neighbors had heard the alarm and noticed any of the smoke seeping out, they would have been justified in calling the fire department. And if the fire department had showed up and knocked my door down with axes, they'd have been treated to the sight of me enveloped in a carcinogenic meat fog, contentedly eating a steak ring, watching a rerun of Conan O'Brien while a disemboweled smoke detector dangled harmlessly from the ceiling.
The best I can figure is that some steak juice somehow spilled onto the heating element or some hot surface or something. Because tonight I went to use it again, this time for Totino's Party Pizza (sooo good!) and smoke started pumping out again when it got hot. Not as bad this time, but it would have been if I hadn't been right there to stop it. I had used the oven before without incident so a good cleaning will probably solve the problem. The trouble with that solution is that when these problems happen, the oven is much too hot to clean and by the time it cools off enough, I will have eaten a bowl of cereal for dinner and moved on to other matters. Basically, George Bush has a better chance of getting re-elected that that oven does of ever getting cleaned.
Now, what boiled and/or fried entree would you like for dinner?