Well it's day 10 of no internet or cable TV in my new SoCal home. I can just hear it now: "Cry me a fuckin river, Lee" or "Holy shit! How have you survived, Lee?" Let me tell you, if it weren't for Project Runway (Lily) and SportsCenter (me), I think we could do without the TV part for a while longer. But when football season starts, I'm gonna be climbing on the roof installing a satellite dish.
In our last apartment, I plugged the cable into the TV and it worked. Free cable for four years. In fact, the cable worked just by plugging it in (for a short while anyway) in 3 out of the last 5 places I lived. I highly recommend trying it out before calling your local cable company, so's to avoid any experiences like the one had by yours truly.
The Time Warner cable guy came over on Tuesday, arriving an astonishing 1 hour into the 1/2 day window they gave me over the phone. I pointed him at the outlet nearest to the TV and started him moving forward on getting the hell out of my apartment. After about 15 minutes, he asked for another outlet, and being that there are 4 outlets in my little living room, I pointed him at the next one. He drilled and poked and prodded, went outside and did something at the box outside, came back in and poked and prodded at the outlet some more.
He came back in and asked for another outlet. I asked "What seems to be the problem?" The cable guy said "I'm not getting enough signal. There's nothing strong enough to give you both cable and internet, so I'm looking for the main outlet." I showed him the outlet in our room. He drilled and poked and prodded some more. It was at this point that I began to wonder if he knew what the hell he was doing.
10 minutes later he asked if there was an outlet in Judah's room. Judah was taking a much needed nap in there. I reluctantly said yes and we went in. In accordance with Murphy's Law, the outlet was behind a dresser. We move the dresser and Judah wakes up and starts crying. The cable guy drills and pokes and prods at the outlet. Nothing but a "weak signal".
He asked me if there was a splitter box or a panel inside the apartment. "Like this one?" I ask as I point to the electric switchbox. He told me yeah but not really. Judah was still crying and I was really getting tired of his making me do more work than he was doing, so I said I don't know where the box was, nor did we have any more outlets for him to play around with. I stood there like a dipshit and he soon realized he had to do more than just stick a cable into an outlet and check for a signal. He went outside to call his supervisor, and I could hear every word of his ineptitude.
A few more minutes later he comes into my living room with his gear slung over his shoulder and he tells me I have to get the cable company to come back another time. Right. I tell him he needs to hook up my cable and not just give me an hour of his time and then bail. That seemed to get his attention because his line of bullshit turned to the questioning line of bullshit: "What you want me to do?" "You think I'm not doing my job?" "How am I supposed to hook your cable up if I can't find a strong signal?" Um, I've slung a few cables in my day and I think it's pretty basic: If you can't find the signal - you trace the goddman line back to its source. He told me that was impossible and left.
I called his supervisor and basically got the same line of bullshit. I'll spare you the details.
Now I'm in the market for a satellite dish. If you can't beat 'em, ...go climb on the roof.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Break on through (to the other side)
I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. Well, yes I know what the hell I was thinking: Get out of your comfort zone. Try something new. Something different. Well I went and did it, and well... it's different. Like heaven and hell are different. Like Felix and Oscar are different. Like the Giants and the Dodgers are different. Okay, the Giants and Dodgers aren't really that different (they're paid baseball players in different uniforms), but it leads me to the differences between San Francisco and Los Angeles. Naw, fuck that. This has nothing to do with either city. I just wanna bitch about the process of moving.
Why the fuck is it that the new phone company can't just turn your phone on without a hitch? Why the fuck is it that they guarantee that the repair man will come between the hours of 8 am and 7 pm. I'd love to have those kinds of starting times for work. "Hey Lee, we've got clients in tomorrow morning to start the edit." "Oh cool, I'm looking forward to it. Tell them I'll be there no later than 7 pm." Only the telephone company can get away with that shit. And so can the cable company. And the internet company. I need to get into that line of work instead of taking a week to watch and pick good takes of Coca-cola pouring into a glass. Which by the way has increased my intake of said cola about 100 fold. Damn subliminal advertising.
Why the fuck is it that there isn't a refrigerator included with my new apartment? Why the fuck does that seem like standard operating bullshit in this town? Like you look forever on Westside Rentals for an apartment, and "refrigerator" is an option. Like "parking" is an option. Cept when you don't get an included parking spot, you find one on the street. When you don't get an included refrigerator, you don't just go to Best Buy and drop it in your shopping basket and put it in your trunk and carry it up the stairs and into your apartment and plug it in. You deal with delivery schedules and prices of places you don't want to deal with and wait while the food in your cooler rots in the heat, and you wonder why in the hell somebody would want to carry around a fridge when they move from apartment to apartment.
Why the fuck is it that when the moving company says they'll be there between Tuesday and Thursday, they get there on Thursday? Why the fuck can't they just say "Your shit will be there on Thursday Mr. Musical Bee." Don't make me put everything else on hold for three days so you can call me and tell me my shit's gonna be there on the last day that you promised me it could be there. Then definitely don't bitch to me about the amount of boxes you have to carry up a flight of stairs because you were paid to do so.
Don't get me wrong. I'm loving being in weather where I can throw on shorts and a t-shirt and not worry about it. It's the difficulty of transporting your life that I don't understand. Why the fuck is that?
Why the fuck is it that the new phone company can't just turn your phone on without a hitch? Why the fuck is it that they guarantee that the repair man will come between the hours of 8 am and 7 pm. I'd love to have those kinds of starting times for work. "Hey Lee, we've got clients in tomorrow morning to start the edit." "Oh cool, I'm looking forward to it. Tell them I'll be there no later than 7 pm." Only the telephone company can get away with that shit. And so can the cable company. And the internet company. I need to get into that line of work instead of taking a week to watch and pick good takes of Coca-cola pouring into a glass. Which by the way has increased my intake of said cola about 100 fold. Damn subliminal advertising.
Why the fuck is it that there isn't a refrigerator included with my new apartment? Why the fuck does that seem like standard operating bullshit in this town? Like you look forever on Westside Rentals for an apartment, and "refrigerator" is an option. Like "parking" is an option. Cept when you don't get an included parking spot, you find one on the street. When you don't get an included refrigerator, you don't just go to Best Buy and drop it in your shopping basket and put it in your trunk and carry it up the stairs and into your apartment and plug it in. You deal with delivery schedules and prices of places you don't want to deal with and wait while the food in your cooler rots in the heat, and you wonder why in the hell somebody would want to carry around a fridge when they move from apartment to apartment.
Why the fuck is it that when the moving company says they'll be there between Tuesday and Thursday, they get there on Thursday? Why the fuck can't they just say "Your shit will be there on Thursday Mr. Musical Bee." Don't make me put everything else on hold for three days so you can call me and tell me my shit's gonna be there on the last day that you promised me it could be there. Then definitely don't bitch to me about the amount of boxes you have to carry up a flight of stairs because you were paid to do so.
Don't get me wrong. I'm loving being in weather where I can throw on shorts and a t-shirt and not worry about it. It's the difficulty of transporting your life that I don't understand. Why the fuck is that?
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Movin' out
Due to the massive amount of packing happening this week, time has slipped away and there will be not much to read (other than this) on LLMB this week. Tune in next week for another exciting episode. Thanks for reading!
Thursday, July 20, 2006
867-5309
Because of our impending move to the Southern part of California, we were forced to get a new phone number. Not that our current phone number is so great. But you always want a memorable phone number. Maybe one that spells something. My phone number two apartments ago was okay. It spelled VAN-VISA. You don't get a lot of choices for numbers when you get new phone service, and VAN-VISA was the best they offered.
Apparently VAN-VISA wasn't that memorable because some of my friends would tell me "Oh dude, I was gonna call you last night because we were at the most awesome party ever! But I thought your number spelled VIS-VISA or something. I couldn't remember what the first part was." Yeah, VAN and VISA don't really connect in the mind too well.
Having a phone number that has a 1 or a 0 in it kind of hinders spelling anything good because there aren't any letters associated with those numbers. Unless you put the 1 or 0 at the end, like if I had a number that spelled LEE-BEE1 or LEE-BEE0. That would be somewhat memorable.
Mr. Steve Magg told me he worked with a guy whose number spelled the most awesome thing ever: CASHBAG. Nobody forgets when your number spells CASHBAG. My new phone number only contains the word SUCK. Great. Go to phonespell.org to find out if your number SUCKs too.
Apparently VAN-VISA wasn't that memorable because some of my friends would tell me "Oh dude, I was gonna call you last night because we were at the most awesome party ever! But I thought your number spelled VIS-VISA or something. I couldn't remember what the first part was." Yeah, VAN and VISA don't really connect in the mind too well.
Having a phone number that has a 1 or a 0 in it kind of hinders spelling anything good because there aren't any letters associated with those numbers. Unless you put the 1 or 0 at the end, like if I had a number that spelled LEE-BEE1 or LEE-BEE0. That would be somewhat memorable.
Mr. Steve Magg told me he worked with a guy whose number spelled the most awesome thing ever: CASHBAG. Nobody forgets when your number spells CASHBAG. My new phone number only contains the word SUCK. Great. Go to phonespell.org to find out if your number SUCKs too.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
I Can't Drive 55
We've been living out of our car lately. On top of driving up to Washington and down to Los Angeles, we attended a wedding in Kirkwood (South Lake Tahoe) last weekend. To get to Kirkwood, you drive 80 to 580 to 205 to I5 to 4 to 99 to 88. The bulk of the driving is on 88, where you get to tailgate campers, tour buses, or folks who are generally scared shitless of driving on mountain roads and who are going to go under the speed limit and drive using the "Fuck You" driving rules.
The "Fuck You" driving rules are as follows:
1. Assume a "Fuck You" attitude
2. Drive at or under the speed limit
3. Stay in the passing lane (aka the fast lane) if there is one available
4. If you drive a camper or tour bus, do not use the Turnout lanes to let faster traffic pass
5. Do not under any circumstances change lanes
6. Most importantly, if any vehicle attempts to pass on the right, speed up and do not allow it
Now the "Fuck You" driving rules aren't just for mountain roads. They can be applied on any highway where there are two or more lanes, thus creating an opportunity for the left most lane (in the US anyway) to be used as a passing lane. The most frequent uses of the "Fuck You" driving rules can be found on any stretch of I5 in the state of California.
Sometimes a "Fuck You" driver isn't necessarily attempting to be a "Fuck You" driver. This "Fuck You" driver is usually on their cell phone, chatting away and not paying attention to the other drivers on the road. These drivers assume that staying in the left/passing lane is the safest place for them, as it requires no lane changes and forces the other drivers to pass on the right, enabling them to efficiently use their driving time for talk time as well. But make no mistake, the phone driver is a "Fuck You" driver to the core.
"Fuck You" drivers can also be found on any freeway in Southern California. This type of driver can sometimes be found carrying a gun, so any glancing at a car or its occupants whilst passing on the right is unadvisable.
I'm going to be driving between San Francisco and Los Angeles so much in the next few weeks that it's gonna seem like my goddamn commute. Good thing we're moving to a place where you don't have to use your car very often. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Fuck.
The "Fuck You" driving rules are as follows:
1. Assume a "Fuck You" attitude
2. Drive at or under the speed limit
3. Stay in the passing lane (aka the fast lane) if there is one available
4. If you drive a camper or tour bus, do not use the Turnout lanes to let faster traffic pass
5. Do not under any circumstances change lanes
6. Most importantly, if any vehicle attempts to pass on the right, speed up and do not allow it
Now the "Fuck You" driving rules aren't just for mountain roads. They can be applied on any highway where there are two or more lanes, thus creating an opportunity for the left most lane (in the US anyway) to be used as a passing lane. The most frequent uses of the "Fuck You" driving rules can be found on any stretch of I5 in the state of California.
Sometimes a "Fuck You" driver isn't necessarily attempting to be a "Fuck You" driver. This "Fuck You" driver is usually on their cell phone, chatting away and not paying attention to the other drivers on the road. These drivers assume that staying in the left/passing lane is the safest place for them, as it requires no lane changes and forces the other drivers to pass on the right, enabling them to efficiently use their driving time for talk time as well. But make no mistake, the phone driver is a "Fuck You" driver to the core.
"Fuck You" drivers can also be found on any freeway in Southern California. This type of driver can sometimes be found carrying a gun, so any glancing at a car or its occupants whilst passing on the right is unadvisable.
I'm going to be driving between San Francisco and Los Angeles so much in the next few weeks that it's gonna seem like my goddamn commute. Good thing we're moving to a place where you don't have to use your car very often. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Fuck.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Car trouble, oh yeah
We have 2 cars. One is a newer Passat Wagon. For the kid, ya know. We also have the car that Lily had before we met: a 1990 Honda Civic hatchback. We call it 'Lil Brown. It's worth about 500 bucks, but that wasn't enough money for us to use it as a trade-in for the new car. Much better to have a spare car lying around if you need it. And if you have a bunch of spare cash for repairs lying around that you don't need either.
'Lil Brown has become nothing more than a parking space taker in our neighborhood and a weekly taker of my time when I have to move it for street cleaning every Thursday morning. I have fun making it into a game where I try to park in the same spot in front of our house so we don't have huge trucks and SUVs in that spot preventing the cars speeding down Sanchez Street from seeing us backing out of our driveway.
When we went to the Northwest the other week, I parked 'Lil Brown in the garage, since we drove the Passat up. Upon returning, I saw a spot for 'Lil Brown on the street and put the Passat back in the garage. The next Thursday when I got in to drive 'Lil Brown back in the spot in front of the house after street cleaning, I put the key in the ignition, turned it and CLICK. Click. Turn, click. Oy.
Dead battery. I immediately looked at the headlight switch. On. I wondered if one of the homeless people who regularly breaks into 'Lil Brown turned the switch to spite me. Or if it was one of the neighbors who's tired of me parking in the same spot in front of my house all the time. Lily thinks it was me who left the lights on when I backed out of the garage and forgot the lights were on because it was broad daylight outside. I think it was Gremlins.
So I grab the Passat, and jump start 'Lil Brown and drive her into the regular spot in front of our house. I have a week to get a new battery, but do I? Hell no. I decide that next time I'm gonna push start 'Lil Brown to move it.
I once had 'Lil Brown down in Los Angeles at my old roommate Luke's place in Hollywood and when I was heading out for home the battery was dead. Luckily he lives on a hill, so I just coasted into a pop start and drove until I almost ran out of gas somewhere in the middle of nowhere on I5. I had just enough gas to drive to a station and fuel up, then I push started 'Lil Brown out of there, called LLMB reader #5 and he was gracious enough to drive to meet me at my mechanic's garage near Potrero Hill and pick me up.
Back to present day battery dead story: I'm trying to rock 'Lil Brown out of the little pothole she's in, and I look down the street to see that the garbage collection is happening on the other end of the block. Perfect, I have just enough time to get 'er going and move. I finally get enough momentum to get 'Lil Brown out of the pothole and turn the wheel so we're heading away from the garbage truck. I hop in and shut the door and attempt the pop start. Nuthin. I get out and push again and hop in again and try the pop start again. Nuthin. At this point I'm at the stop sign on 14th & Sanchez.
I look up and notice a black and white police SUV pull up at the intersection on my right. He stares me down as he drives by. Thanks for the help. I look in my rearview and see a green Subaru wagon behind me, so I motion for him to go around. The driver pokes his head out the window and yells "want a push?" I nod yes and reach for the passenger door and unlock it, thinking he's gonna hand push it with me. Then I notice in the rearview that his car is pulling up so close to 'Lil Brown that I realize he's gonna push it with his car. I close my door and we go left through the intersection and he gives me enough momentum that I coast into the right lane and I give him the thumbs up as he passes me on the left. This time I wait long enough to get serious speed going before I try to do the pop start. Nuthin. I try again. Nuthin. I look ahead and realize I'm about to coast into the very busy intersection of 14th, Church and Market.
Then the clouds open and a ray of light shines on an open parking spot to my right. I coast right into it. Whew. I get out of 'Lil Brown and look for the street cleaning sign. Tuesday. And Tuesday was the 4th of July, so NO STREET CLEANING!!! I am so golden. So I have two weeks to get a new battery, but will I? Hell no.
'Lil Brown has become nothing more than a parking space taker in our neighborhood and a weekly taker of my time when I have to move it for street cleaning every Thursday morning. I have fun making it into a game where I try to park in the same spot in front of our house so we don't have huge trucks and SUVs in that spot preventing the cars speeding down Sanchez Street from seeing us backing out of our driveway.
When we went to the Northwest the other week, I parked 'Lil Brown in the garage, since we drove the Passat up. Upon returning, I saw a spot for 'Lil Brown on the street and put the Passat back in the garage. The next Thursday when I got in to drive 'Lil Brown back in the spot in front of the house after street cleaning, I put the key in the ignition, turned it and CLICK. Click. Turn, click. Oy.
Dead battery. I immediately looked at the headlight switch. On. I wondered if one of the homeless people who regularly breaks into 'Lil Brown turned the switch to spite me. Or if it was one of the neighbors who's tired of me parking in the same spot in front of my house all the time. Lily thinks it was me who left the lights on when I backed out of the garage and forgot the lights were on because it was broad daylight outside. I think it was Gremlins.
So I grab the Passat, and jump start 'Lil Brown and drive her into the regular spot in front of our house. I have a week to get a new battery, but do I? Hell no. I decide that next time I'm gonna push start 'Lil Brown to move it.
I once had 'Lil Brown down in Los Angeles at my old roommate Luke's place in Hollywood and when I was heading out for home the battery was dead. Luckily he lives on a hill, so I just coasted into a pop start and drove until I almost ran out of gas somewhere in the middle of nowhere on I5. I had just enough gas to drive to a station and fuel up, then I push started 'Lil Brown out of there, called LLMB reader #5 and he was gracious enough to drive to meet me at my mechanic's garage near Potrero Hill and pick me up.
Back to present day battery dead story: I'm trying to rock 'Lil Brown out of the little pothole she's in, and I look down the street to see that the garbage collection is happening on the other end of the block. Perfect, I have just enough time to get 'er going and move. I finally get enough momentum to get 'Lil Brown out of the pothole and turn the wheel so we're heading away from the garbage truck. I hop in and shut the door and attempt the pop start. Nuthin. I get out and push again and hop in again and try the pop start again. Nuthin. At this point I'm at the stop sign on 14th & Sanchez.
I look up and notice a black and white police SUV pull up at the intersection on my right. He stares me down as he drives by. Thanks for the help. I look in my rearview and see a green Subaru wagon behind me, so I motion for him to go around. The driver pokes his head out the window and yells "want a push?" I nod yes and reach for the passenger door and unlock it, thinking he's gonna hand push it with me. Then I notice in the rearview that his car is pulling up so close to 'Lil Brown that I realize he's gonna push it with his car. I close my door and we go left through the intersection and he gives me enough momentum that I coast into the right lane and I give him the thumbs up as he passes me on the left. This time I wait long enough to get serious speed going before I try to do the pop start. Nuthin. I try again. Nuthin. I look ahead and realize I'm about to coast into the very busy intersection of 14th, Church and Market.
Then the clouds open and a ray of light shines on an open parking spot to my right. I coast right into it. Whew. I get out of 'Lil Brown and look for the street cleaning sign. Tuesday. And Tuesday was the 4th of July, so NO STREET CLEANING!!! I am so golden. So I have two weeks to get a new battery, but will I? Hell no.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Hollywood freaks on the Hollywood scene
Last weekend was my 2nd annual birthday/bachelor party trip. For those of you who haven't heard me mention this annual spectacle before, it's basically a bachelor party which happens to coincide with my birthday. In 2005 it was Las Vegas. This year: Los Angeles. And by Los Angeles, I mean Hollywood. What a bunch of freaks.
We started by driving down I-5 at the convenient hour of 6:30 pm because the bachelor, Cory, had a tough time getting off work in time to start drinking in the car. We picked him up from the Fruitvale BART station where we had a half-rack of Heineken mini-kegs waiting. I felt like a commando in the passenger seat handing out cans like I was loading ammunition into imaginary machine guns (our non-toned bellies, really); handing a fresh silver mini-keg to the back seat when they would hand me an empty shell.
It's never a good idea to drink in the car on a road trip unless you don't mind stopping every few yards to piss. Especially with 3 guys whose bladders aren't in sync. LLMB Reader #6 was driving, not drinking, so he didn't have the bladder issues the rest of us were having. But he was kind enough to oblige us our piss stops. That is until we reached Los Angeles. His patience having worn thin, he started pushing the bathroom stops to the exit AFTER we'd said we gotta go NOW.
Okay, enough with the pissing stories. For the actual bachelor party, we stayed at The Standard in West Hollywood. Hipster central. When we pulled up to valet park the car, the guy who took the keys looked like straight out of the Sabotage (Beastie Boys) video, complete with 70's moustache, shaggy hair and cop sunglasses. I thought it was a costume, but I soon realized I'm not hip enough to understand the fashion in Hollywood.
We went out for sushi at Miyagi's which included several sake bombs, more sake and more beer. Then more beer and beer. Our local Hollywood tourguide Luke met up with us and took us to Cahuenga, where we bludgeoned Cory with shots of Tequila, Jack Daniels ,and Jaegermeister (pause to vomit here). He ended up having to leave our second bar and wound up puking in the cab while his 22-year old brother tried to cover up the puking sounds with chit-chat about where to go for fun in LA.
LLMB Reader #9 and I got into a fight using the rubberbands that two hired hotties were handing out to promote some new phone service. I earned a pretty intense laceration on my upper arm that made me look like an S&M aficionado, while he managed a series of welts up and down his arm that he's probably having a fun time explaining to the clients he's in town to see this week.
After tucking the bachelor in his bed of pillows next to the toilet, the rest of us went to the lounge in The Standard. It was like a visit to India in there. I inadvertently told some women that it was my birthday and we got into the "how old are you/how old do you think I am" game. I wound up telling one of them I thought she was 34. She was 30. Ouch. I suck at that game.
We spent most of the next day hanging out by the pool. The real freaks started filing in at around 2 pm. A couple of guys looked like they were trying to sport Beck's hairstyle. One guy was bold enough to have a look that reminded you of Michael Jackson. Lots of kids drinking champagne. The buffed look is definitely out. You absolutely must look like a rockstar, moviestar, pornstar, or a hollywood player to hang by the pool at The Standard. If you look like you're gonna swim in the pool, you're invisible.
I won't get into the details of the rest of that evening, but I'll leave it to your imagination as to what goes on at a bachelor party.
To top off the weekend, at Sunday breakfast I had my most hugest star sighting ever: Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake snuggling over toast and eggs. How cool is that? I guess the Justin part isn't so cool. I should have shown him the moves I learned a while back from his boy band's music video while working as assistant editor with LLMB Reader #1. Well hopefully next year I won't see anybody from a boy band anywhere near my birthday. That is, if I'm lucky enough to have another friend get married next year. If you know anybody who intends on having their bachelor party the fourth weekend of June 2007, send 'em my way. Third time's the charm.
We started by driving down I-5 at the convenient hour of 6:30 pm because the bachelor, Cory, had a tough time getting off work in time to start drinking in the car. We picked him up from the Fruitvale BART station where we had a half-rack of Heineken mini-kegs waiting. I felt like a commando in the passenger seat handing out cans like I was loading ammunition into imaginary machine guns (our non-toned bellies, really); handing a fresh silver mini-keg to the back seat when they would hand me an empty shell.
It's never a good idea to drink in the car on a road trip unless you don't mind stopping every few yards to piss. Especially with 3 guys whose bladders aren't in sync. LLMB Reader #6 was driving, not drinking, so he didn't have the bladder issues the rest of us were having. But he was kind enough to oblige us our piss stops. That is until we reached Los Angeles. His patience having worn thin, he started pushing the bathroom stops to the exit AFTER we'd said we gotta go NOW.
Okay, enough with the pissing stories. For the actual bachelor party, we stayed at The Standard in West Hollywood. Hipster central. When we pulled up to valet park the car, the guy who took the keys looked like straight out of the Sabotage (Beastie Boys) video, complete with 70's moustache, shaggy hair and cop sunglasses. I thought it was a costume, but I soon realized I'm not hip enough to understand the fashion in Hollywood.
We went out for sushi at Miyagi's which included several sake bombs, more sake and more beer. Then more beer and beer. Our local Hollywood tourguide Luke met up with us and took us to Cahuenga, where we bludgeoned Cory with shots of Tequila, Jack Daniels ,and Jaegermeister (pause to vomit here). He ended up having to leave our second bar and wound up puking in the cab while his 22-year old brother tried to cover up the puking sounds with chit-chat about where to go for fun in LA.
LLMB Reader #9 and I got into a fight using the rubberbands that two hired hotties were handing out to promote some new phone service. I earned a pretty intense laceration on my upper arm that made me look like an S&M aficionado, while he managed a series of welts up and down his arm that he's probably having a fun time explaining to the clients he's in town to see this week.
After tucking the bachelor in his bed of pillows next to the toilet, the rest of us went to the lounge in The Standard. It was like a visit to India in there. I inadvertently told some women that it was my birthday and we got into the "how old are you/how old do you think I am" game. I wound up telling one of them I thought she was 34. She was 30. Ouch. I suck at that game.
We spent most of the next day hanging out by the pool. The real freaks started filing in at around 2 pm. A couple of guys looked like they were trying to sport Beck's hairstyle. One guy was bold enough to have a look that reminded you of Michael Jackson. Lots of kids drinking champagne. The buffed look is definitely out. You absolutely must look like a rockstar, moviestar, pornstar, or a hollywood player to hang by the pool at The Standard. If you look like you're gonna swim in the pool, you're invisible.
I won't get into the details of the rest of that evening, but I'll leave it to your imagination as to what goes on at a bachelor party.
To top off the weekend, at Sunday breakfast I had my most hugest star sighting ever: Cameron Diaz and Justin Timberlake snuggling over toast and eggs. How cool is that? I guess the Justin part isn't so cool. I should have shown him the moves I learned a while back from his boy band's music video while working as assistant editor with LLMB Reader #1. Well hopefully next year I won't see anybody from a boy band anywhere near my birthday. That is, if I'm lucky enough to have another friend get married next year. If you know anybody who intends on having their bachelor party the fourth weekend of June 2007, send 'em my way. Third time's the charm.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Shinin' Star
We road tripped up to The Great Northwest last week. It was all fine and dandy until my first caffeine-deprived headache of the journey. I never thought I'd say this, but: Thank God for Starbucks Coffee.
Normally I try to keep my distance from Starbucks. Not that the coffee isn't good, it's because they're a little like Wal-Mart in their blanketing the block mentality. But the problem with being nowhere near a major city is that the coffee is almost guaranteed to taste like swill. You can tell it's swill when you're:
a. In a hotel and the coffee carafe displays the sign "coffee".
b. Standing there with a styrofoam cup in your hand and considering using the non-dairy creamer packets in front of you.
So Starbucks is the old standby. You're assured of at least the same non-swill because it's a chain. But as I found in Roseburg, Oregon, even Starbucks can be bad. How? I have no friggin' idea. But they can do that at Safeway in Roseburg.
I guess I haven't spent enough time working on my specialty coffee lingo, since I always order a house drip coffee. Because when I went into the Starbucks near my sister's house in Kent, Washington, I had a brain-cramp trying to figure out what those folks were ordering.
Kent, Washington is a little like... well it's not a little like anything. In fact, there isn't anything there but strip malls and houses. And trees. As we were driving into town, we saw a Kent City Center exit sign from the freeway. Lily and I looked at each other in amazement that we'd never checked it out before, so we looked from the freeway for the downtown. We saw a huge pile of dirt. We kept scanning. Nope, just a huge pile of dirt. There's Kent, Washington for ya.
Anyway, back to the Starbucks near my sister's. As I stood in line, I overheard a man ask for a vanilla double latte, sugar free with an extra shot of decaf. Even the cashier was confused. He said it again, like he says it every day in rote memorization. I stepped up to the counter and ordered my tall drip. The barista handed the man his drink and said "I didn't really know what to call it, but I guess you do." He giggled and said "The extra shot of decaf puts some of the flavor back in." I grabbed my coffee and headed toward the sugar station, and I overheard another man tell the cashier "vanilla double latte, sugar free with an extra shot of decaf." Lily assured me it must have been some frat prank. Yeah, a fraternity of 47 year old men. Thank God for Starbucks Coffee.
Normally I try to keep my distance from Starbucks. Not that the coffee isn't good, it's because they're a little like Wal-Mart in their blanketing the block mentality. But the problem with being nowhere near a major city is that the coffee is almost guaranteed to taste like swill. You can tell it's swill when you're:
a. In a hotel and the coffee carafe displays the sign "coffee".
b. Standing there with a styrofoam cup in your hand and considering using the non-dairy creamer packets in front of you.
So Starbucks is the old standby. You're assured of at least the same non-swill because it's a chain. But as I found in Roseburg, Oregon, even Starbucks can be bad. How? I have no friggin' idea. But they can do that at Safeway in Roseburg.
I guess I haven't spent enough time working on my specialty coffee lingo, since I always order a house drip coffee. Because when I went into the Starbucks near my sister's house in Kent, Washington, I had a brain-cramp trying to figure out what those folks were ordering.
Kent, Washington is a little like... well it's not a little like anything. In fact, there isn't anything there but strip malls and houses. And trees. As we were driving into town, we saw a Kent City Center exit sign from the freeway. Lily and I looked at each other in amazement that we'd never checked it out before, so we looked from the freeway for the downtown. We saw a huge pile of dirt. We kept scanning. Nope, just a huge pile of dirt. There's Kent, Washington for ya.
Anyway, back to the Starbucks near my sister's. As I stood in line, I overheard a man ask for a vanilla double latte, sugar free with an extra shot of decaf. Even the cashier was confused. He said it again, like he says it every day in rote memorization. I stepped up to the counter and ordered my tall drip. The barista handed the man his drink and said "I didn't really know what to call it, but I guess you do." He giggled and said "The extra shot of decaf puts some of the flavor back in." I grabbed my coffee and headed toward the sugar station, and I overheard another man tell the cashier "vanilla double latte, sugar free with an extra shot of decaf." Lily assured me it must have been some frat prank. Yeah, a fraternity of 47 year old men. Thank God for Starbucks Coffee.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Mr. Mom
My wife left me on Saturday. Okay, it's not really as dramatic as that. She had an all-day outing with the girls up in the wine country. So I became Mr. Mom. Because we've taken Judah in his stroller through our surrounding neighborhoods so many times that I could do it blindfolded, I decided to take Judah down to the Embarcadero to check out the farmer's market, and then to the Giants ballpark.
I grabbed the stroller, the diaper bag, my backpack, and of course Judah and headed toward the F-car line (for you non-public transpo types, it runs down Market street). When we got to Market, the F car pulled up across the street from us. I briefly considered jaywalking, but I'm sure Judah wouldn't appreciate it, given the amount of cars racing by. So we waited, and luckily the streetcar didn't make the light so I asked the driver if I could get on.
He opened the door and I fumbled to quickly get Judah and the diaper bag out of the stroller and fold it up. The driver was nice enough to grab the stroller and put it on board so I could handle the rest. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the buck fifty fare. The streetcar began moving. I lost my balance and had to take a step sideways so's not to drop Judah, then I was able to get the money into the coin box. Whew.
Not 5 seconds later, the streetcar made a lurch forward and I lost my balance again, nearly putting Judah on the floor. Luckily for him I have decent balance, so I just absorbed the motion with my knees and crouched for a sec and then made for the nearest seat.
Some 50-something tourist ladies in the nearby bench seat chuckled and one of them said something of which I could only make out "Britney Spears", and they laughed again. Ha ha very funny muthafucka. Judah and I settled into our seat and he seemed to enjoy the ride (as much as a 5 month old can anyway), and the tourist ladies gushed about how cute he is.
We had the same sort of adventure getting off the streetcar, except with no assistance from the driver this time. Same thing getting on and off the N going home. If I was a woman with a child, people would be tripping over themselves trying to help out. Man!
I grabbed the stroller, the diaper bag, my backpack, and of course Judah and headed toward the F-car line (for you non-public transpo types, it runs down Market street). When we got to Market, the F car pulled up across the street from us. I briefly considered jaywalking, but I'm sure Judah wouldn't appreciate it, given the amount of cars racing by. So we waited, and luckily the streetcar didn't make the light so I asked the driver if I could get on.
He opened the door and I fumbled to quickly get Judah and the diaper bag out of the stroller and fold it up. The driver was nice enough to grab the stroller and put it on board so I could handle the rest. I reached into my pocket and grabbed the buck fifty fare. The streetcar began moving. I lost my balance and had to take a step sideways so's not to drop Judah, then I was able to get the money into the coin box. Whew.
Not 5 seconds later, the streetcar made a lurch forward and I lost my balance again, nearly putting Judah on the floor. Luckily for him I have decent balance, so I just absorbed the motion with my knees and crouched for a sec and then made for the nearest seat.
Some 50-something tourist ladies in the nearby bench seat chuckled and one of them said something of which I could only make out "Britney Spears", and they laughed again. Ha ha very funny muthafucka. Judah and I settled into our seat and he seemed to enjoy the ride (as much as a 5 month old can anyway), and the tourist ladies gushed about how cute he is.
We had the same sort of adventure getting off the streetcar, except with no assistance from the driver this time. Same thing getting on and off the N going home. If I was a woman with a child, people would be tripping over themselves trying to help out. Man!
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery (part 2)
Because we aren't going to be seeing each other before Tuesday.
And keep going on this one, you'll get there eventually.
"We've got nothin' better to do, than watch TV and have a couple of brews."
Musical-bee robot - LLMB
And keep going on this one, you'll get there eventually.
"We've got nothin' better to do, than watch TV and have a couple of brews."
Musical-bee robot - LLMB
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Been Caught Stealing
Going shopping for groceries has got to be one of the most dreaded experiences in anyone's routine. It is in mine anyway. I'd consider some delivery service, but I wanna squeeze the buns before I purchase them. I wanna sniff the peaches before I buy them. I wanna... well, you get the point.
In this town, you gotta go to at least 3 different markets to get what you need: A good fresh fruit/veggies market, a huge corporate market for cheap stuff you buy at grocery stores but don't eat (garbage bags, toilet paper, etc.) and Trader Joe's for boxed-type-throw-it-in-the-toaster-oven-for-a-few-and-it's-ready-to-eat food. I loathe every single market.
I frequented the Safeway on Market Street for the longest time because it was the closest thing to one-stop-shopping nearby. But their lack of bagging help, seriously limp produce, and abundance of weirdo shoplifting meth-heads (or people who look like them) forced me to search elsewhere for groceries.
That led me to Trader Joe's, which has to be the most infuriating shopping experience start to finish. The parking lot is a fistfight waiting to happen, and getting through the door can be tougher than cramming on BART at rush hour. Even then you've only just entered the insanity.
The inside of Trader Joe's holds the biggest collection of intelli-righteous fucks in the world. You can almost hear their collective mantra in unison: "I'm saving the earth. I'm saving the earth. I'm saving the earth."
No, you're buying broccoli in a plastic tray wrapped in plastic. Go to Rainbow if you want to save the earth like the rest of the walking dead in there. And move your damn cart over please. I need to get some of that free coffee and hummus.
There are three types of people at Trader Joe's:
1. The tourist: Sips coffee while meandering through picking up an item here or there. No list, just grabs what appeals to him or her. Grocery shopping is less of a necessity than an all day event.
2. The racecart driver: Pushes cart at mach speed through every opening, list in a tight grip. Eyes locked ahead, misses your hip by about 5 centimeters while muttering the next item on the list.
3. The completely clueless one: Stands in the center of the aisle while slowly scanning every can of soup. Meanwhile their cart is in the middle of the aisle in cockeyed fashion as to block anything but a 3 year old from getting by. Doesn't look up when you stand patiently and "ahem" a few times hoping to pass.
I love it when you're checking out of Trader Joe's and the register/bagger person doesn't even attempt to bag your groceries. So you're forced to stare off into the distance or mess with your phone until they realize that it's their job. I play that game now after bagging my groceries dozens of times and not even getting a simple "thanks" from the employees. Luckily, Trader Joe's food lasts forever in the freezer so you don't have to go there very often.
I've already covered Rainbow Grocery, right? The walking dead? Yeah.
Now I just go to another big market chain that at least has decent parking (validated even), baggers who actually seem like they don't mind it, and decent produce. I'm not telling anybody where it is because I don't want it overrun with weirdo shoplifting meth-heads (or people who look like them).
In this town, you gotta go to at least 3 different markets to get what you need: A good fresh fruit/veggies market, a huge corporate market for cheap stuff you buy at grocery stores but don't eat (garbage bags, toilet paper, etc.) and Trader Joe's for boxed-type-throw-it-in-the-toaster-oven-for-a-few-and-it's-ready-to-eat food. I loathe every single market.
I frequented the Safeway on Market Street for the longest time because it was the closest thing to one-stop-shopping nearby. But their lack of bagging help, seriously limp produce, and abundance of weirdo shoplifting meth-heads (or people who look like them) forced me to search elsewhere for groceries.
That led me to Trader Joe's, which has to be the most infuriating shopping experience start to finish. The parking lot is a fistfight waiting to happen, and getting through the door can be tougher than cramming on BART at rush hour. Even then you've only just entered the insanity.
The inside of Trader Joe's holds the biggest collection of intelli-righteous fucks in the world. You can almost hear their collective mantra in unison: "I'm saving the earth. I'm saving the earth. I'm saving the earth."
No, you're buying broccoli in a plastic tray wrapped in plastic. Go to Rainbow if you want to save the earth like the rest of the walking dead in there. And move your damn cart over please. I need to get some of that free coffee and hummus.
There are three types of people at Trader Joe's:
1. The tourist: Sips coffee while meandering through picking up an item here or there. No list, just grabs what appeals to him or her. Grocery shopping is less of a necessity than an all day event.
2. The racecart driver: Pushes cart at mach speed through every opening, list in a tight grip. Eyes locked ahead, misses your hip by about 5 centimeters while muttering the next item on the list.
3. The completely clueless one: Stands in the center of the aisle while slowly scanning every can of soup. Meanwhile their cart is in the middle of the aisle in cockeyed fashion as to block anything but a 3 year old from getting by. Doesn't look up when you stand patiently and "ahem" a few times hoping to pass.
I love it when you're checking out of Trader Joe's and the register/bagger person doesn't even attempt to bag your groceries. So you're forced to stare off into the distance or mess with your phone until they realize that it's their job. I play that game now after bagging my groceries dozens of times and not even getting a simple "thanks" from the employees. Luckily, Trader Joe's food lasts forever in the freezer so you don't have to go there very often.
I've already covered Rainbow Grocery, right? The walking dead? Yeah.
Now I just go to another big market chain that at least has decent parking (validated even), baggers who actually seem like they don't mind it, and decent produce. I'm not telling anybody where it is because I don't want it overrun with weirdo shoplifting meth-heads (or people who look like them).
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Takin' it to the streets
I'm sure it's happened to you countless times. You go to the store to buy some cereal and you get something like this:
Looks tasty, no? Your mouth starts watering as you grab a bowl, a spoon and the milk. You open the box and pour the cereal into the bowl and then you realize: You've been duped again. No fruit.
How does that make you feel? I know how it makes me feel: PISSED OFFF!!! (with an extra F I'm so pissed offf!) Nobody's about to go down to the grocery store in their bathrobe or jammies or nude or whatever to get that fruit that the cereal box promised but neglected to include.
The cereal companies are getting away with the most heinous false advertising there is: Showing fruit on the box, but knowing full well they're not going to put any inside. It would be like buying Lucky Charms and finding no charms inside at all. Not very lucky if you ask me. Or opening a box of Raisin Bran and finding only flakes inside. We wouldn't stand for that would we?
Why don't they just put a picture of a cut of filet mignon on top of the flakes to get people to buy more? Or for that matter, why stop there? Why not put 100 dollar bills, or Rolex watches, or diamonds on top?!?!?!!!!
I for one am fed up with the false advertising, and I know you feel the same. So I'm organizing a march on Washington D.C. to let our voices be heard. Power to the people!
Looks tasty, no? Your mouth starts watering as you grab a bowl, a spoon and the milk. You open the box and pour the cereal into the bowl and then you realize: You've been duped again. No fruit.
How does that make you feel? I know how it makes me feel: PISSED OFFF!!! (with an extra F I'm so pissed offf!) Nobody's about to go down to the grocery store in their bathrobe or jammies or nude or whatever to get that fruit that the cereal box promised but neglected to include.
The cereal companies are getting away with the most heinous false advertising there is: Showing fruit on the box, but knowing full well they're not going to put any inside. It would be like buying Lucky Charms and finding no charms inside at all. Not very lucky if you ask me. Or opening a box of Raisin Bran and finding only flakes inside. We wouldn't stand for that would we?
Why don't they just put a picture of a cut of filet mignon on top of the flakes to get people to buy more? Or for that matter, why stop there? Why not put 100 dollar bills, or Rolex watches, or diamonds on top?!?!?!!!!
I for one am fed up with the false advertising, and I know you feel the same. So I'm organizing a march on Washington D.C. to let our voices be heard. Power to the people!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery
I've been working at a place where the employees are all about 10 years younger than I am. Therefore they didn't actually live the embarrassment that was the 80's, they were too busy sucking on pacifiers and crawling on black and while tile floors to know what the fashion and music was all about.
Nevertheless, I'm pretty impressed to see what kinds of music they have on their shared music libraries. Stuff that I forgot about until these kids dug it out of the grave it should have been left in:
The Politics of Dancing by Re-Flex
19 by Paul Hardcastle
Send Me An Angel - Real Life
I Like Boys - Missing Persons
At least my coworkers aren't wearing Members Only jackets. I'd hate to inform them that back then they were worn mostly by middle aged men.
NEW WAVE HOOKERS
Nevertheless, I'm pretty impressed to see what kinds of music they have on their shared music libraries. Stuff that I forgot about until these kids dug it out of the grave it should have been left in:
The Politics of Dancing by Re-Flex
19 by Paul Hardcastle
Send Me An Angel - Real Life
I Like Boys - Missing Persons
At least my coworkers aren't wearing Members Only jackets. I'd hate to inform them that back then they were worn mostly by middle aged men.
NEW WAVE HOOKERS
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Blackout
At about 4:45 pm last Friday the lights flickered at the place I was working. I heard somebody shout "SAVE SAVE SAVE!" I quickly pressed Apple (Command) + S (that's Control [not Windows] + S for you PC-based folks) and saw the beach ball spin for a few and then went away. Whew!
Around an hour later I got a phone call from Lily. She was wondering when I was gonna head out and she told me that the power was out at home. I decided to go home right then to perfrom my husbandly duty of protecting the house from marauders, thieves and villains during the unlikely event of a power outage.
I grabbed my bike and shouted "SAVE SAVE SAVE" to the remaining worker bees. "My wife just told me the power went out in our neighborhood, which isn't far from here." Somebody shouted "THANKS THANKS THANKS!"
Being that this place is on the 2nd floor and has an awkwardly winding staircase, I take my bike up and down in the elevator. I pressed the down button, then I remembered Lily telling me the power was out. I turned toward the awkwardly winding staircase, lifted my bike onto my right shoulder and walked down. About two thirds of the way down the power went out.
Think about that the next time you want to take the elevator for a flight or two.
Around an hour later I got a phone call from Lily. She was wondering when I was gonna head out and she told me that the power was out at home. I decided to go home right then to perfrom my husbandly duty of protecting the house from marauders, thieves and villains during the unlikely event of a power outage.
I grabbed my bike and shouted "SAVE SAVE SAVE" to the remaining worker bees. "My wife just told me the power went out in our neighborhood, which isn't far from here." Somebody shouted "THANKS THANKS THANKS!"
Being that this place is on the 2nd floor and has an awkwardly winding staircase, I take my bike up and down in the elevator. I pressed the down button, then I remembered Lily telling me the power was out. I turned toward the awkwardly winding staircase, lifted my bike onto my right shoulder and walked down. About two thirds of the way down the power went out.
Think about that the next time you want to take the elevator for a flight or two.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Monsters of sock
Actual conversation I had at Walgreen's while looking for sterile Q-tips:
I look over and see a man mumbling to himself while scooping through a bin of white tube socks.
Man: Are these all the socks they have?
He sees that I look over, and I quickly turn back to the Q-tip selection.
Man: These don't seem like very good quality.
LLMB: Nope.
Man: They're pretty cheap though. Must not be very good.
LLMB: No.
Man: You know which socks are good? Adidas. I bought a pair of those, lasted me four months.
LLMB: Wow. (Only four months?)
Man: Those socks were expensive though. I bet these don't last too long.
LLMB: Yeah.
Man: Maybe there's some different socks at the bottom of this pile.
LLMB: Probably.
I left and went to Safeway where I saw a man standing in the entrance area who had a white surgical face mask pulled down from his mouth. He was coughing incessantly without covering his mouth. I had to take a serious detour to get around his coughing.
I look over and see a man mumbling to himself while scooping through a bin of white tube socks.
Man: Are these all the socks they have?
He sees that I look over, and I quickly turn back to the Q-tip selection.
Man: These don't seem like very good quality.
LLMB: Nope.
Man: They're pretty cheap though. Must not be very good.
LLMB: No.
Man: You know which socks are good? Adidas. I bought a pair of those, lasted me four months.
LLMB: Wow. (Only four months?)
Man: Those socks were expensive though. I bet these don't last too long.
LLMB: Yeah.
Man: Maybe there's some different socks at the bottom of this pile.
LLMB: Probably.
I left and went to Safeway where I saw a man standing in the entrance area who had a white surgical face mask pulled down from his mouth. He was coughing incessantly without covering his mouth. I had to take a serious detour to get around his coughing.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Hot Diggety
One thing I never realized before I had a kid was that when you have a baby, you lose your ability to take the time to savor a good meal. It's scarf-ville from here on out. Well at least until Judah's old enough to have parties and raid my liquor cabinet. I chow my food as quickly as possible so Lily can eat, or vice-versa. The sands in the hourglass are always almost out when you've got a baby nearby. One false move and it's WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Time to put the fork down.
Having mastered this little food bingeing activity, I went to the Giants home opener at AT&T&S&B&C park on Tuesday. There was a hot dog eating contest sponsored by Hot Dog on a Stick, and I knew this was my time to shine. The problem was the fact that I can't eat hot dogs. Can't stand 'em. But a corn dog, well that's a whole different story. Especially those Trader Joe's meatless corn dogs. Tastes like the real thing with less guilt (except for the sodium part. Mmm... sodium).
I looked over the competition and I knew I didn't have a chance when I saw hot dog eating champ Takeru Kobayashi of Japan doing warm-up stretches in the wings. So I went over to the officiant with a proposal. "If I eat corn dogs instead of hot dogs, but still wrapped in a bun like a hot dog, will I be declared champion if I come in 2nd?"
The official looked at me quizzically and asked "Why would we do that?"
"Because there's all that extra bread with a corn dog."
The official leaned over to the other official and whispered.
I waited.
They nodded in agreement. "We'll allow it."
"Woo hoo!"
Lily stood nearby holding Judah, who hadn't eaten in 2.5 hours and would imminently be crying, thus proving the fuel for my corn dog inhalation.
"Go!" they shouted and the gun went off.
I chewed as fast as I could, frequently glancing over at Judah to push me along further. He started wailing and I ate even faster. A few minutes later the jock-ish guy to my left puked on my new blue Pumas. I kept on chowing. Kobayashi was downing wieners at a record pace. I ate faster and felt good about my chances of getting 2nd place. I ate faster and felt bad about my chances of ever eating another dog of any kind, corn or otherwise.
"BANG!" The gun went off again. "TIME!" yelled the official. I slumped over and saw Lily give Judah a bottle. Kobayashi finished 1st with 51 wieners in 12 minutes. Just shy of his personal best of 53.5 dogs in 12 minutes. I waddled over to the podium. "And 2nd place goes to... Jenna Jamison!" It was a devastating blow (pun intended). Beaten by a porn queen. How humiliating.
Having mastered this little food bingeing activity, I went to the Giants home opener at AT&T&S&B&C park on Tuesday. There was a hot dog eating contest sponsored by Hot Dog on a Stick, and I knew this was my time to shine. The problem was the fact that I can't eat hot dogs. Can't stand 'em. But a corn dog, well that's a whole different story. Especially those Trader Joe's meatless corn dogs. Tastes like the real thing with less guilt (except for the sodium part. Mmm... sodium).
I looked over the competition and I knew I didn't have a chance when I saw hot dog eating champ Takeru Kobayashi of Japan doing warm-up stretches in the wings. So I went over to the officiant with a proposal. "If I eat corn dogs instead of hot dogs, but still wrapped in a bun like a hot dog, will I be declared champion if I come in 2nd?"
The official looked at me quizzically and asked "Why would we do that?"
"Because there's all that extra bread with a corn dog."
The official leaned over to the other official and whispered.
I waited.
They nodded in agreement. "We'll allow it."
"Woo hoo!"
Lily stood nearby holding Judah, who hadn't eaten in 2.5 hours and would imminently be crying, thus proving the fuel for my corn dog inhalation.
"Go!" they shouted and the gun went off.
I chewed as fast as I could, frequently glancing over at Judah to push me along further. He started wailing and I ate even faster. A few minutes later the jock-ish guy to my left puked on my new blue Pumas. I kept on chowing. Kobayashi was downing wieners at a record pace. I ate faster and felt good about my chances of getting 2nd place. I ate faster and felt bad about my chances of ever eating another dog of any kind, corn or otherwise.
"BANG!" The gun went off again. "TIME!" yelled the official. I slumped over and saw Lily give Judah a bottle. Kobayashi finished 1st with 51 wieners in 12 minutes. Just shy of his personal best of 53.5 dogs in 12 minutes. I waddled over to the podium. "And 2nd place goes to... Jenna Jamison!" It was a devastating blow (pun intended). Beaten by a porn queen. How humiliating.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
This is the end, beautiful friend
Well, this is the final installment of "Lee Lee the Musical Bee". I want to thank the TNSC robots for giving me a forum to blather on about anything I wanted to. And personal thanks to the probably three people who read "Lee Lee the Musical Bee" on a somewhat regular basis. I especially enjoyed it whenever somebody would e-mail or IM me and tell me that they almost peed their pants. Nothing is as magical as the ability to make somebody laugh so hard as to pee their pants. If that were a superpower, I think that's the one I would choose. And then the ability to magically make their pants clean again. Because people would get mad at me and not want to hang out with me as much. Anyways, I hope y'all have enjoyed at least one of my rants/blogs/whatevers.
One final quote from Henry Adams:
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.
One final quote from Henry Adams:
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.
This is the end, beautiful friend
Well, this is the final installment of "Lee Lee the Musical Bee". I want to thank the TNSC robots for giving me a forum to blather on about anything I wanted to. And personal thanks to the probably three people who read "Lee Lee the Musical Bee" on a somewhat regular basis. I especially enjoyed it whenever somebody would e-mail or IM me and tell me that they almost peed their pants. Nothing is as magical as the ability to make somebody laugh so hard as to pee their pants. If that were a superpower, I think that's the one I would choose. And then the ability to magically make their pants clean again. Because people would get mad at me and not want to hang out with me as much. Anyways, I hope y'all have enjoyed at least one of my rants/blogs/whatevers.
One final quote from Henry Adams:
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.
One final quote from Henry Adams:
No one means all he says, and yet very few say all they mean, for words are slippery and thought is viscous.
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