The Winchester

A Thursday Night At The Elkridge Superfresh.

2010-07-15T22:44:00.004-04:00

This evening, we had Nichole's (wife) little sister Haley over to hang out and make some cookies with myself and Kelsey (stepdaughter). At Nichole's recent baby shower, we received a pack of 4 cookie cutters - but not just ANY cookie cutters.... Star Wars cookie cutters. Thanks Aunt Kim!!

For those that are not aware, I have a borderline unhealthy adoration for the original Star Wars movies. I mean, my god, we're naming our son Lucas.

AnyForceBeWithYou, we decided to make some cookies tonight, using the new cookie cutters. Something fun for both the girls and myself and mainly myself. I selected pre-made Nestle Tollhouse cookie dough, which I will not use anymore because the cookies went from relatively soft to cement hard in the time it took me to get home from my Superfresh trip, the ultimate subject of this blog. I'll get there, I just have to do it in a round-about way.

We worked the dough, made the shapes (Darth Vader, Yoda, Stormtrooper, and Boba Fett - pronounced several times as 'Bobba Fett' by Kelsey), and cooked the cookies. 11 minutes later, it was time to feast. As I poured the girls each a glass of ice cold milk, I noticed there was roughly enough milk to provide myself with a moist tongue.

This. Shall. Not. Stand.

I don't know about you, but I needs my milks with my cookies. It has to happen. Cookies without milk is like having cookies without milk. It's an affront to nature, and I'm almost certain can be found somewhere in the Bible. Right between Cain & Abel and the first appearance of the Easter Bunny. If there were 11 Commandments, everyone would make sure to have some milk around.

Now, I did not want to go to the store for milk. It was pretty much at the bottom of my Things I Want To Do Right Now list. Unfortunately, my need for that cold, creamy, white concoction would not be denied. I grabbed my keys, threw on some shoes, and headed out to the Elkridge Superfresh, right up the street from my house.

Boy, am I glad I did. And not just because I got some milk. Which was also good.

I pulled up to the store, and since it was a Thursday night at 9:30pm or so, I was able to get a good parking spot. That, however, doesn't matter.

I walked into the store. The first person I saw was a teenage girl, roughly 14 years of age. She was wearing her bathing suit and some flip-flops, with a little dress-type-thing covering from mid-chest to mid-thigh. It was baby blue and said Baby Phat on the back. In cursive.

The next person to delight my eyes was her little brother, pushing a cart in front of her. He was wearing regular little boy clothing, nothing interesting. The interesting part was his hair, which was an unbelievably well crafted mullet. The kind one does not expect to see on a roughly 11 year old boy. Short and spiky in the front, continuing halfway to the back where it began to flow into a beautiful Party In The Back. This party didn't end at the shoulders, though. Oh, no... no no no. It continued down to about mid-chest. This, given the boy's youth, means it had been cultivated to this point for pretty much his whole life. Awesome.

The trend continues.

The next person I see is the older brother. His hair is tied back in a pony tail, and thus the mullet was not as noticeable at first, and yet no less there. The Party portion had been fastened with a hair tie and pulled back, allowing the Business In The Front to first catch your eye. This young man had decided to go with the shaggy Business end, which caused a more gradual transformation into the mullet he obviously adored and yet rarely washed.

Next was the mother, who appeared to enjoy herself a dark tan, causing the leathery appeal her skin took. I cannot be sure, but if I was to guess the content of her purse, the words Parliaments or Pall Malls would be the first things out of my mouth.

Walking with her was a little girl, maybe Kelsey's age - right around 6 or 7. She looked fine.

And then, striding along with purpose in his sweat shorts and grey-ish tye-dye looking-ish t-shirt, was the Patriarch. The man with the plan. Sir Mulleton of Mullshire. His hair almost exactly mirrored the youngest boy's, with the shaved and spiky Business leading the charge, the Party taking up the rear and doing it well. As a direct result of approaching the twilight of life, his Party had taken on a darker grey appearance. This may come across as dignified in some men, as my grey hair definitely does for myself. In this fashion, however, it exuded a kind of statuesque sadness. Like a man holding on to times past, when you looked life in the eye and gave it the finger. Where you laughed at fate while pissing into the wind. A time when you shook your fist in anger at the sky after vomiting half a keg of Miller Lite.

A friendlier time.

A time where it was okay to play with Star Wars toys in the bathtub.

So, that was the Mullet Family. If my description seems harsh and mocking, let me add that not a one of them seemed unhappy or angry. They were just a family doing some late Thursday night shopping. The only one that seemed moody was the teenage girl, and she is a teenage girl.

I moved on, passing a freezer aisle. In passing, I noticed a neighbor of mine in the aisle. She was pulling items out of the freezer and placing them on the ground. I suppose things were being moved to get to other things, but I can't be sure because my vantage point was not as much as a Stop And Stare, but rather a Hope You Don't See Me move. What I was able to notice was her child sitting on the floor amongst the random grocery objects, playing with them. Her little tiny child, on the floor of the supermarket, late in the evening, playing with freezer products.

And so I continued on to the milk aisle. At this point, I have been in the store for roughly 90 seconds. A much, much shorter time than you have spent reading this entry. I apologize for the length, but I prefer embellishment to stark facts and figures.

I grabbed the milk, turned around, and headed back out of the aisle. What greeted me as I rounded the corner - the same corner I had just gone around the get to the milk - had not been there 20 seconds before.

There were two heavyset girls standing in front of the ice cream section, debating on what ice cream to buy. They were listing their likes and dislikes, and I was judging books by the covers.

One girl had very short hair, almost lesbian-butch. Now, I am not homophobic nor do I care who dates who and in what way, I am simply using the term as an example. Whether you like it or not, every one of you knows exactly the hairstyle I am speaking of, so shut it. She had on normal clothing, but had the voice tenor of a 'Valley Girl' from The Hills. It was surprising to hear.

Her friend was wearing... well, I am not sure how to describe it without using the word 'tutu'.

So, her friend was wearing a tutu. I suppose it would technically be thought of as a skirt, but she could have also broke into a ballet routine in the store and been dressed correctly for it. Her legs were adorned in tights, a cascading pattern of white and black stripes. Think Cat In The Hat, but without the primary coloring. Her shirt was very tight, and her hair was at least four different colors. Maybe five, if you include black. Different color shoelaces.

Did I mention I left my phone at home? Nichole told me to take it, but it was just a short hop to the store, so I just left it home. My phone has a camera on it, and I have the camera noise muted so no one would have known if I had been taken pictures.

I then paid for my milk in the self-checkout, nodded and smiled at the very bored looking girl who is in charge of the self-checkout should someone use it incorrectly which always happens and usually to me where the light goes off because the jar of peanut butter tipped over on the way down the moving platform and now I gotta wait for the attendant person because they are currently helping the other person with their peanut butter mishap and the woman with two huge carts of stuff is walking out the door and she is the person I was going to get behind in the normal checkout aisle before I noticed the self-checkout line was clear and moved over to use that and isn't modern technology super?

Walking to my car, I noticed someone had parked beside me, as sometimes happens in parking lots. Nothing unusual about that. It was a white pick-up truck, and had a neat looking rail type system going around the bed of the truck. This went up the side and the back, and had two lights fastened to it that shone over the cab. This same type of railing was at the bottom beneath the door, as well as attached to the front bumper.

I came closer. The whole thing was made out of PVC piping. It was like someone in shop class made a very complicated bong out of PVC pipes and connected it to their truck.

At this point, I hopped into my car and headed home, eager to relate this tremendous experience to Nichole, who agreed to do all of our shopping at Superfresh around 9:00pm on Thursday nights.

Having passed sound judgement on a wide selection of people whom I know nothing about, I can follow it with this:

That guy who jumped into his car and went home with his milk did so in mesh shorts, beat up shoes with no socks, is a 32 year old white person blaring Eminem from his Jeep.

Judge not lest ye be judged.

Don't tase him, bro!! Wait... no, go ahead.

2010-05-04T19:16:00.005-04:00

For those that are unaware, many people in our country play sports. They play at many different levels, including professional, collegiate, and recreational. On top of that surprising newsflash, even more people in our country are sports fans.

This can include the casual fan; "Yeah, I follow the O's when they're winning," which at this point in the franchise's history means the fan is aware of the team's existence.

This can also include the rabid fan; "I roundhouse kicked my dog in the face for a pair of Steelers tickets." I use that example because I feel it is something a Pittsburgh fan would be capable of doing.

Some of us watch games at home, and some of us will attend the game itself, live in the flesh. When we do choose the latter, it typically involves a higher level of participation than one would give the sporting event from the comfort of the couch. You yell louder, you become more of an expert on what the coach should have done, and you tend to drink a little more - because a beer that costs $7.50 just has to be delicious.

There are others in this world who like to take the next step in fan-dom, and actually take the field. You see this happen a lot in college, where fans will storm the field or court or dormroom or wherever their team just dominated. Less frequently, you see this in professional sports, where a long gunman will decide it is his or her - usually his - time to shine. When this decision is made, they become That Guy On The Field.

I know you've become incredibly bored by now, so luckily for you, I have arrived at the crux of this blog. This past Monday night, a Philadelphia Phillies fan made a Great Decision, and ran out onto the field during the Phillies game against the Cardinals.

"A Phillies fan did this?!?" you exclaim in complete mock surprise. "No way, I don't believe it. Not from a Philadelphia sports fan."

Normally, I would agree with you, as we all know Philly fans to be the more docile of the bunch. Sometimes, though, it only takes on bad apple.

Well, this bad apple ended up getting tasered by security for his indiscretion. The reason I felt inclined to pepper you with run-on sentences and forcibly bad grammar is the reaction some people are having over this incident. The question has been raised regarding whether or not the use of the taser was excessive in stopping the rabid fan from making more of an ass of himself.

Was the use of a taser necessary? Could it be the security guard went over the line and used bad judgment in tasering the offending fan?

No.

Running out onto the field of play is not allowed by fans. We all know this to be true. Even Philadelphia fans can tell you it is not permitted. How is anyone to know whether or not this guy intended harm to a player? How are we to know whether or not this person was a huge fan of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia and decided he wanted to kiss Chase Utley as bad as Mac wanted to be Utley's best friend?

Regardless of any ill intent, you can't run on the field. You know that. Even hammered, you know that. The security on duty has to immediately assume the worst when a fan comes onto the field, because to do any less would be a dereliction of duty by said officer. If the security guard slowly trots after you while mildly suggesting in his inside voice that you might want to maybe consider please not doing that anymore, he is going to find his job position up for grabs before the game is over.

When you buy a ticket, you are given the right to attend the game, have fun, yell at players, get rowdy - to an extent - with the fans. You are given the right to do all of that within the confines of the stadium, the field being the only exception to the rule. You ignore that exception, you deserve what's coming to you.

What's coming to you should not be a shouted warning to quit it. It should not be a rough shove to the ground by the security team. It should not be a clothesline by a player.

What's coming to you should be the standard police taser voltage level of 50,000 volts. See if you do THAT again, numbnuts.

For extra fun, I have included this link to Baltimore Colt Mike Curtis's hit on a fan way back in '71.

Coming To Terms.

2010-04-15T09:26:00.002-04:00

Before I begin to amaze you with the Irrelevant To Real Life thought stream I usually dole out, a warning of sorts. This blog contains spoilers in regards to the excellent television series The Wire. If you have not watched the series, but intend to, you should stop reading the entry right about now. If you would like to continue for a few sentences, that's fine, but things are going to heat up quick and I wanted you to be prepared. If you have already watched the entire series, then feel free to continue on and live a life of religious fulfillment. Points if you know from whence the end to that sentence came. Now, onward.

_____________________

There comes a time in everyone's life when one must come to grips (or terms, if we want to keep the title of this blog in the loop) with the idea and reality of death. Death comes in many forms. There are violent deaths, death from disease, natural causes, and my favorite - auto-erotic asphyxiation. People die every day, and we have all been touched by the death of a loved one at some time or another.

Sometimes these deaths are very hard to deal with, and other times we are so removed from the subject that we can be seen as callous. Why don't you care, someone asks you with rage in their soul and a poppy seed in their teeth. Truth is, most of us do care, but there has to be a point where you can turn yourself off a bit in order to get through life. I mean, if we all reacted to every death with the same emotional intensity, then I would never be able to get the maintenance guy to fix my stepdaughter's closet.

And that's hard enough as it is.

So, death is a serious issue. We can be aloof, but the truth remains - we are going to die. Someone who loves us will mourn, someone who respects us will whisper, "I really respected him" at our funeral, possibly to the most attractive other mourner. Death should not be treated lightly - as I seem to be doing here - as it comes for us all. Death is the great unifier.

Keeping all of this in mind, I have been affected intensely by death. This happened just yesterday, when I witnessed Omar Little being shot in the back of the head. And by a young kid, of all people!! Are you kidding me?? One of the most incredibly engaging and badass characters in telematic history, and you allow him to be popped by some little punk who likes to torture animals? Shame on you.

What? Telematic? You know, like cinematic. No, I'm not using the term correctly, but you're still with me, right? So shut up then.

When I saw Omar get shot, I was alone in my bed, clad only in boxers - the best way to watch The Wire, I've found. I immediately muttered something I refuse to repost here, as it contains strong language and adult situations. Mild nudity. At first, I was very disappointed in how it all went down. Here you have the aforementioned badass, on the hunt for the drug dealer who had a good friend of his murdered. This is long after getting revenge on another drug dealer for viciously murdering his gay lover.

This is Omar at his finest. Hunting, methodically taking apart a drug organization all by his lonesome. Tracking these thugs down one by one and generally making every scene in which he appears awesome. So I was annoyed at the death. It was so quick and easy, it felt to me like a total cop-out. Like the ending to the Sopranos. They took the most intense story-line of the season and ended it without any sense of payoff whatsoever.

This is what I thought at first.

Later that day, I was coming to terms (HA!! HE SAID IT!!!) with what had happened. Okay, I said, I see how it is. This show is grounded in real life. In real life, it is absurd to think that one man can roam the streets of Baltimore, killing people and robbing drug dealers by himself, announcing his presence by whistling when he's out and about, and not become a victim himself. These drug dealers have large entourages, all of them armed and dangerous. It is dumb to think that he can just stroll as he sees fit and not receive his comeuppance. Also, his death gave the detectives working the main drug dealer something more to go on in linking Cheese to Marlo. So in effect, he may have gained his revenge posthumously. Add to that, he had recently been allowed to survive a 5 story fall off of a balcony during an apartment shootout. The man cannot be invincible. Having the young kid suddenly shoot him in the back of the head while he was buying cigarettes keeps him from being taken out by Marlo and his crew, therefore robbing them of the satisfaction. It would have been much more painful to see Snoop be the killer. So, as I said, it would be dumb to assume he can get his revenge and roll off into the sunset.

Now, the day after, I say Let Us Be Dumb. We have already been exposed to several other deaths, some of characters we grow to like. In almost all of these instances, they are killed quickly and without fanfare. Examples? Okay.

De'Angelo Barksdale. He is a sympathetic character most of the way through. He is killed when strangled from behind in prison.

Orlando. He is mostly a worthless character, but still, you felt bad for him because you knew he was over his head. Killed quickly in a set up.

Bodie. You hated him in the first season, but by the time he is killed, you enjoy seeing him whenever he pops up. Especially when spitting or jawing with the cops - primarily McNulty or Carver. How does he go out? Shot in the back of the head. Boom, done.

Frank Sobotka. Walking one day, floating in the harbor the next. This one is not as much a complaint, as it was done very well - going from episode to episode. It still remains an unsatisfying death, though.

The only really good death we received was Stringer Bell. Running from both Brother Mouzone and Omar? You know that is not going to end well.

So with these quick and easy deaths, why can't Omar win? Why can't he wade through Marlo's crew like naked chicks through pudding? Why can't he come face to face with Marlo after opening Snoop's chest with his shotgun? Why can't the anti-hero win?

You know, I am also okay with his having to die. Why not, though, in a blaze of glory? Maybe he doesn't get to Marlo, but maybe he takes out Snoop and Chris on the way. Maybe Michael is the one who kills Omar like he did Bodie, but only after Omar rips through a fortified row-house like Wolverine ripped through the X-Mansion.

I am officially back to feeling as if Omar's death was a cop-out. The writers looked at each other and said, "Let's be real here. Omar has to die. He can't do this. It's unrealistic."

As unrealistic as McNulty creating a fake serial killer? As unrealistic as a guy such as Bunk getting as many extra-curricular women as he did? Every season seems to end the same, essentially. The main story-line wraps up - mostly - and we get a montage of scenes, basically showing that things don't change in the long run. The dealers still run the corners, the cops still make half-assed attempts to stop them. The main characters keep plodding along, even when they know they are fighting a losing battle.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love this show. I think The Wire is easily one of the best television series I have ever watched. The acting is great, the cinematography (telematography?) is great, and the stories are great. Almost every character evokes the exact reaction they are going for from the viewer. You love McNulty, but hate him for how he acts. You see Herc as mainly comic relief, but feel for him when he gets in over his head. You just straight up HATE Levy and Clay Davis, even though you smile a bit when Clay gives his patented "Shiiiiiiiiiit."

The Wire is a superb show. WAS a superb show, and it should have been able to continue.

Still, I cannot shake being highly steamed, miffed, and nettled by the cheap death of Omar. He deserved better, even if he deserved to die.

R.I.P. Omar Little. The cheese stands alone.

School Supplies and an Empty Notebook.

2008-08-08T12:52:00.005-04:00

It's safe to say I was never really a fan of school.

There are two slight exceptions to that statement, one of which being the first week or so of every year. For some reason, one that I attribute to brief psychotic episodes, I was up and raring to go bright and early for the first week. Every day I would wake up with plenty of time to spare, and typically get to either school itself or the bus stop very early. I would stuff my backpack with excitement and adventure, then head off to an institute of learning, all bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to ace every test those cool new teachers threw at me.

The second week, it took my Mom 30 minutes at least to get my lazy ass out of bed. I would stall, then trudge to the bus stop, scowling the whole way, indignant at being awoken before lunchtime. My backpack was heavier, my old uncool teachers were ants to be squashed beneath my shoe, and every other person besides me and my friends sucked. This was the type of malign that even a Star Crunch couldn't quell.

The other exception to my Hating Of School was my youth. In Kindergarten and the beginning of Elementary school, you look forward to the day. Everything is new, and you are fawned over when succeeding in learning. You spelled "Forest"? You, my friend, get a gold star.

A gold star! How totally boss was a gold star? You had the chart, and right next to your name, right there for everyone to see, was a shiny small not-worth-money-but-worth-more-than-real-gold gold star. And it was all yours. Why? Because you did a Good Job.

Good Jobs were praised. You felt good all over. Hell, you felt good enough to share your paste with whoever might have a spoon handy.

Then you moved on to 1st grade. During your time in 1st to 3rd or so grades, that Good Job feeling remained, but for some reason it seemed to wain somewhat. You were happy, and you were praised, but not in that "Holy Crap You Are The Smartest Kid Ever" voice the teacher used. Instead, these new teachers used the "Good work, but that's to be expected" voice. There is an enormous difference here.

Then, in 4th grade, you realize you are doing Work. You're not playing, or napping, or getting gold stars. You're being graded. You're doing something right, or you're doing it wrong. There's no more, "Almost, but it's pronounced Spah-Get-Tee". It's now, "Wrong. Do it again, but this time, get it right or I use the text book to paper cut your face, bitch."

Harsh? Maybe. But also completely true.

So I didn't like school. You know what I did like? School supplies. Ah! The blog title begins to pay off, no?

The best part of school starting was going to get the new school supplies. New clothes? Whatever. New shoes? My old ones were fine. New haircut? Mom never did let me get the Mr. T mohawk. But new notebooks? New pads of paper? New and different kinds of pens? NEW TRAPPER KEEPER?? Cha-ching!!

I loved getting this stuff. Early on, it was custom Trapper Keepers. Dukes of Hazzard, Knight Rider, etc. Then, I moved on to the blank ones and never looked back. Why? You could write stuff on them, therefore making the Trapper Keeper more personal to you than your own identity.

"How it that possible?" You ask with the look of passion on your face and the devil in your eyes. Simple. It's because it WAS your identity. Every single piece of paper you received went into that thing. Sure, folders held stuff too, but by the end of the school year that binder was filled so thick Geraldo could have done a special on it. Your name was written on it twenty times in twenty different fonts. There were pictures of lightsabers and bugs and weird faces and band names and friend's signatures and crude words scribbled out. It was personal. It was life.

That new pen with the four different pen colors? You tell me you didn't love that thing like you loved your pet and I'll tell you to shut your whore mouth before God punishes you for such blasphemy.

That new mini-sack-o'-pencils? How many of those did you loose in life-or-death Pencil Fights? You would plead with your mother for thicker pencils. Sure they cost more, but how else were you supposed to contend with Johnny Finkleheimerski when he was strutting around, wielding his Black Knight?

I actually got moved to the front of the bus once for pencil fighting. That was a fun morning.

Now, as much as I loved those supplies, my favorite is and always has been the Brand New Notebook. Whether it be one of those black and white covered journals, or one with the metal rings. Wide ruled or college ruled. None of it mattered.

To me, there is nothing more inviting and intriguing than an empty notebook. It's just sitting there, waiting for you to have your way with it. Ranging from small doodles to personal thoughts to school assignments you are planning to half ass your way through, there is some kind of magic intrinsic in it's design. You stare at it, wondering what will come out as you put pen to page.

I have one of those journals right now, sitting in my room. I bought it a few weeks ago, and as of yet it only has two entries in it. One of them is about ball scratching. I might post it sometime. It only has two entries, but for me, that's not the point. The point is, what it might contain. What I might decide to put in there. The possibilities are endless.

Hell, I might someday write the Great American Blog within those pages.

Because this one is definitely not it.

(Kind of almost but not really the) Best. Place. Ever.

2008-05-03T09:42:00.019-04:00

I don't get to see my friend Joe nearly as much as I should. This is a guy I met when I was roughly 3 to 4 years old and have been friends with all my life. This is a guy I intend to stay friends with for the rest of my life. We grew up, for the first part of our childhood, in the same neighborhood of townhouses. In fact, we both had end units, and we could walk to each others houses via a creek running through the neighborhood. It was pretty sweet.

Our childhood consisted of making up rules for the game we invented, "Supercars" (a game consisting of matchbox cars and hours of the phrase 'Let's pretend...' that kept us from actually playing at all), trading Star Wars toys, and mucking around in the creek looking for things that we did not want to touch and yet felt compelled to touch.

He lives in White Marsh these days, while I reside in Elkridge. This is a 30 minute drive or so, and with his normal schedule and my television crappy schedule, sometimes it's hard to find the time to get together.

Interesting note. We both have girlfriends named Nichole. Except his spells it Nicole, no H. I believe that is the more common spelling, and is used to avoid the phonetic pronunciation, "NI-CH-OLE". I was trying to convey the "CHUH" in the middle.

This will lead us to the Best. Place. Ever., I promise.

Starting now. So we made plans to hang out and go to Hersheypark last Sunday. I had taken the day off and everything. We were ready to ride some rides, eat some over-priced food, and revert to the children we once were.

This, however, did not occur. Due to unnamed complications, we were not able to go, so we planned an alternate.... plan.

A few weeks earlier, Joe had sent me a text message while at an arcade. Not any arcade, but

one with a whole room full of old school arcade games from the 80's and early 90's. None of these newfangled, 2 dollar a life games the kids are playing nowadays, where everything is a shoot-em-up or driving game. I'm talking the old, 25 cents a pop, 2-D, side-scrolling, simple graphics, might-work-and-might-not games of my youth. The ones they had in Playland in Ocean City, the ones they replaced with the aforementioned crappy new games that I do not

care for, thank you very much.

This was now our destination for our make-up play date.

That didn't come out right. But it stands.

The place, as I'm sure you are now simply chomping at the bit, is called Crab Towne USA, and is located in the bustling suburb we Marylanders know and love; Glen Burnie.

It is a local dive, basically, serving crabs and other random foodstuffs. What follows is one of many awesome reviews Crab Towne has received:

I drove over 45 mins yesterday to have crabs and was treated veryl poorly. I have had crabs here several times in the past and was satisfied. I have never tried the all you can eat menu. Yesterday I ordered the all-u-can eat and left the restaurant very unhappy. The service was embrassing. The waitress we had left to go home and left us to another waitress. My god daughter had to go up to the register to ask if I could get more crabs, the first batch was awful, only 4 crabs could be eaten, the rest was empty and had a awful smell as though they were old. I asked for no seasons and I feel that caused a problem, because as we watch other customers be served, they were served well. I was given on beer and not aked if I would like another one, There was a motorcycle couple in there that keep crabs in front of them. There was a mixed

couple in there and they kept crabs in front of them. THIS PLACE IS PREJUDICE. MY PERSONAL FEELINGS.

Yes, the place is prejudiced, because a MIXED COUPLE received crabs and you did not. Even though you AKED. This review was copied and pasted from a website, not a word was changed. I know. Awesome.

So we decided to go. The allure, for me, was two-fold. One, the games. A whole big room of old games and old pinball machines. All, with the exception of only a scant few, costing no more than 25 cents. The second allure was the beer. I could get a beer and go play the games while drinking the beer. My excitement was palpable.

The beer selection was minor, but who am I to complain, really? I selected Corona, although Joe was insistent that I drink a tall Budweiser can. I felt I should oblige him, as the man has not had a drink for many years, but I do not like Budweiser and therefore did not.

We didn't eat there, both because we had gone somewhere else to eat beforehand and because of the many awesome reviews.

Walking in, you are greeted with the scent of Old Bay and the sight of at least a dozen or more

people playing Keno and some sort of computerized horse racing game. These people looked very, very happy to be there. The main room has all tables and benches and all, with plenty of counter space to choose from as well. You can pretty much just pass right by and head to the register, where we had to get quarters because the machine they have is broken. Take an immediate right, and you're in the game room.

First impression, you will be awed and amazed by the general disrepair of the room. It looks kind of dirty, but that only adds to the old-timey charm. By old-timey I of course mean the 80's. Also, you will notice that several of the games do not work. This is done on purpose. Making several games not work makes the games that work that much more fun and exciting to play.

I would be remiss if I do not mention several things specifically. The first game I played was Dig Dug. This is an excellent game featuring a little guy that digs holes in order to kill tiny dragons and little ball guys. Killing these enemies is done with a pump that shoots out and attaches to them. You hit the button repeatedly, blowing them up bigger and bigger until they pop. It actually comes across as quite painful. Once every enemy is done, you go on to the next level. Make sure you head right to the top after killing the second to last enemy, because the last enemy will try to escape, robbing you of some very important points if they escape. I believe I made it to level 8 before both getting killed and losing interest. Just like when I was a kid!

I would be remiss yet again if I do not mention specifically by name and fuzzy picture one of the

best side scrolling fighting games ever produced by modern man. The picture can be found to the right and the game goes by the name of Final Fight. This game rules. You can choose from three players; Cody (the blonde haired street fighter), Guy (basically the Ryu character - ninja dude), or Haggar (the big wrestler dude and my favorite character to play). The idea is to fight through each level and not die. This is not going to happen, as they throw as many enemies as they can at you, resulting in inevitable screen lag, putting the entire melee into slow motion for a bit here or there.

There were more gems than just those two, obviously. The original Tapper was a pleasant surprise. When I say original, I mean the one where you are serving real beer, not root beer. The good stuff. The one where the little evil guy who shakes the cans is shaking cans of Budweiser, not soda. I don't want to brag, but I got the #1 spot there. Unfortunately I had to go with AWE as my initials, because I hit the button on A and didn't know how to take it back. Damn shame, that.

There were so many different games, it was hard to really pick the stand-outs. I did anyway, though, because I'm the kind of guy who likes a challenge. Plus, I like to party. I found two games right next to each other that garnered my interest. The reasons might be obvious. The Batman game is pretty cool, but the real winner is Superman. Another good side scrolling adventure where you punch and kick your way through levels, each contact made is punctuated by a great fist-to-face sound. There are also levels you fly through using either punches or heat ray vision. Very, very good stuff.

On a side note: A place such as this is bound to have the original Donkey Kong. They did. It's right beside this sentence.

This is nothing unusual, but what I wanted to point out is the depiction of Mario himself. It's pretty similar to every other picture of Mario you have seen throughout the years.

What's really great about Mario, is that he bears a startling resemblance to our IT guy at my work. It's gone so far as people talking like Mario when he is paged over the intercom. It's also amusing because our IT guy is constantly Out Of The Office, as evidenced by his numerous emails pointing out his being Out Of The Office.

I would like to cap this all off with two more examples of why Crab Towne USA is awesome. Two pinballs machines that I thoroughly enjoyed playing, even though I won no tickets or got a high score. Or even near a high score. The first one was the KISS pinball machine. I know KISS has a hand in every kind of merchandise humanly possible. KISS toilet paper might be may favorite. This was good too, though. You can tell it's an oldy because of the lack of bells and whistles. The machine still had things that made noise a lit up and sparkled and sprung and all, but it wasn't overwhelmed with different tracks and holes and levels and flippers and all.

The second was the Star Wars pinball machine. I took a picture of this one, but it was all blurry and not worth posting. It's unfortunate too, because many will remember this machine in that it was one of the first amped up games, at least that I recall or cared to play, I suppose. There is a mini-death star you have to hit the ball into to blow up, a small R2D2 you can make shake around, and if you light up C3PO's eyes you get an extra ball. Sweet ass sweet.

I know I went on far too long for such a simple subject and even simpler place. I did not know it existed until recently, so this explains my excitement. I don't think I had talked about it here yet, but I had - and have - an idea for an arcade bar as well. This wouldn't be a restaurant, but a two level pub, basically. The downstairs would be for drinking and chilling, maybe watching sports or getting your groove on on the dance floor on the off nights we get a DJ for the younger crowd. Upstairs would be a good sized bar, and filled with the kind of games found at Crab Towne.

I know, good idea.

So when you get the chance, and if you happen to be in the Glen Burnie area, I suggest stopping by and playing you some games. I do not suggest getting dinner.

Inanimate Rage and You.

2008-03-27T22:12:00.002-04:00

Alright, the title may be misleading. It's really about Inanimate Rage and Me, but it sounded more professional and official using the word You. At least, in my mind, which is really all that matters.

I have an anger problem. I do not start fights with humans. I am not that confrontational, and refrain from physical scuffles whenever possible. I tend to attempt a verbal diffusion in fight situations, and if that doesn't work I (a) curl up into a ball and whimper, or (b) allow one of my more physically inclined and close to insane friends to take on an aggressor in my stead. It has worked so far, as I have not been in a fight, nor do I intend to get into one.

When it comes to inanimate objects, I do not have such reserve. Inanimate objects produce obscene rage that I end up punching walls, breaking things, hitting counter tops, kicking couches, and cursing at items bereft of ears.

My phone's external screen does not work anymore, after my phone did not act as it was designed to act and I threw it into a wall. My radio in my car has been slugged several times when refusing to play an overly damaged CD. When I was a child, my Nintendo controllers rattled when shook, a direct result of my slamming them into the floor after losing a life. The closet door in my old apartment was off it's hinges after getting lightly stuck and summarily wrenched from the frame when I became angry at it's refusal to open and wrenched it open.

These are only a few small examples of my problem. I have slammed the keyboard at work once or twice when I did not succeed in passing the 24th level of Blocky 2. Kicked coffee tables after stubbing my toe on the coffee table, causing my toe to hurt more from the kick, which made me kick the table again. I have also punched it after getting stopped on 4th and 2 in Madden.

Now, Traffic is not exactly an inanimate object, but taken as a whole, Traffic is not alive. The people who cause it are alive, but Traffic itself is not a living being. It does, however, feel my wrath. This wrath comes in the form of unspeakably vile descriptions of premeditated homicide and insults centering on Traffic's mom.

I find many people idiotic and dumb. There are thousands upon millions of people out there who, in some random working of the universe, were not given the gift of common sense and decent judgement. These people would be jettisoned into space if I had the power to enact such jettisoning. This would be done without remorse. This is not how I am made, though. I don't think about punching someone's face in, or kicking someone's ass. What I do think about is how much the door is now hurt after I punched it in it's peephole.

The release felt after striking an object that has refused to do the job it was specifically made for is much like the first bite of warm pie, or the afterglow of coitus. I like to think that the breaking of the scratched CD is directly experienced by the manufacturer of said CD, the record company executive of the band's company, and the band themselves.

I think perhaps this type of release is what keeps me from attempting bodily harm on others of my species, and helps to keep me from buying multiple firing arms and going on a Dumb Person shooting spree. My fear of anal rape would be what makes me use paint pellets instead of bullets.

This act of aggression towards refrigerators and dryers appalls Nichole, and she frequently yells at me when witnessing such displays. Probably because I tend to knock frames off of the walls when I punch them. That is not a boast of my strength, but rather a critique on my carpentry.

I can't help it, though. I get so freaking mad I lash out without thinking about it. Still, I have never and will never do so to people, no matter how I have been pushed.

So to try and start a fight with me is futile. I am generally a calm and rational person, and can use those traits to avoid bodily harm. If you do choose to try it, though, watch yourself. I am liable to kick your car and throw your keys into a wall.

It's just how I roll.

The Road To Betrothal and Beyond.

2008-03-08T18:30:00.006-05:00

I am engaged to be married.

Now, before you ladies get all depressed and furrow-browed, allow me to add that before I became engaged you didn't have a chance anyway, and, truth be told, I am probably too good for you. So there's that.

Yes, after almost exactly two and a half years of dating (and living together for the heavy majority of that), Nichole and myself will be tying the knot. Then, after we finish with our shoes, we'll get hitched. Then, after finishing with the horse and carriage, we'll get married. Tentatively in May of 2009, but I am getting ahead of myself.

I decided to do this for two reasons. The first and foremost, I felt it was time. She, being a member of the female species, has been ready for awhile now, but I was not. Not for lack of love or enthusiasm for the idea, I just did not feel the time was right. It is now.

Or was now? Is now was? None of that sounds right.

The other reason was where we are in our relationship and in life. We have put in for a loan to buy a house. Her daughter has been referring to me as 'Stepdad' for several months, without prompting of any sort from either Nichole or I. This was something she cooked up and stuck with by herself. The opportunity just presented itself very well and the timing seemed to fit.

Plus, she told me I had to or she would go "All Lorena Bobbit on your ass, bitch."*

I must confess to not understanding that statement fully, but the look in her eyes mad me think it had something to do with severing my penis with a sharp object so I went ring shopping.

I had already decided early on that this would be a secret. Her family is made up almost entirely of women, with a few men scattered in to propagate the species. This lends to news traveling fast amongst households. For this reason, the majority of her family were to be kept in the dark until plans were finalized.

This theory was applied to her friends as well. Now, I do think her friends would have kept things quiet, but when drinks are involved, people tend to get free with their words and I wanted no hints whatsoever. Sometimes people trying to act innocent shine like a guilty shining beacon, so I made the choice to say nothing. Most of my family were unaware as well, and before the actual day I was proposing only three of my friends knew.

I have heard rumblings about my decision to keep things quiet since, and to those rumblings I say Too Bad. I did this the way I wanted to, and no one else had a choice in the matter. Just wanted to get that out there.

I enlisted the aid of one of Nichole's friends who has been her confidant in all things wedding. This was the girl she did the most marriage talking with, as this is also one of the only married friends. I, on the other hand, have none. So it was Mrs. H that I brought into the fold. I almost didn't, though, as it was the same Mrs. H who got a little tipsy at a bar and told Nichole we had talked about proposal plans. You know what I'm talking about, Mrs. H, don't you play coy.

Forgive and forget is what I never say, but in this case an exception could be made. Besides, she promised over text message to keep it silent, even from her other friends, and we all know that what is said in text is legally binding. When it was time to buy the ring, Mrs. H and my Mother were both with me.

I had shopped around a smidge with my Mom about a week beforehand, and had settled on the diamond I was purchasing, if not the setting. I did choose one, tentatively, but was having doubts. Luckily, with a suggestion from Mrs. H and some agreement from my Mom, the ring was picked. Once I'm able to get a decent picture of it, I'll add it to this post and erase this sentence.

The reason I did no more shopping was twofold. One, the diamond was awesome and affordable. Two, I had decided on the date, and it really could wait no longer.

The day I chose was February 29th. This, too, was a twofold decision. And upon saying that, I am not altogether sure I am using it correctly. Be that as it may, the meaning stands. First, she was fully expecting me to propose at a concert we were going to attend (and have since attended) on March 7th. Aside from that, she thought it might come on April 13, because the April month is number 4 - her birthday - and the day is number 13 - my birthday. Wow, right?

Second, I just thought it was cool. This is a day that only comes around every four years, much like Haley's Comet - with a 74 year or so difference. Although, according to Mrs. H, girls are supposed to ask the guys during Leap Year. Or is that just that day? Not really sure. It doesn't matter anyway, because you really just don't care. Kudos to your honesty.

I had originally planned to tape a short on-camera piece and have it air during our sports talk show Washington Post Live. I put this idea to the Producer who was to bring it to our News Director. Now, as anyone in TV can tell you, when someone is going to tell you No, they don't just say No. Instead, the SOP for this denial is to simply not tell you anything at all, and avoid you completely until it is too late.

So I had to change my plans, as they told me No by not telling me No. Instead, I chose another video route. I filmed myself proposing and posted in on her MySpace page. Not until the day of, of course.

On that Friday, I called her Mom, and let Mrs. H know she could spread the word - with the rule that no one contacts her in regards to the engagement until after 6:30pm. I wanted to give myself a decent window of opportunity because Nichole is not good at timing. By this I mean when she says she will be home in 15 minutes, it means she has yet to leave work and might be stopping somewhere first. It's a quirk I've become used to and can now plan around.

So when she got home, she went for the computer quicker than I had expected because she had something to show me. I was kind of caught with my pants down, which normally would be a good thing, but in this case was unfortunate. Reason being, I had yet to hit "Post Comment" so the video was just kind of sitting there. Luckily, she wasn't suspicious, she just thought I had done something dumb and was posting this dumb thing I did onto her page in order to spread my dumbness thing throughout the land.

Her quickness on the draw, however, did not give me time to set up the camera on the computer, which I had intended to use to catch her reaction to the actual proposal in a full-frontal angle. I did have a camera set up behind us to catch my Giving Of The Ring.

She sat down, posted the comment, and went to view it. What it began with was myself sitting there, explaining how I had just figured out how to upload videos and put them on the web. This is something that is very easy to do, but it worked as an excuse in this instance. I then went on to ask her how her day was, what she wanted to do that night, and what she wanted to do that weekend. Finally, I asked what she was doing the rest of her life and proposed.

I won't tell you what her immediate response was, but she can leave a comment here and tell you if she would like.

In the end, it was Yes.

I had arranged for all of her friends to be at a local bar that night to celebrate, so we headed that way after a brief champagne toast with some of our family.

All in all, it was successful. The ring looks great, and I sized it correctly. Now comes the wedding talk, but we have a little over a year before we plan on walking down the aisle, so hopefully we can space it out some to make it a little more stress free for both of us.

The only small thing I'm worried about is how she will feel about my already being married in 4 different countries. I mean, what happens outside the US stays outside the US, right?

*Editor's Note: This was a falsified statement used only for dramatic effect. The actual quote is much to coarse for reproduction.

Weight Loss Update.

2008-03-08T15:57:00.003-05:00

I do not recall the last time I spoke of this, and to be quite frank with you, it may not have been on this blog. Might have been the ol' MySpace page that I'm 30 and shouldn't have.

Well, I am down 32 pounds total so far. Actually, that's probably at 30 or so now, as I gained a couple the other week. Still, though, pretty good. I still have a long way to go, but we're getting there.

This is with not being able to work out for a month, too. Over the course of 4 weeks I was 1) sick, 102 fever; 2) Participated in the Polar Bear Plunge, which I intend to write about soon; 3) sick again, 102 fever again; 4) minor back surgery. It was a fun run!

The back surgery was nothing bad, really. I had two sebaceous cysts on the upper middle left-ish part of my back and had to have them drained and fixed and sewn up. I would go into the whole draining thing and what came out, but I want to spare you in case you are reading this blog over supper as many, many people do.

Are you enjoying your goopy cottage cheese?

Right, so as a result of having two rows of stitches in my back, I wasn't able to hit the gym for two weeks. Although during my fever weekends, I lost a total of 8 pounds. Doing so by sweating, shivering, and not eating is not the ideal course.

I am just now getting back into the exercise routine, and am hoping being off of it for this long will shock my body into some more quicker weight loss. Nothing drastic, just to help me crack that 200 lb mark. I am currently chilling at 208 lbs, with a starting weight of 242 back in October. I figure, in 4 more months I should be right around where I want to be.

When the time comes, you will know. I will have been found dead of Massive Acute Pastryitis, lying in my dirty underwear surrounded by 14 boxes of Entenmenn's Raspberry Danish Twist.

God I love that stuff.

Why Do They Do The Things They Do?

2008-03-08T15:34:00.002-05:00

A few days ago, I went to Safeway for dinner as I did not bring any with me to work. Man's gotta eat. Even a dieting man.

The Safeway near my work seems to be a vortex. Now, there are several definitions of a vortex, but dictionary.com has two I would like to share:

5.	something regarded as drawing into its powerful current everything that surrounds it: the vortex of war.

6.	(in Cartesian philosophy) a rapid rotatory movement of cosmic matter about a center, regarded as accounting for the origin or phenomena of bodies or systems of bodies in space.

In the case of this Safeway, it is a vortex of Odd. My first instinct is to apply it to the word Stupidity, but that would just be rude to my fellow shoppers. The better word is Odd.

So there I was, in line with my goods, in the process of mulling over which rag mag I was not intending to buy, when a lady got in line behind me. She had a total of 3 items, although I cannot recall exactly what the said items were. This being a 15 Items Or Less line, this was in no way unusual. What was unusual, in my eyes and in the eyes of anyone with eyes to view the unusual, was that she had a cart. A shopping cart. A whole shopping cart. For 3 items.

"Wait!" you shout accusingly, glaring at me with lover's eyes, "Maybe those items were heavy! Charcoal is heavy! Maybe she didn't want to carry the charcoal! For God's sake man, the charcoal!!!!"

The simple reply is to point out that although I do not remember the specific items being purchased, I do recall that each one was small and could be carried by hand. At the most, a small shopping basket. The convoluted reply would involve cursing, berating, and an eventual trip to the nut house for all the charcoal talk. So, I go with the simple.

She was pushing around a cart with 3 items. This woman was not handicapped. She was not limping, wheezing, gasping, or having a hard time pushing the cart. It would have made perfect sense to pick up a small green Safeway basket and carry her items around. It would have made even more sense to just carry them by hand, because they were easily small enough and light enough to do just that. It did not make any sense to push around a large cart with three tiny pieces of grocery.

This is one example of the vortex at work. It pulls the Odd like moths to a moth orgy. Like inbreds to their moms. Other examples I have spoke of before. There was the guy who bought 15 yogurts and nothing else. That was Odd. The other day, they were letting the down-syndrome having youth learn stuff on the register while customers were starting to back up. That was Odd. Hey, the guy is free to learn stuff, but pick your battles. There was the old lady a long time ago that freaked out when her groceries began to move along the black moving along thing we call put our stuff onto every time we check out of any grocery store. Seriously. She yelled at the cashier, blaming him for it. Amazing.

Now that I have my little notebook, which you'll of course recall me mentioning in a previous post, namely this one, I'm looking forward to my next visit. I might just forget to bring my dinner on Sunday.

See? It draws me in, too.

The Return and Maturing, for better or for worse.

2008-03-08T15:10:00.003-05:00

First, an explanation and apology. An apology to myself, more than anyone else. I apologize for taking so long to come back. I have not posted a post since December of last year, after keeping an erratic yet normal writing schedule. I did not write all the time, but neither did I let it get to be so long before reigniting the flame of passion I carry within myself for unimportant and derivative opinions vomited onto the internet.

I don't know why I let it get to be so. I have said before that I am lazy, and that definitely has something to do with it, but I cannot cast all the blame on such a personality trait. I think I was also blocked, like I would not let myself get back to one of the things I enjoy so well; the crafting of sentences, the turn of a phrase, the attempting to use large words to add ambiguity and uncertainty to my scripture, the subtle Use Of Capitalization to further my already obvious and uplifting point of view, the unadulterated wit that flows forth from my psyche only to cause undermining jealousy to those that view such art.

No, it really was just being damn lazy. I'm kind of worthless in that way.

So I have decided to return. I bought a small notebook to jot things down in when I come across them, such things that would lend to excellent blog fodder. Things that are meaningless in the bigger picture of life but touch me in a way that makes me want to scream, "What the hell is happening to the human species?!?" and "Who do I have to hump to get some agreement that Darth Vader is the awesomest villain ever created, including the Devil himself?!?"

I am also trying this new font size. I usually go with "Small," but I've ventured into "Normal" territory, as I feel perhaps my previous font size was a bit smaller than the normal person would prefer to gaze upon. Upon incorporating this new text size into my post, my mind at first recoiled, reminding me that it was not in my nature to care what font size the normal person would prefer to gaze upon, and moreover, screw them.

However, as I referred to in my post title, I am maturing. Growing wiser. Bolder. Better. Better than ever. Better than Ezra. I am getting more grey hairs, and have reached the point in my life where I do not look like an 18 year old anymore. I could easily be pushing 22. It's annoying, that. But one good look into my eyes lets you see the years behind them, the experiences, mistakes, triumphs, and masturbatory fantasies.

So here we begin anew. New font. New topics. New adventures, and misadventures!

Speaking of maturing, I got engaged last week. More on that later.

Time Flies When You're Knee Deep In Nog.

2007-12-27T23:46:00.000-05:00

I love the Christmas season.

It is easily my favorite time of year. There are things to be said about summer and spring and fall and all, but when it comes down to it, gimme some winter action anytime.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy some warm weather. It is definitely nice to head on outside for a pick-up basketball game in some shorts and a t-shirt, rocking those new sneaks you just bought and need to break in. Well, I'm told it's nice. I haven't played a pick-up basketball game since birth, and I'm not really sure how one goes about picking one up anyway. It was kind of supposed to be a metaphor. Or something.

Here's another that I relate to better: It's definitely nice to head on over to the pool when it's bright and sunny and hot out, head right on up to the water, turn around, and let yourself fall back into the water. Now there's something I can deal with. While I'm swimming around, I like to catch me a quick pick-up water polo game.

In the spring, I can enjoy the warming weather, blooming foliage, and everything that comes with nature's awakening from a deep winter's sleep. In the fall, I can relish in the cooling weather, bountiful colors, and everything that comes with nature's death for a few months.

But winter... winter it where it's at. First of all, winter is the time when football is getting even better. Playoffs are coming, teams are in win-or-go-home situations, and sometimes your team isn't 4-11. Secondly, the weather is nice a cold. Perfect to strap on a sweatshirt, throw a jacket over that, rock out the knit cap, and hit the town. Third? Snow. Now, it only snowed once so far, but I'm expecting some more to come. Probably in March.

And lastly, the main reason I like winter the best? Christmas. I think I started to say that earlier. These things tend to get away from me. It is one day a year, and I look forward to it the whole time leading up to it. Sure, it will stress me out in terms of money, and it will stress others out even more which will lead to them stressing others out, which will lead to a general disgust with all others hidden under the guise of Christmas Cheer.

"Cheer up, it's almost Christmas!" people will exclaim with much exclaim. "Die!" you will wish to heartily retort.

But it's true. It is almost Christmas. Actually, it was three days ago, but I'm trying to convey a mood here, people. For me, I think it stems from enjoying the gift-giving, plus it's the one time a year I see all of my family. Well, most. My Dad's side has a lot of people scattered around Maryland, from Baltimore to Towson to Columbia to Gaithersburg to Virginia (which is not in Maryland but shut your whore mouth) to Elkridge to Somewhere Else. Once a year they all converge on my parents house in Columbia to share in good-hearted ribbing and not-good-for-your-hearted food.

There are, of course, the Secret Santa gifts to give out. Also, it's a chance to see the kids I never get to see. I have at least 7 kids to see, with new ones popping up at random intervals. Seriously, sometimes I think we just let them in as they walk by. Watching them open presents kind of brings you back to when you were young and all that mattered was getting those ready-to-rip packages in your hands and hoping they are not all filled with clothes because what kind of heartless hum-bug bastard only gets a kid clothes when what they really want is a brand-new just-released 1985 GI Joe jail set.

Rest in peace, Aunt Sue.

Anyways. I know some people who aren't really fond of this season, obviously. There are people out there who just don't care that much, and that's fine. I'm not just talking about Jewish people, now. I think a lot of Jewish people love Christmas. The restaurants and movie theaters are barren. I can understand why some may not enjoy the season. Maybe it's the crowds, the falling-slowly-into-madness mentality of the Christmas mob, the drunken Santa's leering at your child in his lap, the Little Person attacking your child for repeatedly referring to him as an "Angry Elf." Some just were not cut out for the season.

I am not one of these people. In fact, if I saw one of these people, I would probably say something along the lines of, "Hey! Cheer up! It's almost Christmas!" knowing full well I am subjecting myself to possible bodily harm and/or slow, painful death. I can't help it. My parents were and are very big with Christmas - the family side of it, not so much the church going, god fearing side - so it rubbed off onto me. I'm a pretty good gifter, and my stocking stuffing skills are matched only by my father, and that man had many years to perfect it before I started to myself. I mean, the guy wraps each individual thing in my Mom's stocking. Seriously, I'm talking Chapstick. Chapstick gets wrapped. Awesome.

My only gripe? It's too short. In that way, I kind of envy the Hanukkah crowd. They get 8 days. We get one. Albeit, ours is shoved viciously into the face of Joe Consumer before Halloween has passed. So it's almost like Christmas gets two whole months. I don't look at that side, myself. I don't let myself think of it until Thanksgiving is over. To me, Christmas is kind of one and a half days. Christmas Eve, where you finish (or in my case, start) wrapping all your gifts, then light a fire, turn on the tree lights, and watch a couple Christmas movies before bed.

It's exhausting, all told. But still too short. It doesn't help when you have to go to work the next day, either. I'm thinking next year I'm going to attempt to take off at least the day before and after Christmas. This way, I can soak it in a little more before I have to go into my 364 day mental slumber until the next year.

Until then, "Cheer up! It's almost Christmas if you really suspend disbelief and refuse to acknowledge a calendar!"

The Perils Of Drinking.

2007-11-25T21:26:00.000-05:00

I just returned from Ocean City, MD today after a 3 day excursion with my girlfriend, her cousin, and her cousin's fiance. Nichole and I go to OCMD at least once during the off-season, as it is an excellent place to relax without dealing with any and all of the normal crowds that tend to swarm the peninsula come summer.

When we go, we stay at a place called The Haven Hotel, located on 1st street. A nice little hotel, very good off-season prices. Also, there's a jacuzzi in the room. Not in the bathroom, but in the room. It's awesome. We bring bubble bath.

So a few blocks down from the Haven is the world famous Purple Moose Saloon. By world famous, I of course mean not world famous, but some people know of it. I have developed good feelings towards the Moose, as it has served me well in the Drunk Department the last two times we have enjoyed the off-season.

The previous visit resulted in a $90 bar tab between myself and Nichole. At some point during the night, she had the idea to start doing shots, which probably contributed to the rest of the night. We began at 6pm, and around 10pm or so, a wedding party came in. I don't remember much of this, but apparently I was very congratulatory to the point of annoyance. We left the bar and stumbled to 7-11, where I almost knocked over an entire chip display in my rush to acquire another six pack, something I desperately needed.

I was successful. We ventured out onto the beach to sit under the stars, listen to the waves, and drink a beer or two. You know, real romantical type stuff. This didn't work out quite the way I had planned. After a few deep coughs, I turned my head to lean off of the blanket and promptly blew chunks all over the beach. Slight redemption came my way when I buried it with sand to keep it from the sight of my girlfriend. My girlfriend who seemed to be suddenly overcome with laughter for no reason whatsoever. We went in shortly after that, where I attempted to drink another beer. It's just so good when it hits your lips!

That was then. This is now. We headed over to the Moose after deciding not to head over to the bus stop and take a trip uptown. Why travel when you can drink at home? Or near it, anyways. So we ventured. It was barely crowded, maybe a good pack of 13 or so people, including us four. We got some beers, played some pool, did some shots. Eventually, the room began to spin on its own accord, much to my chagrin. Our tab reached the $100+ mark, which was a signal to us that it was time to leave. I do not recall much of what happened afterwards. I know we went out on the beach for a bit. The parts I do not remember are going to the same 7-11 as last time, where I was making loud jokes about Magnum condoms. On the walk back to the apartment, I tried to climb into and onto a construction site - unbeknownst to Sober Matt.

So, what have we learned so far? That I cannot handle my liquor? Correct. I cannot, nor have I been able to for a long time. I don't really like liquor, not a fan of doing shots, and rarely ever drink anything foo-foo-ish. I normally drink beer and beer only. The Moose just seems to get me. Thinking of my recent partial black-out and past inebriation adventure, it reminds me of the worst experience with The Drink I have ever had. I call it The Blackout. It is the reason I will not and cannot stomach Jagermeister. It is one reason I do not like doing shots anymore. It is one reason I have decided to believe in a Higher Power of some sort, even though I will never be a regular church goer or anything.

The Blackout

It was on the occasion of my 22nd birthday. I was living in Ocean City with two friends of mine, Ian and Joe. That night, we met up at a local bar whose name escapes me now. Atlantic Something Or Other. This was our hangout that summer. We went other places, but this was our main spot. We got to know the bartender, got some deals here and there, you know how it goes when you're awesome.

So that day, August 13th, whatever year, we headed on over to the bar. Joe met me out there from work, I had the day off to reflect on things that needed reflecting. That night, they had a special going on frozen Long Island Ice Teas. If you do not know what that is, go here. Then go order one.

As many of you know, it seems to take a long time to get drunk when drinking frozen drinks. It feels like you could drink 10 of them and barely feel buzzed. The truth is, that's a lie. I think it just takes longer to hit you. So while you pile them on, they are slowly gathering forces to attack.

So we were piling them on. On top of that, we thought it would be just the coolest to do shots of Jager too. I mean, it was my birthday and all, why not do it up? Thing become more hazy as the evening progresses, and the last thing I remember is a short sequence of events: Joe and I ordering two frozen Long Islands, and two more shots of Jager. The bartender brought us the shots, then made our drinks. He gave us the drinks, and we immediately ordered two more shots of Jager. Seriously, I remember nothing after.

That night, I had a dream. One of those dreams that just seem so realistic it feels like your actually there. It was early morning, and I was in water. I didn't necessarily want to be in the water, but there I was. There was a pier of some sort there, with ropes hanging off and stuff. I was trying to pull myself out but it wasn't working very well. Very frustrating. I wasn't scared, it was more of an annoyance than anything. Then, I woke up.

I woke up in my bed, with nothing on but the ol' skivvies. I had some little cuts all over my hands and forearms, and my left foot's big toe hurt like hell. So did my head. I looked closer at my foot and there was some green stuff under the toenail, packed in there like packed things get packed into packable things. I got out of bed, limping on my green toe, and looked around for my clothes. I found my pants in the living room, soaking wet. My shirt was on the bathroom floor, soaking wet. The only shoe I could find was soaking wet. I could not find the button down shirt I was wearing the night before, but I assume it was soaking wet, and might still be.

I was pretty confused, but upon inspection of my toe again, it hit me. I was slow that morning. The green stuff in my toenail looked like the kind of gooey, wet moss that grows on the submerged wood of a pier. Which meant my shoe had come off in some water, and my toenail became flush with green stuff as I was using my feet to attempt to get out of the water. It had not been a dream.

I had, somehow, fallen or jumped into the bay. I lost my shoe, my shirt, but nothing else. More exploring of the house.

Drying puke on the toilet and a little on the floor. I could only assume that was me. I cleaned up a bit, tried to get some of the toenail moss out of my foot, and brushed my teeth. Downed a few aspirin, then wrote a note.

My note went something like this:

Hey Joe, I blacked out and fell in the bay. What the hell happened last night?

I left the note in a noticeable position and went back to sleep, hoping to not dream of anything wet. Yes, not even that.

I woke up later when Joe stumbled in and went to sleep on the bottom bunk. Yes, we were a couple of 22 year old guys in bunk beds. Not our idea, it was only a one-bedroom place with three dudes. Before passing out, Joe had replied to my note:

I don't know, I blacked out too.

Not his exact response, but close enough.

Between the two of us, our roommate, a dude we knew, and a couple girls we knew we were able to piece together some of what happened the night before.

Joe remembered paying our tab and leaving the bar. From there, we headed over to a late night taco joint called Matteo's. It's not there anymore, but when it was... it was good. While we were there we ran into a guy we knew, who I apparently repeatedly high-fived.

From there, things get speculative. At some point in the night, it rained pretty hard. Somehow, Joe and me became separated. He stopped by an apartment rented by some girls we knew and fell into a bush. I fell into the bay. To this day, I do not know how I got out of the water. If there is some random fisherman who helped me out that morning, I thank you kindly.

According to Ian, my other roommate who left earlier than Joe and I and therefore did not almost die, around 9am Joe and I walked (trundled) through the door, holding each other up. We were somewhat incomprehensible. I basically stripped down to the drawers, threw up in and on the bathroom, and passed out. Joe grabbed his toothpaste, toothbrush, and a pack of crackers and headed to work after getting a phone call saying he was supposed to be there. I feel bad for the man. He spent the day puking in the work bathroom.

Around 3pm that day, I attempted to eat. I was successful. There was a little gyro stand near our apartment that was great for Next Day meals. I lost my shoe, shirt, and a silver figaro bracelet that night. My money was gone, but everything else in my wallet was whole. I had my car keys, which was a nice thing to see.

Finally, there is a nice scar on the inside of my left wrist to remind me that Jager = Bad.

So that was The Blackout. Kind of scary when you think about it. I mean, there is about a 6 hour gap where time seems missing. I don't know what happened, and neither does Joe. Did I spend 5 of those hours in the bay? Besides a few scratches and a green toe, I was no worse for wear. Didn't get sick or anything. Did I pass out somewhere for awhile? How did Joe and I reunite and make our way back to the room?

I have tried not to get out of hand like that since, and for the most part, I have succeeded. The other night was the first time since that I have actually lost a portion of the night before. I had others to babysit me, so maybe that was a bit of a catalyst. I knew I didn't have to drive anywhere, so that helped, too.

Either way, drinking is perilous. I think that was the point of this whole thing. Also, don't drink near a bay.

Not too much, at least.

A Case Study: Blue Thunder vs. Airwolf

2007-11-07T22:01:00.000-05:00

Back in the 80's, the years 1983 and 1984 to be specific, the youth of America was treated to the emergence of a new, cool vehicle not given it's due in years before. We were exposed to the coolness of the helicopter. We had seen planes, trains, and automobiles, but before this time the helicopter was more of an after-thought. The grown-ups of this time knew of them, sure, but only in a traffic-copter or rescue-copter capacity. We of the younger generation, though, knew more about fire engines and jet planes. We were content with that.

Then, along came the helicopter. Not just the Red Cross Rescue Helicopter, I'm talking helicopters with weapons. In 1983, a movie was released by the name of Blue Thunder. This was about a high-tech military helicopter piloted by one Roy Scheider, he of Jaws fame. He plays a LAPD helicopter pilot who is selected to pilot this new, super advanced badass helicopter called Blue Thunder. There is an evil plot, plenty of helicopter action, and in the end, they destroy the helicopter.

Sorry for the spoiler, but it was made in 1983 and if you haven't seen it already, you aren't going to see it just because I'm currently over-thinking it's significance.

One of the things I had forgotten about the TV series spin-off was it's awesome cast. A few of the cast highlights? Dana Carvey, Bubba Smith, and Dick Butkus. Yes, that's correct. He had been in the Pro Football Hall of Fame for four years before this TV series even showed up on the boob tube.

Day in and day out they used Blue Thunder to thwart a wide assortment of threats. It was a dusty blue, and had all sorts of guns and missiles and things poking out of it, really a military look to the whole thing.

No doubt somewhat inspired by the attention given to the film Blue Thunder, but also supposedly coming from an idea found within an episode of Magnum P.I. (same producer), the TV series Airwolf made it's debut in the year 1984. This helicopter was different, though.

Still military in origin, this was a stream-lined, sleek looking helicopter that kicked as much ass as Blue Thunder without looking like it was hastily thrown together. Airwolf is explained as a "supersonic" helicopter, and had an impressive array of weaponry that would be released from hidden panels. Things slide out of the way, something shoots out, then things slide back into place.

The lead character's name was Stringfellow Hawke. I put that in bold type because his name was Stringfellow Hawke. I haven't met many Stringfellows, but I want to very badly. He was played by Jan-Michael Vincent, who you have seen before in some other movie he did where he was in it and you saw him there. Along for the ride was his friend, mentor, and all around great guy, Ernest Borgnine. His name is in bold because he is Ernest Borgnine.

This show started out with cloak and dagger type of plots, with spy organizations and covert activities. It devolved, some would say, into more of a straight action kind of show with more pedestrian overtones. Of course, in each episode, Airwolf was needed to set things right, the setting of which typically happened in the air, and many times against other helicopters. Apparently, helicopters are the choice of vehicle for most mid-air fights. Top Gun was way off.

Some would say Airwolf loses points for their stingy use of the helicopter itself. Airwolf was covert, as I may have mentioned earlier, so it wasn't like they could just hop the the ol' 'Wolf and get them some McDonald's. There was no kitten-in-tree usage of Airwolf, it was strictly Go Get 'Em situations. So we saw the helicopter in the beginning, sometimes a little in the middle, and in the Final Battle. Otherwise, it was kept in the defunct volcano that served as Airwolf HQ.

Blue Thunder was somewhat different, as it was not a secret helicopter. So these guys could ride around in it, maybe get some chinese food and catch a Drive-In. Not that Dana would let that kind of thing happen, I'm just saying, you know, they could.

The Blue Thunder TV series totalled a total of 11 episodes total. Plus the movie. Airwolf ran from 1984-1987, completing three seasons and a fake fourth one. I say fake because it featured an all-new all-different cast and became worse production-wise. It's like when Bo and Luke were replaced by Coy and Vance. We just like to pretend the Duke boys didn't exist for that short time. Blue Thunder was cancelled because the network executives were not willing to try and compete with the Airwolf series, which sported a superior opening theme. So in that respect, Airwolf wins.

Where Airwolf loses is in use of the helicopter itself. There was not enough In General use, in my opinion, and most of the show was spent waiting for them to suit up and load them guns. Point: Blue Thunder.

Airwolf, though, just looked so much cooler. It was like the KITT of the sky, without the talking, jumping sounds, or Hasselhoff. It was sleek, had this black and white scheme going, and the coolest thing - in my 7 year old opinion - was the lack of skids (you know, they ski looking metal landing gear), and the use of wheels. Such a simple thing, but it made Airwolf look that much cooler, flying around with the landing gear tucked away made it look even sleeker, and it was already really sleek, so this was just extra sleekness.

This is what ultimately gives Airwolf the crown, in my opinion. It looks cooler, the pilot looks grimmer, and they have a Volcano Base. The theme song rocks in that catchy synthesizer way, and when it hits near the end of the episode you know the Bad Helicopter is going to take a dirt nap. I had both toys, but Airwolf got the most play.

So, in conclusion to this amazingly uplifting and informative thesis, I must listen to the 7-10 year old inside me and announce Airwolf as the winner in this, the first of several Case Studies I intend to enthrall you with.

Congratulations Airwolf. Go Get 'Em.

Life Never Ceases To Amaze.

2007-10-31T18:27:00.000-04:00

On July 17, 2007, I posted a blog with an opening line about a commercial I saw the night before. Instead of writing about that commercial, I put up a bunch of pictures of He-Man figures I used to own. I'm not sure why I did this, but I did. So there you go.

I have decided it is now time to talk about the commercial. I said in that blog, the commercial made me think, People will buy anything. I was correct in this assumption.

The commercial's intensity follows in the footsteps of Girls Gone Wild and available DVD's such as those. It does not, however, match the content. Instead, this DVD series is about....

....

....wait for it....

....Trains.

It was a commercial for a DVD series called Lots & Lots of Trains. The announcer comes in with something asking if you love trains and here comes Lots & Lots of Trains. Along with this scintillating talk comes an MTV-style montage of train footage. Big trains, small trains, fast trains, slow trains, red fish, blue fish, one fish, fish trains.

It captivated me like how captivating things captivate other people. I was in awe. Not of the trains, mind you, but because someone had made and was selling DVD's featuring many different kinds of trains riding along their tracks. Now, I have seen a lot of porn. I mean, a lot. I have never seen a train fetish, though, so I can only assume these videos were not made for train enthusiasts to masturbate to.

Which means, they are serious. This is not a joke. I thought maybe, Hmm... someone must be messing with people's minds here. Maybe, just maybe, the Powers That Be decided they would mess with those of us watching A&E at 3am. At least, I hoped that was the case. But alas, it is not a joke.

Not only is Lots & Lots of Trains an actual DVD, but there is a Volume 2. If you loved Lots & Lots of Trains, you'll vomit for Lots & Lots of Trains: Volume 2!!! And if you vomited for Lots & Lots of Trains: Volume 2, you'll anally bleed for when we come out with Lots & Lots of Trains: Volume 3 for some reason!!!!

I just don't get it, as I don't get many other things. How did they sell enough of Volume One to make Volume Two a necessity? On Amazon.com, they have Katey Sagal and James Garner listed as 'Actors.' How the hell did they get Peggy Bundy, much less James Garner??

This rant doesn't exactly have much of a point, obviously, aside from putting a voice to my bewilderment. It amazes me that things like this exist, and moreover that people buy this stuff. Now, to be fair, the two reviews I read explained how much the reviewers' kids liked Lots & Lots of Trains. In that respect, I can understand why the video exists. Even so, enough parents bought this for their kids to warrant a Volume Two? Really?

Shouldn't there be a lot more train engineers? I have never met someone whose occupation dealt with the driving of trains.

If I did, though, I would buy them this movie. I'm thinking of buying it anyway, just to say I have it.

I can't wait for Lots & Lots of Mopeds.

Pulling My Weight. To Lose Said Weight.

2007-10-23T00:19:00.000-04:00

As of today, I will have been a member of Weight Watchers for nine days. This may have been the longest commitment to a healthy activity I have ever not quit.

I have told myself before, "I'm definitely gonna start working out," as I started the second quarter of an important football game... on Madden... on PlayStation. "I need to eat better," while finishing off that pesky last bit of the half a DiGiorno pizza I just demolished. "I'm going to start going to the gym," which is similar to the first quote, which is something I said while passing an apartment complex gym while heading out to pick up the Chinese I just ordered so I can chow down while watching the movie I picked up from Hollywood video that I plan to watch while I eat that Chinese food. The food I ordered enough of to feed two people. The food that will be eaten only by myself.

I'm actually drooling now.

So I was warned by a friend of mine that when starting a diet and while maintaining said diet, you will think of food constantly. This, I have found, was not a lie. There are times when I don't think about it. When I was driving to work today, I found myself not thinking about food. I noticed this, then immediately dreamed up a deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwich with pastrami. OOH! And jalapenos.

What?

As I was saying, food seems to be foremost on my mind now. It's not that I'm sitting around thinking about what I can't have anymore, like half a pizza or a drippy cheesesteak sub with onions and hots and a side of jalapeno poppers, it's more along the lines of what I can have. What I can eat, and how it equates to the point system I'm working with. For example, one beer equals 3 points. I haven't had a beer yet since I've been on the diet, so that might have not been the best example, but still. I guess I'm thinking about beer. That's normal, though.

I think about what I can make that will be both filling enough, healthy enough, and taste good. There is plenty to choose from, I've found, which makes it even easier to sit around and think about. Right now, I have several fillets of catfish in my freezer. We (Nichole is on the diet as well) are planning on having that on Thursday. Here it is, Tuesday, and I have already thought about a couple different ways to cook it. I'm leaning more towards lemon-pepper. Something lemon-peppery.

Then I go into the veggies. I can eat almost as much as I'd like when it comes to vegetables, but the problem there is the small amount of vegetables I actually like. Carrots. I like carrots. There are others, but they require some doctoring for me to enjoy them. I can do broccoli, but I only like it drenched in some kind of dip. Blue cheese, preferably. "Cucumbers?" you ask for no real reason at all. No, don't like 'em.

I can do squash and zucchini, but I need to fancy them up. I can only use a little bit of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter - which, by the way, I can now believe - so that's out. We do have in our spice cabinet something called Garlic and Wine Seasoning which is most good, but too much of a good thing is probably against the rules somehow.

When all is said and done, though, I have lost over 5 pounds already. I am eating healthier, drinking a lot more water, urinating more often, and keeping myself from snagging the errant cookie from our Green Room or the leftover pizza Kelsey had for lunch that day. I have started a workout program, 2 times a week for only about 15 minutes or so. 3 days a week I do some sort of cardio, both of these I can do in my living room while watching TV. I do some squats, push-ups, leg lift type things and some exercise where I lie on my side and lift myself up with my elbow. Hard to explain.

So far, I'm committed. Part of that comes from venturing into the Diet World not alone, but with Nichole. The other part is the $65 I spent on 3 months worth of Weight Watchers membership. It will take me longer than that to get where I want to be, so in the end I will have shelled out a lot more than that, but if I'm actually spending money on something I am inclined to make use of it. I mean, I pay for my car and use that every day.

Seeing it work is the biggest incentive, of course. Before, I would half-ass it and wonder why I couldn't lose weight. This time, I'm following all the rules and it is actually paying off.

Stick with it, it might just pay off. Who knew?

It's Not Easy Being Purple.

2007-10-14T17:05:00.000-04:00

Yes, Kermit enthusiasts, I realize he sings about being green. I love the song, too.

I have commandeered the chorus of the song for my own purposes because every Sunday (and the occasional Monday) is a challenge, when it really shouldn't be. I am speaking, of course, of the fan support I offer up to the Baltimore Ravens.

I love football season. I will watch the Orioles or pause on a Wizards game, and even tolerate a Caps game if the bar has it on. I will kind of almost follow the World Series, and tune in during March Madness to watch some college b-ball (having money on a pick 'em pool doesn't hurt). I'll tune in to the Olympics for curling. None of these comes close to football, for me. And I'm not referring to college ball, but the National Football League.

I don't even know what it is about it that puts it at the top. Is it the game itself? Is it because it's only once a week, which makes every game count? Perhaps part of the appeal is in the intensity or violence of it all. Even now I've stopped twice to watch some of the Dallas-Patriots game.

For whatever reason, I love me some football.

Being born in Baltimore, raised close by, and raised by a man who was born and raised in Baltimore and Towson, I am a Baltimore fan. I can very vaguely remember the Colts being here, but for the most part I grew up without a football team in town for which to root. I remember kind of liking the 49'ers, back in the Montana days. I think I was okay with the Raiders at one point, because of the whole skull and crossbones kind of thing. I mean, I had a Raiders Starter jacket in middle school. Hell, Ice Cube had one, and I was hard too, right? As far as rooting for the Redskins... no can do. Somewhere in my childhood development, a No Redskins sign was implanted into my brain by my Dad, so I couldn't go there for a team. Although, I don't have the irrational hatred of that team as many of their fans have for the Ravens (most of which makes no sense, because the kids growing up with the Redskins now have no past prejudices towards any other team which to me makes their disdain of the Ravens completely idiotic. Maybe they're pissy because of our Superbowl win. Who knows?). I actually think a Ravens-Redskins Superbowl would be awesome.

We'd crush 'em.

So when it was finalized, when the announcement was made that Baltimore would once again have a team, it was like an awakening for me. I didn't really care about watching sports until then. They showed up, and I was an automatic fan.

Going through hard seasons, great ones, and decent ones, it seems like the Ravens M.O. consists of seating their fans on the edge every single game. It's never easy, is how it feels. Today we played the 0-5 St. Louis Rams and won 22-3, which to most would seem like a great win, good job, nice work outta you, etc. Not for the Ravens. We had Kyle Boller at quarterback. This alone will make every single Ravens fan cringe when the ball is snapped. Our DB's are suspect now, especially after giving up beig leads late in the game. McNair is looking old and, at times, damn confused. Billick seems to throw any game plan he might have developed as soon as he gets into the red zone. And this is after a 13-3 record from last year.

Even during the Superbowl year, we had to suffer through five games without a touchdown. It almost seems like the only easy game we had was the Superbowl game. We won that game 34-7, essentially ripping the Giants apart without breaking a sweat.

So why O why is it so freaking hard now? I know I am the same as any fan in the frustration I feel for my team. But Lord Above we should be taking these teams apart. Coming from the way we played last year, most of us fans feel like we shouldn't even have a loss at this point. Our schedule after the bye week is the farthest thing from ideal, and we are floundering against lesser echelon teams and pulling wins out of our ass.

Sorry for the vent. I'm just frustrated. We beat the Rams handily today, but they were 0-5. We beat the 49'ers last week at San Francisco, but we only beat them by 2 and scored no touchdowns. We won against Arizona in week 3, but we gave up the lead and got lucky to win by 3 points. There is always a BUT thrown in there. It can never be We Done Good Today. There is always something.

It makes my hair grey.

I tune in, every week. I will continue to tune in every week. I will keep wearing purple jerseys and purple visors and shirts with the Ravens' logo. I will go to games and yell myself hoarse. And I will curse the ground they play on during every bad performance.

I love football.

New Mexico. Cow Creek Ranch.

2007-10-05T19:01:00.000-04:00

Cow Creek Ranch is located right outside of a small New Mexico town called Pecos. I don't think there is a stop-light in the entire town. There is a few stop signs, I know that much. Also, they take credit cards. I know this because I bought beer right before heading to the ranch. Can't fish without beer. Seriously, it's in the Fishing By-Laws. That I made up.

When heading to the ranch from Pecos, you drive up to a dirt road, onto the dirt road, and follow it for about 45 minutes through the mountains up to the ranch. Even once you pass the Cow Creek gate, you still have about 10 minutes of dirt road to traverse. It is an enjoyable ride, but make sure you're rolling with 4 wheel drive because there are some serious divots to work around. A few scenic moments when you hit the top and work your way down, but mainly it's just a lot of forest and several sequestered houses that you will wish you owned because it would be awesome to live in the woods and not have anyone bother you with things like work and bills and as long as I'm dreaming I'd like a pony.

The ranch house is essentially one large building divided into sections. The main part of the house has the dining room, a nice living room area to hang out in, and a good sized back porch for relaxation and night-time cigar smoking/beer drinking. Which we enjoyed each of the nights.

Attached to the house is a long building, shaped like an L. It is where the rooms are found, ten of them in all, I believe. Some of them are one double bed, some have a couple singles, some are two doubles. Some share a bathroom, some have their own. There is no small fridge or anything like you would find in a hotel room, but the main house has a fridge for your stuff, plus they provide small coolers to keep the brew outside of your room. Handy.

Across the way from the main house are the stables and a smaller house occupied by the employees of the ranch. Some of them stay there the whole summer, with occasional trips to civilization, I'm sure. Otherwise they could have a serious All Work And No Play problem on their hands.

Surrounding the ranch, mountains. Looking at them, you get the feeling that something is not right, though. Something seems missing, or there should be more. And you would be correct. Sometime in the year 2000, there were massive forest fires throughout the range. The damage then must have been spectacular, because the area is definitely still recovering and will be for quite a while. Many of the trees are barren, and many still hold the burnt scars from the fire. Apparently, the ranch began larger as there was another house behind it, which was consumed by the fire.

Still, it didn't take away from the view, but rather augmented it somewhat. Like if you were looking at what was and thinking of what it would be.

The ranch is run by a lady by the name of Lenier. If I am not spelling that right, you don't know the difference so just go with it and stop complaining. She is almost 30. Yes, that's correct. 30 years old. Did you know I'm 30 too? And did you also know that I do not own a ranch in New Mexico? Nope, not even a shack. Actually, her father still owns it, she just runs the place. But still, one day she will own it.

And when that day comes, I will win it from her in a game of sabacc.

She will later betray me to the Empire. She won't have a choice, though, they will have arrived just before I did.

The ranch provides almost everything. It's awesome. If you don't have fishing gear, they have plenty of stuff you can use. Why you wouldn't have any fishing gear when going on a fishing trip is beyond me, but there you go. I've been over the meals, but there is always something to snack on if the need hits. In the main house, they have a small bar area where they will keep your beer or liquor with a little name tag so as to avoid any confusion when three people all bring six packs of PBR.

The little outside fire pit is great. We all pulled up chairs, fired up the cigars and cracked open the brews. Definitely the highlight of the night after a long day of fishing.

The best part of the trip might have to be the company. It was great how everything worked out. The group was made up of:

Dad, Myself

Dave and his dad George

Chris and his dad Tom

The cool thing about this is the connection here. My parents moved into our first house when I was a couple months old. I think we were the first of the group. Soon after, Dave and his family moved into the neighborhood and I think Chris's family was next. I know I met Dave when I was 11 months and he was 8 months old. Roughly. I'm not sure when I met Chris exactly, but I don't remember ever not knowing him, so there you go. These are the folks we go Christmas tree hunting with every year. We do a chili night after that where we eat chili and exchange gifts. Dave's Mom babysat me more than any of my relatives did. So basically, I got to go to New Mexico with part of my extended family.

Real male bonding, and we didn't even need strippers. We did need beer, but not strippers. Also, there was an exorbitant amount of flatulence. Since we were wearing waders, the farts would kind of get trapped in them, so when we went to take off the waders you kind of got a second blast. If you timed it right, you could let that second blast out right around another guy and let him enjoy the ride, too.

Sorry about the last part, but this blog was way too straight-forward and semi-serious. It didn't have many joke moments, so I felt a light hearted adolescent jaunt through the beauty of a good fart would help bring me back down to the level I usually occupy.

So ends my New Mexican blogs. I'll be back to the mindless drivel I know and love soon enough. Thanks for listening, and if you get the chance to head out there someday, buy me a ticket too. I'll roll with.

New Mexico. The Fishing.

2007-10-03T12:29:00.001-04:00

The tranquility of the water. The early bird chirping of the early bird. The sun peeking over the horizon, slowly warming the ground and casting off the fog floating lazily across the land. The half open eyelids and groggy plodding towards the fishing ground to hopefully catch a large slimy fish and unhook a metal hook from its mouth in triumph.

This is early morning fishing.

We fished later in the day, too, though. The area provided to fish was enormous. The ranch had 7 small lakes, each stocked with trout. There were rainbow trout, brook trout, brownies... I also caught an awesome 2" brook trout, which is pictured here. There was also a river running the length of the property and beyond, with small pools set up at different intervals along the stream. So you could fish a small patch of the river, or spend a little time at your own personal pool trying your luck.

They really split everything up well, dividing the different areas up by room. At dinner the night before, you would draw a number. After every room had picked, you would go in order and select which station you would like to fish. Any one of the 12 stations along the river, or you could pick a lake. This kept it open enough that you wouldn't have three rooms worth of people trying to fish the same patch of river.

At lunch, you could sign up for another spot of water, without the burden of trying to remember the number you picked. We weren't here to think. We were here to fish.

Any station left open could be fished by anyone. Since we had three rooms in our group, we were able to arrange our choices in line with each other. So we would pick, say, Lake 4 and 5 and station 6 on the river, or something. That way, we could all switch around as we liked.

My personal favorite was fishing the river. The third day of fishing, we all chose sections 10, 11, and 12 on the river. That put us as far upstream you could get and still be fishing within the stocked areas of the river. The further up you went, the less man-made the areas became. So when you kept going past 12, as my Dad and I did several times, it got a little harder to traverse but a lot more fun to fish. At one point I found a small little natural pool in a river and caught 4 fish within a 5 minute span (I hooked about 7 but only managed to reel in the 4).

To me, that is fishing. There is definitely something to be said for fishing in a lake; it is calmer, there are more fish around, and very relaxing. But to me, the real fun comes from treading through the river, making my way through high grass and all sorts of branches and rocks and knee deep water and ankle deep water all to find that one little spot where you can catch a really nice fish. A lake is almost too easy - although I will say that I caught more in the little streams than the lake, but I think it might have been a technique problem or something.

We used several different types of flies, no live bait. Fly fishing has great names for their lures. Wooly Boogers would be my favorite. It is also the majority of what I used, at least in the lakes. Going up the river, both my Dad and I were using small dry flies (looked kind of like fat mosquitoes), with a small fake worm trailing behind. The dry fly would stay mostly on top of the water while the worm would sink a little. Everything was made out of yarn, these are not rubbery or plastic as regular fishing lures tend to be.

As this ranch was strictly catch-and-release, all the barbs on the hooks needed to be removed or smushed down as to not really harm the fish (aside from getting a hole in its lip). This works out better as a whole, because there would be nothing you could do with the fish anyway aside from sitting it in a cooler for a few days until you left. Trust me, I don't think you'd want it after that.

You know what's fun? Losing flies. I must have lost at least three for every time we went out. When you lose one, you just have to tie another one, but my oh my is it frustrating. I once lost two in the span of about ten minutes. I lost the first one under the water. So I sat down for a bit and tied another on, went to cast, and immediately tangled it up in some branches roughly 10 feet above my head. After subjecting the tree to many a scathing insult and cursing the Great Lord Of The Fish for a couple minutes, I angrily sat down to tie yet another fly with only a modicum of grumbling and scorn.

Fly fishing is almost the polar opposite of regular casting, which I think is referred to as spin casting. The only thing that keeps it from officially being the polar opposite is that you are still trying to catch fish either way. Normally, you would use the reel the whole time, both in the casting of the lure and retrieval. You hold the line, cast it out from the reel. Then, you slowly bring the line back in, again using the reel. With fly fishing, the reel is really only used to hold the line somewhere. When you get ready to fly fish, first you pull as much line as you need from the reel, letting it settle around your feet, essentially. One hand holding the rod, the other holding the line, you cast the rod back quickly so that the line goes taught, then bring it forward. At the end of the forward cast, the hand holding the line lets some go. Doing this a few times back and forth is called a false cast. Now, when I say you cast the rod back, I'm not speaking as you would when spin casting. You don't flick your wrist back. You move your forearm. The wrist stays straight, there is not bending. If you get into the bending of your wrist, the cast will be nowhere near what you would have liked it to be.

Upon re-reading that, the part of me that is pretending to not know how to do it is kind of cocking its head to the side and saying, "Huh? Why not just write it in spanish, douche?"

I mean, you can kind of tell what I'm saying, but you also can kind of not. So here. A link to a website called www.flyandspincasting.com. I am convinced they will do a better job than I did. Take note of that, it's not the type of thing I will usually admit.

Here we come to the advertising portion of this blog. I recommend to anyone who is a fan of fishing to try out fly fishing. I liked it so much better than spin casting, and I really didn't think I would. It's frustrating to get a feel for at times, but once you get a good rhythm going it's great. You have more control over the line. Reeling in the fish is easier because you are using your hands to pull in the line, plus you can decide exactly how much line you want to cast. You can change direction mid-cast if you see a fish pop up over there. Good stuff.

Plus, and this is the kicker, when you do it right - you look totally awesome doing it. Like a real pro.

Or, if you will a reel pro.

See what I did there?

New Mexico. Robin Hood. Ish.

2007-10-03T00:44:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure why the Powers That Be decided to schedule the extra-curricular activites right after lunch each day. The day before we went horseback riding immediately after lunch. Today, archery. Immediately after lunch.

It's New Mexico, in the middle of the mountains, and I'm about to go shoot stuff with arrows. Time to stop whining.

I've archered before. I was a Boy Scout in my youth, even though many of the lessons didn't quite stick. I do remember something about being trustworthy, which I feel that I am. I was not always, but I am now. I remember getting an archery badge at a Boy Scout camp, and I recall a similar activity in high school, too. So I'm familiar with it, I know what to expect, and I'm pretty sure I will excell as usual.

We met with our guide, Katie, a little while after the aforementioned lunch. I had a huge hamburger covered in green chilis, but that's not important right now. Besides, I covered that in the food blog. I just wanted to establish that I was very, very full.

Katie, it seemed, was not an archery expert, but more of an employee who was given the archery assignment for the summer, therefore she was the Archery Guide. Enough to explain everything and go over safety procedures, like what to do when pierced by an arrow by a fellow vacationer in the middle of the woods, or how to position the arrow correctly. She was very nice, though. She has a MySpace page.

Shooting today would be myself and Dave, plus four other guests of the ranch. This was quite a turnout, considering the guest list for the horseback riding had been only Dave and I. The others were each from Texas, two couples - although one of the ladies did not arch, just watched and cheered on her hubby, who I soundly trounced.

I know I trounced him because we kept score. I'll get to that.

We started out shooting at some pillow targets. Two large pillows with five small targets were strung up in the woods. After applying our wrist guards, we each took turns taking some practice shots before getting down with the real hunt.

The real hunt is where we kept score. There were seven different foam animals placed around the woods for us to take a shot at. Actually, we each had two shots at each fanimal. That's my shorthand for fake animal. On these lucky fanimals were sections with different point values. A general body shot was 5 points, but if you got within the kill zone circle area type place, you were awarded 10 points. If you completely missed the animal, you were awarded no points and made an object of ridicule.

Not really.

The order of the animals went as follows: Deer, Warthog, Rabid Pig, Maniacal Wild Turkey, Evil Groundhog, Deer Number Two, and lastly, Cute Bear Cub That You Want To Kill.

The only one I didn't hit at least once was the Evil Groundhog. Missed him completely. I hit the turkey twice, and I think I hit the pig twice as well. My best shot was the second shot on the first deer. It looked like I only whiffed it, but we couldn't be sure until we went to collect the arrows. Turns out I had completely shot it's ear off. I argued for more points, but Katie was firm in her charting.

I ended up with 40 points and a second place finish. I was beat by four by some guy named Scott from Texas, who started slow but came on strong in the end. I later hooked Texas Scott with a fly-line by "mistake," then made out with his wife.

Ironically, but not really, Texas Scott was also the winner of the Long-Cast Competition we had later that night at the fish fry. His partner was my Dad, so I couldn't fault him for that. Plus, my Dad actually had the longest cast, Texas Scott was just his partner.

I still slashed his tires that morning.

New Mexico. Brokeback Style.

2007-09-28T16:54:00.000-04:00

The last time I actually rode a horse was probably back in Boy Scouts. Maybe at a fair somewhere as a child, taking a wild ride on a stoned and tethered horse walking in a circle. Holding tight on the reins in fear of the horse going wild and taking off through the cotton candy laden crowd. Or perhaps I was The Lone Ranger, trekking through the wild west in search of fortune and fame and a town to call my own.

**insert The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly wah-wah-wah theme here**

So it's somewhat understandable that I approached my horse-riding activity (one of some of the other activities they offer during your stay at the Cow Creek Ranch) with some trepidation and wariness. Will my beer-gut be the catalyst to finally break this horse's spine? Will my manly-man-scent be enough to drive the steed into a frenzy of jealous hatred and buck me off? Am I just a few minutes from living out my life as the former Superman had to live his? What if I hurt my junk on the saddle?

All these were important questions at the time. Upon seeing the horses, tethered and docile with very little interest in either myself or Dave as we walked toward them, the rational part of my took hold and gently said, "Man up, bitch." Words of wisdom, I would say.

Our Riding Guide was running a bit late, which gave Dave and I an opportunity to run through a slew of jokes pertaining to our coming ride. I can't really remember them now, but I'm positive they were hilarious.

Our Riding Guide, Gene, showed up and got us ready to head out. After, of course, we each signed a release form. You know, in case the thing with my manly-man-scent happened, or perhaps we were mistaken for large Elk on horseback. These things occur, and always when you least expected it. If you sign a waiver, though, then it won't happen. So pass the pen.

He assigned us our horses. Dave, being a black guy, was immediately given a black horse. I wasn't offended though, because that meant if a crazed killer suddenly lunged out of the woods with an axe and attacked us, they would both die first. I've seen movies. I know how this stuff works. His horse, naturally, was named Blackjack. I assume it was one word, because I thought Black Jack would just be too politically incorrect.

My horse was next. I found out his name was Reno after the ride. During the ride, I referred to him as One-Eyed Willy. From Goonies? Geez, go rent it already. I referred to him in such a way because he only had one eye. I was about to go on the first horsey ride in many, many years and was given the horse with one eye. Yippie-kay-yay. Also, I got the feeling he wasn't thrilled to have my bulk weighing on his spine. I got this feeling because when I got on, his spine snapped.

So after two rolls of duct tape and some quick thinking by Gene, we were on our way. Our hike was to be about an hour or so, and took us up a trail into the mountains. The trail began nice and wide, car-width, and eventually shrunk down into a regular in-the-woods trail. The terrain was grass and dirt for the most part, but in some spots it became very rocky and loose. This is where it got a little scary.

Because Willy had only one eye, he would turn his head to the side every now and then to get a better read on where the other horses were, as well as what part of the trail was forthcoming. All of the horses were used to this walk, as they offer the activity to everyone at the ranch, so it really shouldn't have had me wary. Still, you expect a horse to go in the direction it's head is pointing, typically. So to have it walk straight when it's looking the other way is unnerving, even taking into account it was not looking the other way. It just has one eye. So it almost feels like it's not even looking where it's going.

I'm sorry, I keep saying it. He. Reno. Willy. Ol' One Eye. Whatever.

On top of that, Willy liked to walk slower. So he would fall back a ways, notice that he had done so, then trot up to the other horses. This part was not fun. It was kind of neat at first, "Check me out, I'm on a trotting horse." The fourth time or so began to get old. Plus, all the bouncing made me worry I would come down hard on the fellas, if you catch my meaning. Ol' Willy though, he liked to trot. One might say he was hot to trot. So he would walk slow, turn his head sideways to check out how far back he was, then trot right on up behind Dave's horse who would immediately fart.

All of these drawbacks make it seem as if I did not enjoy the ride. Quite the contrary, I very much enjoyed it. I was a bit nervous here and there, but there was plenty of good as well. We were walking through the woods, after all, so it was scenic. Saw some elk, and there were great views of the surrounding mountains. Before turning back, we stopped in a large clearing with a great panoramic look at the mountains and the small valley we found ourselves in. All around us were almost-dead trees that were a result of a huge forest fire in 2000. Gene was telling us about how close the actual ranch itself came from being completely destroyed, and even had an entire separate building that was burned down only 50 or so yards from the main house. It was odd to see thousands of near-dead trees or scorched bark, then a grown pine tree with no damage right in between. There were some trees that were cleared of needles or leaves on one side, only to be flush on another. I saw one burnt out husk of a tree trunk, blackened and charred with a completely untouched branch sprouting from the side. A true testament to nature's perseverence in the face of natural disaster. Both fascinating and inspiring, in a way.

Enough with the deep stuff. Back to the ride on the lucky one-eyed horse named Reno.

On the journey back, we took a slightly different route which had us crossing the stream at no less than 4 separate areas. This had thoughts of the horse breaking it's leg, falling over, and trapping my leg underneath it running through my head. I was imagining how they would get an ambulance out there, and thinking of the bumpy journey back to Pecos, where there may or may not have been a doctor's office much less a hospital. I know, how thoroughly optimistic.

I didn't think these thoughts at first. It was after crossing the first stream and actually feeling through my ass on the saddle the rocks shifting underneath Willy's hooves. I've never gripped something so hard in my life. Well, not since my membership to Mr. Skin ran out. I do love me some naked celebs.

We got back to the ranch, got me a pic while still saddled on Reno, then dismounted. While dismounting the pocket of my shirt caught on the saddle and ripped off a button. Nice. We thanked Gene then headed back over to the ranch, walking just a bit gingerly.

Definitely worth it, and I would recommend a nice horsey ride to anyone. It's pretty relaxing when your horse has two eyes, and it's just Something Different. Always a good thing.

But, as Dr. Egon Spengler told us, "Don't Cross The Streams."

New Mexico. The Grub.

2007-09-24T12:48:00.000-04:00

I enjoy some Mexican food as much as the next red-blooded American male who likes to fart. I love me some chili con queso, a good taco, sizzlin' fajitas, etc. There is, however, a stopping point. There is such thing as too much, although I have at least two friends who would disagree with me.

When we arrived in New Mexico, we drove to Santa Fe to our hotel. From there, we found ourselves the first of several brew pubs and sat down for a beer while we waited for another of our party to show up. Chris, the guilty one, lives in Colorado and was driving to meet us and had not arrived just yet. So, the rest of us decided to enjoy our wait by downing some New Mexico beer and appetizers. We had nachos and chips with dips and some quesadillas.

When we met up with Chris, we all went to a fly-fishing shop where I bought a $75 fly-fishing hat, then headed out to dinner. Finding another brew pub, we sat down for a nice meal. A nice, Mexican food meal. I had shrimp fajitas this time around, and they were damn good.

To the left is a whole lot of New Mexico chilis. There are green ones and red ones, just like you see there, unless you are colorblind and are seeing what you think is yellow and maroon.

They eat these with everything. Not like you see them there, but chopped and roasted and stuff. They came with the quesadilla and nachos. There was a side of them with the fajitas. We went for ice cream one night and there was a shot glass worth of them at the bottom of the cone. My beer had them floating in it. Hell, they were stuffed inside of the mint on my pillow.

Now, I am prone to exaggeration at times, but I am almost not exaggerating here.

You can get red or green with your food. The green lends itself to a bit more heat, so I went with the green while we were there because I like to party.

After those two places, we headed out the next day to Pecos, New Mexico, where we would then go off the beaten path onto a not-as-beaten path into the mountains. Before we hit that dirt trail, we stopped at a general store in Pecos to get a few things. Mainly to get beer, as this place is BYOB. They fridge it up for you and everything and you can get to it at any time, they just don't provide it. Which is a good idea, when you think about it. You are playing with hooks the entire time, so it behooves them to not provide you with the alcohol.

Across the street from the general store was a small adobe packed restaurant, the name of which escapes me and is not entirely important. What is important is that my meal was Mexican food smothered in green chilis. So this is the third complete Mexican meal I have had in two days. I could feel my colon sneering at me, but whatever I had really tasted good. It was beef and cheese inside of some light Mexican pastry. Also, with the chilis option, they included with most dishes an awesome concoction consisting of zuchini and squash and onions and melted cheese. Very tasty.

From there it was on to the ranch itself. Cow Creek Ranch, for those that have already forgotten. In the main house is the dining room, where every group had their own table. We were a group of six, so we had our own six-seater right there waiting for us. This place does breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and there are plenty of snacks available if you are wont for something to gnosh. Also sodas and bottled water.

We arrived around 2pm or so, a little before our actual check-in time, but they let us check in earlier than usual. We did some fishing, then it was dinner time. As a change of pace, they were serving Mexican food! And lo and behold, there was a dish of green chilis for topping! On top of that, at least two of the dishes contained the same. Do not take this perfectly executed sarcasm as complaining, though, because it was absolutely delicious. The chef at the ranch is a gourmet, and everything he made was awesome.

There was some sort of chicken and cheese and chilis dish. Sliced steak with onions and peppers for fajitas. Some sort of corn-bread-chilis in a corn leaf wrap. Another one like that with pork. I know I am forgetting some stuff, but at that point I was a little overwhelmed with Mexican cuisine. Like I said though, it was really freaking good. I think desert was green chili cheesecake but I can't recall.

The next day, we were done with the Mexican food. Four full Mexican meals in two days is plenty enough, thank you. You know how you go to the bathroom several times a day to urinate? Right, well take that several times a day thing and associate it with what the kids like to call, Number Two.

For breakfast was normal fare; eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, crepes, waffles, etc. Normal breakfast stuff, very tasty. For lunch that day we had a choice of pork sandwich or chicken caesar salad. Nice light lunch to get you ready for some afternoon fish hunting.

I like to call it fish hunting. 'Fishing' just doesn't portray a picture as manly as Fish Hunting does. Hunting implies danger. And these fish were dangerous. They have little tiny small mini-teeth that could cause you some serious slight wincing.

Dinner that night was my favorite of the bunch. We had some nice medium-rare sirloin accompanied by a couple huge king crab legs. I forget exactly what the side dish was, but it really doesn't matter. The steak was cooked perfectly and the crab legs - pre-sliced - were packed full of meat. For some reason, I don't like regular crabs - which is odd because I loved them as a kid and grew up in Maryland near Baltimore - but I do love some king crab. Or snow crab. Those are good too.

The next day's breakfast was the same, pretty much. I went with some cereal, then fresh yogurt with granola.

Lunch was another example of the chef being awesome. We had a choice between some sort of chicken thing, another thing, and a hamburger. I got the hamburger. Topped with what, you ask? Green chilis. Cooked perfect, a little over an inch thick, delicious. My friend Dave and I went horseback riding afterwards, which was a little uncomfortable after a very full stomach. More on that in another post.

That night was the fish fry. Outside, within walking distance to the ranch but still out in the middle of the woods. They have a nice size fire set up and some chairs around it, plus a few picnic tables with log benches to sit on. The choices there were freshly fried-on-the-grill trout (if I remember I'll post the recipe up), grilled sausages, home-made potato salad, some kind of asparagus salad that I stayed away from because I don't like asparagus and I hear it makes your pee smell funny, some of that cheese-squash stuff, different kind of potatoes, and something else that I can't think of again.

That was the last of the ranch food, although they did pack us a to-go lunch for the ride out of there.

We drove back to Santa Fe and dropped Chris off at his car, then proceeded on to Albuquerque. That night, we found us a brew pub, the Chama River Brewing Company- the Fathers on the trip seemed to have a knack for that - and had us a nice dinner. I went with fish and chips, which were quite tasty, as was the brew itself.

The next day, after breakfast at the hotel, we did some sight-seeing and souvineer buying, then ended up eating at a local place in Albuquerque's Old Town called the High Noon Restaurant & Saloon. I believe I went with a salad, as I was starting to feel bloated having not yet digested the previously described fourth Mexican meal from a few days ago. We drank some there, too.

That night was the last in New Mexico. So after taking a short nap at the hotel after a vigorous walk around Old Town and a little workout on the credit card, we all hopped in the rental and made our way to the Texas Land & Cattle Steakhouse. When you're in New Mexico, come to the Texas Land & Cattle!!! It kind of seemed almost like they didn't want to go with an Outback, so they renamed it and redecorated it. Still good though. Had me a big ol' steak.

That concludes the food portion of this epidode of the New Mexico blog. I recommend to any and all to head on out west... or north... or south... or wherever the hell direction it is to New Mexico from where you live and enjoy you some of their fine cuisine.

Go with the green chilis. Be sure to make time for trips to the restroom.

New Mexico. The State And Its Awesomeness.

2007-09-15T17:20:00.000-04:00

New Mexico is awesome.

Like many of our mid-west to west-west states, it has a very open feel to it. The skies are huge, because the land is so flat. Not entirely, of course, because all that flat land leads right up to a mountain. You can see so much more of the sky, it's incredible. The clouds look enormous. They are basically the same clouds I can see out my window now, but because everything is so open you don't just see the cloud above, you see the whole cloud. I put that in italics because it is important that you focus on those words.

I've heard that some people have a sense of claustrophobia when viewing such skies. For them I suppose it feels like the sky is almost pressing down on the earth. I don't really understand it, but I thought I'd bring it up because I jotted something down about it on the little notepad I was working with and it seems like a disservice to my New Mexican self to not diligently report everything I decided to distract myself with.

The landscape is somewhere in between desert and not quite desert. I didn't see any tumbleweeds, but I'm sure they were somewhere. Lots of sand, with thousands of small brushes scattered throughout. They looked like pine bushes, but there was no way to tell as I was traveling in the car and my Dad had the child-locks on. Son of a bitch.

Passing by on the highway, I got a good look at the houses and neighborhoods we drove by, and I gotta say, I love the architecture. I know it's a big word for me, but I really did. I believe the houses were made with adobe for the most part, which is added over the built wooden frame. I deduced this after seeing an empty wooden frame. So each house looks kind of like a rancher with adobe all over it. Large, bold squares attached to rectangles all over the place. Maybe it's the simplicity I liked. Not really sure. All I know is if I ever live in New Mexico, I''m getting one of those bad boys.

It was nice rolling through the countryside, seeing all this space and in the distance, a mountain. Pretty much on all sides, no matter where you looked there was something mountainous in the background. Taking pictures out of a fast moving car isn't ideal, but we were all tired of being cooped up in the airplane and then the car, so I didn't want to bother to stop. Besides, we'd look like tourists.

We had a Texas license plate on our rental. Odd.

Living in Columbia, I was privy to all kinds of weird street names. I lived on Wild Lilac, there's a Smooth Meadow, stuff about blowing leaves and scented what-not and on and on. The Powers That Be decided to take phrases and the like from random poetry to name their streets. So I'm used to odd names. The ones in New Mexico were kind of similar, and yet completely different. There was Cerillos Ave, Avenida de Las Americas, Vegas Verdes, Zafarano Dr., etc. By the way, there was a Panda Express on Zafarano Dr. Real Mexican Asian cuisine. General Tso's in a tortilla. Magnifique.

There was also a Richards Dr.

The speed limit on all the highways was 75 mph. Very nice. Made for a quick drive wherever we went. Well, besides the dirt road through the mountains. But being that there was a sign near Albuquerque that read Albuquerque Next 19 Exits, it seemed very expedient to have a fast highway.

All the overpasses were the same beige color as the adobe houses, except each had a turquoise strip running it's length. The small touches such as this really helped to cement one's whereabouts. When I'm driving to Towson and go under the overpasses, I could be anywhere. It's the small things that give you the feeling of really being there.

Even though being there gives you the feeling of being there, too. When you're there, as opposed to not being there when you might go there before you get back.

What?

I haven't really come back yet, sorry.

By the way, two days before I left I stopped shaving and didn't shave the whole time I was there. It really itched.

New Mexico. The Intro and Airplane Excitement.

2007-09-15T02:18:00.001-04:00

I don't mind flying.

I really don't. I've flown to Florida a few times, Texas, Hawaii, Ireland. Maybe a smattering of others when I was real young. It's nothing new to me, and it's not something that scares me. As Superman said, "Statistically speaking, it's still the safest way to travel."

Even so, there is a small, back-of-the-mind thought that I believe goes through every single person who steps on a plane's head. This Could Be It. I believe that one hundred percent. I refuse to believe there is anybody (awake) flying at this moment in time who is not thinking that somewhere in their head. It popped up in mind as we took off, landed, experienced turbulence, and ate some peanuts. This Could Be My Last Peanut. Now This One Could Be My Last Peanut. These Two Could Be My Last Two Peanuts. Etc.

It's a very helpless feeling, or thought. There's nothing to be done. You're sitting in a giant, airborne tube, 35,000 feet in the air. Ish. You sit there, waiting for the inevitable deuce to be dropped in the 1 foot by 2 feet bathroom that will find it's way into the recycled air and think, Is the float-ability of my seat cushion really going to matter?

In a car, you are in control, for the most part. A boat? At least it's open air and feels safe. Plus, you have life jackets and are only about a small jump into the water. A train? At least it's on the ground. Flying? No control. Even the most experienced flier must at some point have The Thought pass through.

Security doesn't help matters. Before it was, What if the plane crashes? Now, What if someone has plastique shoes?

It was in this frame of mind that I began my trip to New Mexico.

We arrived at the airport at about 7:00am ET, Nichole and Kelsey dropped me off at BWI. We flew Southwest.

But wait. I have neglected to preface this with the whole reason for New Mexico in the first place. My Dad and I were going to a fly-fishing ranch in New Mexico called Cow Creek Ranch. Fishing, drinking beer, relaxing in the middle of a mountain range with no cellphone signal to speak of. I know. Nice.

We flew Southwest. Upon checking our bags, the first thing we did was head for the gate to see if Tom was there. Tom is the father of one of my friends, Chris. They are also going to the ranch, but Chris lives out in Colorado so he's meeting us in Santa Fe. Also joining us is my friend Dave and his dad, George. We have all known each other since we were very, very young. These are the families we do a Christmas Tree Hunting Trip with every year, as well as a chili-night and present-exchange. So it's a whole Father-Son-Long-Time-Friends-Guy-Fishing-Beer-Trip-Thing. Pretty cool.

We met Tom at the gate, which was nice because he was already first in the A group line. This meant the five of us were going to be the first ones on the plane. Being first-come-first-serve seating, this is a clear advantage and I fought the urge to flex the guns at the other passengers as the wait to board went on.

So Dad and I got some breakfast at one of the food places, and tiredly ate our not-as-delicious-as-we-would-have-liked breakfast sandwiches. Dave and George came through, and we all adjourned to the gate. Tom had already become fast friends with a couple from our area who were also on their way to New Mexico. Apparently, he had also endeared himself to the Gate Guy, for when it came time to load, the Gate Guy told everyone waiting that a bunch of fisherman were boarding to go fly-fishing in New Mexico. Exactly the type of thing people care about when about to board a plane at 8:15am.

Then he told a joke. What do you call a fish with no eye? A fsh.

Some chuckled, some groaned. I stabbed him with the pen knife I snuck through security in my anus, then told the joke to a dozen other people over the course of the trip with a follow up regarding how I first came up with the awesome joke all by myself.

We were all very casual and relaxed clothing-wise. Tom was wearing a New Mexico shirt. You're wearing the shirt of the state you're going to visit? Don't be that guy. I had on a Ravens t-shirt, as I intended on fully representing my hood on the west side of the country.

We sat by the emergency exit, as there was more leg room and we could all bask in the responsibility we had placed upon ourselves in providing a safe exit to all other passengers in the event we improbably survived an unscheduled and problematic landing. The flight attendant explained this to us importantly, and we importantly confirmed that we all were up to the task.

There was no lunch on this flight. We had a stop-over in Austin, TX and El Paso, TX where we had to sit and wait as people got off and others got on. We didn't get off at all, and there was no lunch. Know what we got? A small bag of trail mix, and small bag of cookies, and a small pack of crackers. Oh, and the peanuts. Would a lunch-able be too much to ask for?

On a side note. Then again, this whole thing seems like a lengthy side note. What happened to Sexy Stewardesses? I see movies, so I know they used to exist. You know what we get now? Effeminate men. Men that seem to be on the bubble. Now, I could care less if someone's gay or straight or into hot monkey love. It doesn't matter to me one way or another. But I do know what I'd rather see while stuck in an airborne tube full of floating seat cushions. Sexy Stewardesses.

I got about 3 hours sleep the night before I left. I can't sleep on a plane. It's impossible for me. I don't know why, but I can't sleep on planes, in cars, and I'm assuming the same goes for trains. A boat I could probably do. It's annoying, especially on long flights. So you take the no-sleep thing, multiply it by the 3 or 4 hours to Austin, then sitting there not even moving, then about 1 hour or so to El Paso, then sitting there not even moving, then another 45 minutes to Albuquerque. Fun stuff.

The Albuquerque airport was awesome. Very nice. Not like BWI or Dulles, where everything is kind of sterile and monochrome and plainly functional. This airport had life. It represented it's state. Things were very desert-ish and culturally stylish. There was artwork all over the walls, murals, and it allowed you to get a sense of how things would be just by walking through. Commendable. When we left New Mexico at the end of the trip, it was a little more toned down, but that was mainly because our departing flight left at 6:40am, so we arrived at the airport at 5am. I think things are toned down everywhere at 5am.

When we left at 6:40am, there was a stop in Houston where we had to switch planes and had a 2 hour layover. Apparently I can't sleep on a plane or in an airport. I got more sleep the night before but I was already exhausted from the vacation so that trip was even more fun.

One last thing before I mercifully wrap this up. When we stopped at Austin, some guy got on and sat in the row my Dad was in. There were three seats; my Dad had the window, The Guy sat on the end. The Guy put some of his stuff in the seat between them, the reason I assumed was to get his stuff arranged, then he would clear the seat for another passenger as the flight was pretty full and it was first-come-first-serve, as we both know I mentioned before.

The Guy, however, did not remove his stuff. What's more, every time someone would pass by looking for a seat or a flight attendant would do an overview of the empty seats, he would duck his head down and pretend to be adjusting his shoes or his carry-on bag. The Guy did this at least ten times. I had to physically restrain myself from tapping a flight attendant on the shoulder and alerting them to the unoccupied seat. The only reason I didn't was because my Dad had some room to move with no one next to him, which is always nice. So I bit my tongue. Hard.

My Dad told me later that someone had asked if the seat was open and The Guy kind of mumbled and made a big show of moving his stuff out of the way, so the dude who asked just found another seat.

Hey The Guy! If you by any chance in hell read this, you're a douche! You will be now known not as The Guy, but The Douche.

So The Douche, when we landed in Albuquerque, was one of the first ones out of his seat and heading down the aisle as fast as he could, cutting off other passengers that were just getting up to get their bags. Apparently, The Douche is important. Who knew The Douche was so important? What made me laugh out loud was that he got about 3 rows before being stopped cold and had to wait with the rest of us heathens to debark. Then, when the 5 of us got to baggage claim, there he was! Just walking up! Quickly! Maybe The Douche got lost. As soon as he could, he quickly grabbed his bags and swiftly walked out of the airport, where I can only assume he was hit by a slow-moving truck.

One last thing. I promise. When we got to our rent-a-car, some guy next to us was getting into his rent-a-car. A neon green mustang. I like to think of that guy as The Other Douche.

That was our trip there and back, in a nutshell. Soon to come will be other parts of the trip, which I know you are impatiently not waiting for so I will be sure to try and keep them coming in a timely fashion. And the next time you fly, remember, it's completely normal to think about crashing.

Just counter-balance it with the proud responsibility of sitting in an exit row.

Another Great Idea.

2007-09-02T19:29:00.000-04:00

I was at a cook-out yesterday at Nichole's cousin's house. Her and her boyfriend (who, as of Friday night, is now her fiance) recently moved into their house and today was the first real Come Check It Out day. There was plenty of beer and food to go around, and the weather cooperated. So it was a good day, nice time.

The night before, Nichole and I went out to the bar and inebriated ourselves, so we were both nursing hangovers that morning. So upon our arrival at the cook-out, I had not yet brought myself back to normal, so started the day out with Iced Tea as opposed to beer. After several cups, it dawned on me that drinking several cups of tea would inevitably make me have to urinate. Sure enough, immediately after said dawning, I had to urinate.

I won't go into detail here, suffice to say I was successful in my endeavor.

Unlike many, many men I've seen in my travels through bathrooms in life, both public and private, I wash my hands after each visit to the lavatory. The only exception to this rule is Port-A-Potties, but we all know those facilities are not ideal conditions to begin with. After using those I simply burn off the first layer of skin on my hands. Pretty much takes care of the bacteria.

So I washed my hands. The soap in there was a very nice, floral scented liquid soap, lavender in color. A relatively typical kind of soap. Smells good, compliments the decor, etc. The kind of soap most women like to buy. Don't get me wrong, us men like that kind of soap, but we are much more prone to buying some generic liquid soap from Rite Aid as opposed to something that could be considered decorative. Although, I do have a Spider-Man soap dispenser.

Anyways, using this soap and thinking about how it's a very girly soap led me to Another Great Idea.

Soap For Men. Actually, I would call it Man Soap. This would be strictly novelty, as what I am going to describe is not something anyone would actually use. Well, some of them might, but I stand by the Novelty statement.

There are a lot of Tough Guys out there. I am confident in saying this, as I am probably the toughest. There are a lot of "manly" men out there. Again, I defer to myself. Us tough guys, sometimes we just don't want to wash our hands in floral scented, pink soap. My Great Idea goes out to the Tough Guys.

For the mechanic? How about some of our new Dirty Carburetor scented soap. It smells like grease and oil, and your buying options include a tin soap dispenser, artificially rusty, or an actual used carburetor (cleaned and sterilized). The soap comes out black. It acts like regular soap, just doesn't smell like it.

Ladies, does your man love the landscaping? Is he the type that looks forward to spring just so he can break out the lawnmower and get to mowin'? How about our Fresh Mow Man Soap. He'll love getting that hard work off his hands while coming out smelling like freshly mowed grass. For this, we provide a clear bottle so the green soap shows through, with an optional second layer attachment. In between the second layer and the actual soap bottle, there is room enough for a thin layer of his own grass to be added in for a touch of personalization.

Is your Dad a badass on the grill? Is he the go-to-guy for any and all family cook-outs? The keeper of the flame? If so, he might enjoy himself Man Soap's BBQ Blitz. It's a husky scent of barbeque sauce and cooked meat that is sure to please. With it's dark crimson hue, it's a definite keeper with the Barbeque Sauce Bottle dispenser. Or, to avoid confusion for anyone else using your restroom, maybe you should go with our triple-stacked burger dispenser. Looks like a giant meat masterpiece, cleans like a giant meat masterpiece wouldn't clean.

I'll end with what is sure to be our best seller, here at Man Soap, Inc. I call it Game Day. It's an amalgam of scents, ranging from dirt, to hot dogs, to hot pretzels, a touch of beer, and leather. Just the thing to get yourself ready for the big game. This can be ordered in any ball shape; football, baseball, basketball, soccer ball, etc. No hockey pucks, sorry. The soap comes out in a smooth dirty dirt brown, the same color you would have to wash out of your sweats after a rough and tumble game of tackle football in the backyard.

So that's my Great Idea. You can add it to the other great ideas I've had and will have in the future. All I need now is some start-up cash.

At some point I'll include some of my other ideas I don't think I've written about, including a Great Idea for a bar/arcade/club, and a Great Idea for an air-freshener that smell like a book store. It doesn't sound awesome, but after I explain it, you'll be like, "Wow. That is awesome."

Oh, also, I'm going to New Mexico for about a week in two days. I'm sure I'll have something to bore you with when I get back.

Until then, be excellent to each other.

No Pain, No Gain. And I'm Fine With That.

2007-08-16T15:58:00.001-04:00

I am not what one would refer to as "in shape."

I sport a decent beer belly, two small chins, and do not partake in exercise in the physical sense. If I was a super villian, I would be the Evil Genius, and not the Evil Strong Guy.

So it stands to reason that after a day or two of relatively constant manual labor, I would be in pain.

This was the case.

Last Friday, we began moving into another apartment. We had a two bedroom, and are upgrading our living space to a two bedroom with den model. All the same dimensions as the other apartment for the most part, with the luxury of an extra room for my Real Dolls and random toy collection. The ceiling is also kind of diagonal, and has a ceiling fan. Lastly, a fireplace adorns on of our walls. Great for a nice, quiet cuddle and the burning of suspicious documents.

Let me say this right off. Well, almost right off. Just a little ways in, is more accurate. I hate moving. Hate. I have moved more than any human should be made to move. Since 1995, I have lived in: A dorm, a hotel room for a month (long story), an apartment, a townhouse, a one bedroom apartment type place in Ocean City, another apartment, a house, my parent's house, another apartment, another apartment, another apartment, then Nichole's apartment, and now a new apartment.

"But Matt," you say with fear in your heart to even speak my proper name in such a familiar fashion, "why do you move so often if you hate moving?"

That's a valid question, and it is one for which I do not have a satisfactory answer. It is essentially a situational predicament. For instance, the one between the first Another Apartment and A House was because one of my roommates was moving out, so myself and a friend moved into the house.

You get the point. I hate moving.

So I moved again. This time, though, we not only upgraded apartments, but also upgraded floors! We went from the second floor to the third. Remember how I hate moving? I hate moving up even more than just moving.

Our first moving day was last Friday. I mentioned that earlier, but there are times when I have a tendency to get off track, so I wanted to re-establish myself for your benefit. Most people work on fridays, which meant we had no help moving. On top of that, Nichole's daughter Kelsey was with us for the weekend. On top of that, Nichole agreed to babysit her friend's daughter. On top of that, we had her two sisters over to be babysat for a couple hours also. So we are moving amidst kids playing, fighting, playing again, and being hungry and thirsty at separate times.

I borrowed a hand-truck from my Dad, but found out it wasn't going to work after the first two boxes. It worked properly, but was such a pain in the ass I decided to nix the idea. It was easier taking boxes one at a time. So I started loading up the car. One box at a time. It was very hot out.

After going up 8 steps and down 8 steps to the car, I did that again roughly 13 times. Then, we drove the car about 100-150 feet or so and parked in front of our new apartment building. We then carried each box up 32 steps to our new place. When the car was empty, this happened two more times. Finally, we made a last trip of every drawer we had in the house in order to make the next day's carrying of furniture a little easier. Our main move was to be the next day, but we wanted to clear the way so the furniture was easier to get out.

After the first carload, I was drenched in sweat. After the second, I had to borrow some sweat from one of our new neighbors because I ran out. I think she gave me her bulldog's sweat, though, because that is kind of how I ended up smelling. Lucky for us, the electricity never turned off, it just switched over to the apartment complex's account, so we had A/C the whole time. I cranked that sucker on down to 60 degrees for the move. It was heaven on earth. I also drank a whole lot of Gatorade.

We did catch a bit of a break that night. There was a pool party held by the apartment people for residents, and after 5pm it was No Kids Allowed. My parents were nice enough to watch Nichole's daughter for a bit so we could relax, then later her cousin was able to watch her daughter so we could relax more and not feel bad about playing beer pong then go swimming at 11:30pm.

The next day was easier, albeit still a complete and utter pain in my ass. We were able to recruit about 6 guys to help us move, so with all of them and my more than impressive lifting power we were able to knock out all the furniture moving in about 2 and a half hours. Not bad. Still, all this furniture went up 3 flights. All in all, if you hadn't already done the math, it was 48 stairs. I did the math during the move, and had to stop myself from counting the stairs as I climbed up them. I felt like Charlie Babbitt. Definitely 48.

That Sunday was my birthday party, so I got a day off. My arms weren't hurting that much, surprisingly, but my legs were killing me. I literally limped out of bed to the bathroom that morning. My thighs were sore and calves were ensconced in pain. I seriously considered massaging them with Bengay, until I realized I didn't feel like massaging them with Bengay.

I had a 30th birthday party that day. I just told you that, if you'll recall. While I received several very nice gifts, including a bunch of fly-fishing stuff from my parents (I'm going fly fishing at a ranch in New Mexico in about 2 weeks or so), the best gift came from my friend Joe, whom I 've known since I was about 3 years old or so. He got me an old school original Nintendo Entertainment System. More on that another time.

Finally we come to my actual birthday, on Monday. I spent this day doing the same thing I did on Friday and Saturday. Moving the rest of our junk. Most of it was random crap, and much consisted of Kelsey's toys. It's hard to believe how many toys one kid can accumulate over only a few years. Then again, look at me.

Nichole spent her time cleaning the old apartment that day, a job I definitely did not want, so I was the sole mover. I thought the first day was bad. I was struggling to carry a bin full of stuffed animals up to the new place. Again, the Gatorade was flowing freely. I am glad to be quitting smoking now, let me tell you.

Nichole and I have decided to begin saving some money from each paycheck and putting it into an envelope for the next time we move. The reason for this is to hire fucking movers. Sorry for the expletive but I am so tired of moving I don't even want to think about having to do it again. The next move is into a house, and that's it. Probably until retirement.

Then again, all this moving does help me sculpt my already impressive set of guns.

30 Years Wiser and Required Reading.

2007-08-08T22:58:00.001-04:00

August 13, 2007. This is the day I will be turning thirty years old.

Thirty years. That's quite a long time to have spent alive. Three decades. 33.33333333% of a century. Six counts of five years. More days than I plan on calculating. More than a third of my life passed, as I don't fully expect to reach ninety years old. If I do, I'll come back here and edit this entry.

I know people tend to worry or freak out or tense up or enter a complete state of denial about getting older. For some reason, it scares them. I guess for some people it's the One Year Closer To Death thing. Others, maybe it's a longing for the days of youth, what with little to no responsibility. True, when you're young the only things you really need to worry about what time Mom said to come home, and whether or not Dad will leave a dirty mag lying around that you can sequester yourself with for a few days.

Perhaps it has to do with what one perceives as their own physical attraction to members of the opposite sex (or the same, if you go that way). I'm Getting Older So No One Wants To Do Me kind of thing. Could it be they feel like as the years pass they are not allowed to act as they did before? Well, yes, that is the case, but you don't need to let everything go. Look at me. I have an extensive collection of graphic novels, and many toys adorning my desk, bathroom, and other various places in the house.

I just do not see the point in worrying about getting older. Why stress over something that you absolutely have no control over in any way, shape, or form? You can buy some skin cream to get rid of some wrinkles, but you're still going to age. Go ahead and buy you some hair coloring to hide those grays, or inject your face with the newest chemical distilled from sperm whale feces, but you're still going to add a 1 to your age come next year.

So who cares? Enjoy yourself. People worry about not having time to do the things they want with their life. People say life is short. One of the best things I've ever heard was from one of Chris Rock's stand up acts. I might be paraphrasing a bit here, but it's pretty damn close.

"Life is not short. Life is loooong. Life is the longest thing you will ever do."

Amen. You see old people around, right? Chances are you know some old people, have old relatives, or maybe you're old yourself reading this really close to the screen with thick glasses and a diaper on. Maybe your grandkid left on this new-fangled contraption and you're just trying to see what the hell this Internet thing is all about. These old people you see, for the most part, how do they look?

I'll tell you how they look. They look Fucking Tired. They have lived through 80 years worth of life, and are now officially Fucking Tired. They are usually hunched. They fall asleep while watching local news. I know this, I have two grandparents both well into their 80's. I love them dearly, and wish they could be there always to be as good to my children as they were to me. But they are tired. Their day consists mainly of getting up, going to the couch, watching more Law & Order and CSI than should be legally permitted, then going to bed. They love seeing all the kids, they enjoy a visit at any time, and always have a kind word. I love them, but they are Fucking Tired.

So stop bitching about growing old. Stop worrying about it. It's going to happen. You are going to grow so old you won't believe it. Your grandkids will marvel at pictures of you when you were young and not be able to believe that woman in the picture hugging that guy in the picture with a beer in his hand and a Transformers t-shirt on is actually Grammy and Gramps. Eventually, you are going to be so old you won't be able to get any older. This is when you will pass on from this life.

What you should think about now is how you will be spending the time in between now and then.

I used to have a sticker on my old car that read: QUITCHERBITCHIN. I loved that sticker.

_______________________________________________________________________________

My Mother emailed me the covers to some new kids books that are coming out. I tell you, they've sure changed the required reading since I was a young schoolboy, eager to get to 5th grade reading because I had a 5th grade crush on my student teacher, Ms. Moffit. She made me love the Hobbit. She also made my body do weird things at night.

It's still doing them and I cannot figure it out.

A Pretty Nice Little Saturday.

2007-08-06T11:53:00.000-04:00

It's been a little while since my last post. Deal with it.

This past Saturday was my girlfriend Nichole's birthday. It also happens to be our anniversary day as well, so you can imagine we want to do it up right, which usually includes good food and alcohol. It also involves me opening up the ol' checkbook, as I have two occasions worth of presents to buy. I tend to over-do it, which is part of what makes me so awesome.

We started the day with a nice, juicy hangover. I wasn't too bad off, but the night before she had decided at some point to do several back-to-back shots with people at the bar. I did a French Martini shooter, because I do not drink liquor and cannot stomach whiskey. So I go with the fruity stuff. Yeah, I roll hard.

I have broken the goings-on down into sections of a sort, so if you don't care that we went to the pool, skip that part.

The Morning.

We were supposed to spend the day packing, which completely and totally did not happen. This was decided before we even got out of bed. I did, however, have an errand or two to run. So I got up, this is around 11am, and headed out for about an hour. Where I went and what I did is of no importance here, aside from going to Rite Aid, which is where I found a great last minute gift to go along with my other gifts.

When I got back, she had gone to the grocery store, so I was able to set up my presents. After wrapping a couple last minute presents in Princess wrapping paper, I set them up on the table so she would see them when she got back. She did, we opened presents, etc etc.

Quick list:
1) Soft as all hell bath robe
2) Air freshener thing where you put these wooden rods into some sort of scented oil
3) Decorative hanging thing with a nice phrase on it about memories
4) iPod clock radio that she can put on her desk at work
5) Mary-Jane Watson Barbie doll from Rite Aid. She's holding Spider-Man's mask and it comes with a Spider-Man necklace you can wear. Pretty freakin' sweet.

She got me the special edition 300 for our anniversary and I watched it last night for the first time and it rocks.

The Pool.

Next, we hit the pool. Her sisters and Mom and Aunt and G-Mom and Aunt were down there, along with a couple other apartment complex dwellers. One of the dwellers whom I do not know has a daughter. This poor thing did not get the good genes. She's a thick little girl, probably around 13 or so, and she was wearing a bikini. On top of that, her hair is dark and plentiful, so her legs and thighs were covered. Also, there was a well groomed happy trail going from her belly button to The Place Of Darkness, and nice hairy armpits. It was at this point I attempted a Citizen's Arrest on her mother for blatant child neglect.

After the pool, we got ready to go to The Melting Pot. Great fondue restaurant. We went there last year at the same time. Only difference was, we did not have a gift card this time, and we brought people. Her cousin April and boyfriend Rob, both of whom I've known since high school, which is weird in a Small World kind of way. This is apparently quite the momentous occasion for April as she is a very picky eater.

The Melting Pot.

They both got drinks, Rob and I stuck to ice tea. I thought the ice tea was a little bland, but everything else was good, so I let it go. I had called ahead and told them in was Nic's birthday, so there were some balloons at the table and a complimentary Melting Pot chocolate bar we could take home and fondue ourselves with.

So you start out with a cheese course. We each got a Big Night Out, which includes cheese dip, salad, entree, dessert. Best way to go, the only way to go. We had two fondue pots going, one with Cheddar cheese and the other was a Wisconsin cheese trio. It had three cheeses, which is why they call it a trio, and one of those cheeses was bleu cheese. I know this because it was the only of the trio I knew. It comes with bread chunks, apples, and vegetables to dip. Delicious. During the cheesefest, we were all talking like the gay guy from Family Guy and the old pedophile dude, Herbert, I think, from Family Guy. I'm not sure why this was happening, but I do recall being told to shut up by Nichole for saying, "I'm gonna go suck on that stamen."

Then they bring out the salad. I had the California Salad; mixed greens, other stuff, walnuts, raspberry vinaigrette, and a lot of gorgonzola cheese. Very, very good. I ate it all, then licked everyone's plate. That's when things got awkward.

Next is the entree part. Each of our dishes (for 2 people) consisted of: One lobster tail, three chunks of sirloin, three chunks of teriyaki beef, four chunks of curry chicken, about 6 shrimp, two potstickers, and four chunks of tuna. We also get bowls filled with broccoli, squash, and mushroom caps. Maybe something else. This is all served raw, as we have two different kinds of broth in which to cook all of this.

Several kinds of condiments grace the table as well. A soy-type sauce, a vegetable dip type thing, teriyaki sauce, a sour cream-garlic-something-else thing, melted butter, curry, sweet-and-sour-kind-of one, spicy cocktail sauce, and I believe that is all. The server tells us the cooking times of everything and we begin. It's a free-for-all. We each have two pointy spear thingies, but the table was set for six, so we each were able to use an extra. This led to all sorts of spear thingies flying around stabbing raw meat and shoving it into boiling cauldrons of goodness.

Not much talk was passed around at this point, aside from, "Holy assplay this is good." Or, "This is better than a freshly sucked stamen." Mostly, we just ate and ate and ate. It almost doesn't sound like a ton of food, but it's definitely enough for two and when you add on the cheesy stuff we just ate and the salad, you got yourself a full stomach and angry intestine.

After the hearty meal we've already enjoyed, it's time for dessert. At first, you tend to think, "There's no f'ing way, I'm already close to throwing up." Then, after you get done thinking that, you read over the dessert menu and realize there is in fact a f'ing way. There are roughly a dozen kinds of chocolate fondues to choose from, so with much discussion and drooling, we settled on two: The Yin-Yang, which is white chocolate and dark chocolate mixed, and the S'Mores, a mix of milk chocolate, marshmellows and graham crackers.

The server brought the chocolate, and set the marshmellow on top of the s'mores pot on fire at the table. So that was pretty cool. At that point a cigarette would have gone down smooth as silk, but we still had some work to do, so I let the fire do it's thing.

They bring you a plate with some dippin' items. A slice of cheesecake, 4 marshmellows (two covered in coconut, the other two covered in chocolate flakes), two little brownie bites, two little pound cake bites, strawberries, bananas, pineapple, and some extra graham crackers. You spear it, dip it, and enjoy. I'm not a huge dessert person, but Holy Lord In Heaven. Everything is so damn delicious it's impossible to not eat it all, even with your stomach lining being stretched to its considerable limit.

The bill came. Almost exactly $240, between 4 people. It was at this point I flung a hot fondue pot of chocolate at an adjacent table and we ran for it.

We headed back to Nichole and I's apartment to chill out some before we went out drinking. Plus, I had to drop the kids off at the pool as soon as possible or I'd be no fun when we went out. Also, I would have shit my pants. Not just a shart, but full blown underwear annihilation. So we relaxed, laid in the air conditioning while sweating, watched Cops. Some other friends came by and gazed upon us unsympathetically. I understand, though, as we were pretty pathetic all strewn about the living room, complaining about being so full after eating completely awesome food.

Cancun Cantina.

Yes, that's right. For those that are familiar with this establishment, I'm sure a smirk just rolled across your face. Nichole wanted to go here, mainly for The Funny. There's no other reason to go to Cancun Cantina, other than The Funny.

"Ok, I've had enough of the dumb capitalized mystery you're trying to project here," you mutter with rage in your eyes and fear in your hearts. "What is The Funny?"

It's stuff that's funny. This isn't that important, and I'm not sure why you wasted my time asking.

So we go to Cancun Cantina. Walking towards the front door, I notice the painted sign on the ground right in front of the bar. It reads, No Parking. Several Harley Davidson motorcycles are parked on top of this sign.

When you walk in, you are greeted by a large room with loud country music blaring and a dance floor full of line dancers. Awesome. You can either find yourself some room in there and rock out, or continue to the outside area, which is where we headed, not being a fan of country music, line dancing, or violent looking drunk men with tattoos, nappy facial hair, and too tight jeans.

It has been freaking hot outside. This outside area is surrounded by 10 foot castle walls, so there is absolutely no breeze coming through. It was very sauna-like. This is why I felt very sorry for the girl behind the main bar area. She was up on a small ledge, dressed in a tiger-ish leotard, low-cut at the chest and no back, but everything else is covered. She was continually moving and dancing, probably losing several pounds per hour. The song was Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me. Also, up even higher was a large white screen. Behind the screen, another Dancing Girl was back-lit, throwing her grinding shadow up on the screen. Wow.

I bought myself a Corona, which they poured into a plastic glowing cup and dumped in a lime. Tasty. It was four dollars, which is actually one less than I had assumed it would be, so that was a pleasant surprise. We found a nice space near the back with a couch, couple nice chairs and some plush ottomans, so that was nice. My ottoman was good for about 20 minutes, at which point it had become a sponge from my ass-sweat, so I moved to another.

Over the course of the night I saw many grand, beautiful things. A guy following another guy stumbling all over himself. I saw an old man hugging a server very closely from behind, his rancid breath surely taking several years off her life. I saw he had a Cancun Cantina shirt on, which made the scene even worse. I saw a lot of guys take a piss in the bathroom, turn around and walk out without washing their hands. Imagine those mitts feeling you up, girls! I saw the 1st Dancing Girl fanning herself and taking frequent girating breaks. I saw the tiki torches burning straight into the air, because there was nary a breeze to move the flame of any sort. I saw girls wearing stiletto heels and walking around in sand. Morons. Wear some flip-flops. I 100% guarantee guys won't care. I heard the phrase, "This is my song!" one hundred and twenty three times. In a row.

There might have been more that I cannot remember, as my senses were so constantly assaulted my mind threatened to retreat into the dark corners of my soul and hide until it could figure out a way to stay focused on reality and reason out a logical explanation as to why people act as they do, and when they will find out it's not amusing any longer.

I can't wait to go back!

The Greatest Wedding Ever.

2007-07-24T21:15:00.000-04:00

I'm going to preface this with a quick disclaimer. Of sorts. I will not be using the names of those involved, aside from myself and few uses of Nichole. I will be omitting the reasons for attending this wedding, no talk of familial relations will be found herein. I don't want to offend, really, but the story must be told. Also, this is pretty long.

First off, this wedding took place in an American Legion building, somewhere in or around Laurel, MD. I cannot say for sure, as I am not sure. We pulled up, and looking out of the window I saw a few people getting out of their car in the parking lot. One was wearing a neon pink dress. And so it begins.

We parked in front of the building, but we had to walk around to a side door to get inside. We knew this because there was a dry-erase board on a stand with the words Wedding party written diagonally and a crude arrow pointing towards the side of the building. And so it continues.

Walking in, there were streamers1 of some sort of shiny blue fabric hanging from the doorframe. Past that was the main room. Or, "only room." It was a large room with 6 rows of picnic tables, separated into groups of 3 so that an aisle was created in the middle. Going up the aisle, we come to the head table, situated directly in front of the stage.

The stage. It was approximately 9 feet high, at least. I've never even seen a band on a stage that high.

One of the nice things I can say is in regard to the table decorations. There were lines of sand about 4 inches across and 2 feet long, with tall candles on each end and small votives in between. Intermingled with the votives were small seashells. It was actually a pretty neat idea.

There was no assigned seating, except for the groom side on the right, bride on the left. We sat down near the end of one table, and were summarily asked to move down just a bit because they were saving some seats. Come to find out the seat savers were in the Bride category, and just chose to sit on the Groom side. Instead of telling them, the Powers That Be at the wedding just kind of shrugged and agreed, Yes, they were on the wrong side. So we switched sides. More room over there anyway.

The Groom hadn't arrived yet, by the way. Wedding was set for 3pm, it was now about 2:45pm. Plenty of time!

Many nicely folded napkins and silverware marked where seats where available. Inside the napkins, tucked like little fortunes in a cookie, were small candles wrapped in sparkly netting. Attached to the netting were the couples' names and the wedding date. A nice little touch. Unfortunately, whoever was responsible spelled the Groom's name wrong on every one, and half of them had the year as being 2207.

The Wedding Of The Future, is what I like to think of it.

Along the walls were small decorations, but what I noticed was the alphabet. I'm not sure why it was there, or what previous function put them up, but the two side walls had letters taped to them To the left began A, B, C... etc. It picked up on the other side to Z, skipping a random letter here and there. I remember noticing the letter O being suspiciously absent. I'm still confused as to its whereabouts.

Open bar, dude. Unfortunately, that consisted of liquor and a choice between Miller or Bud. I'm not a fan of either, being a high class beer snob (is Blue Moon high class? I like to think so), so I stuck to Coke. It was probably a good idea not to get drunk, as you will see later.

There was a singer there, to sing the wedding song and the song for the first dance. Apparently, this girl sings opera, and does it well. The problem here was, she was relegated to singing country songs. So in the end, it sounded more like a mediocre American Idol audition that Simon would have promptly panned, Randy would have dogged it, and Paula would have thrown up.

Not because of how bad it was, just because Paula seems like the type to just randomly throw up.

The Groom arrives! It is now roughly 3:45pm. Supposedly, he needed to go back to his house to get his shoes and the wedding band. Upon arrival, he was wearing sneakers. Hmm. I'm going to Benefit Of The Doubt him and assume he has his nice shoes in a bag, as to not scuff them.

I was wrong. He wore sneakers the whole time, and had to be convinced by several others to not wear a hat. It's okay though, because at least two of the groomsmen were also sporting sneaks. At least one of them actually matched the rest of the outfit, so, kudos.

It seems he also lost the ring. Couldn't find it, didn't have it. He had to borrow his Aunt's ring to use until he could find it. I know this because they made the exchange right in front of me, during the general pre-ceremony confusion that suggested the rehearsal was a bit of a waste of time.

The Groom and his Men made their way to the top of the stage, way, way, way above our heads. There they stood with the priest, as everyone continued to talk amongst themselves and people walked around in a hurry so they could get everything organized. This didn't happen.

What did happen, it seemed like to me, was the DJ (who was in a wheelchair and had a card that read Mobile Music Something Or Other which I thought was awesome) just got tired of the general confusion and started the Walking Down The Aisle music. It wasn't the song you're thinking of, just some random sweet music.

The first bridesmaid started down, and by the time the second one came out, there had been several hundred SHH's handed out amongst the guests. Seriously, some just decided they would finish their conversation anyway, wedding etiquette be damned, as this is so obviously their day. I mean, they showed up, right? Why do they have to be quiet??

When the procession was complete, the Bride and Groom stood facing each other - or that's what it looked like from the peanut gallery, but it was hard to tell from so far down the mountain. We all waited for the song to finish. It did, and everyone was hushed, waiting for the priest to begin. Which he did not.

Instead, the Opera Singer started up. Sang a five minute or so song. From This Moment, by Shania Twain.

So through the entire song, we all stayed standing, and the Bride and Groom held hands and looked at each other. It was at that point I realized I forgot my iPod.

The song ends. We can now begin. The priest starts his spiel. I am able to tell he is talking because I see his mouth moving, and everyone lined up by him seems to be paying attention. We cannot hear him, as he is not mic'ed up and is 74 feet in the air. About 3 minutes into his repertoire, someone brings him a microphone to hold. We get his voice booming majestically through the speakers in mid-sentence. Now, because he is holding the mic in one hand and the Bible in the other, he has to maneuver a bit to turn the pages. It causes a noticeable delay, but so far the entire ceremony has been a noticeable delay.

They kiss, we clap, some hoot and holler, and it ends. They file off-stage in a slightly more controlled fashion than the entrance onto the stage and take their seats at the head table. Food is brought out, a first course of sorts with cheese, fruit, vegetables and crackers. So we get in line, snag ourselves some cheddar and muenster, a few butterfly crackers and take our seats to discuss the ceremony.

Eventually, the food comes out. This is all buffet style. No assigned order, just come and get it. I don't even think offer was made to the head table to go first. No one moved until someone moved, then it was on. On and poppin'. An interesting salad with strawberries in it, which was pretty good. Some potato salad I didn't have, some pasta salad I did have, and some meat. Roast beef, turkey, and ham, all carved fresh. So that was good. I had plenty of beef and salad after scanning the plates with a UV light.

We wind down. The Groom cannot be found at any point in which he needs to be found for pictures, a dance, or a hearty congratulations. At one point he asked Nichole when we would be getting married, and referred to me at least three times as "This Fool." I had no idea I was so foolish, and I apologize to you all for it.

They dance their first dance, to the tune of a song I cannot remember but was sung by the Opera Singer. This sounded about the same as before. I really want to go hear her sing opera, just to be reassured. Very nice girl, though, don't take my criticism for dislike. Others start dancing, at which point the DJ has to ask everyone to clear the dance floor so the Bride and Groom can dance. This request is promptly ignored.

The time comes when everything seems finished and it's time to say our goodbyes. Also, people are walking around very fast as if there is a problem somewhere and it can only be solved by fast walking and concerned looks. Oh, and unnecessary dramatic flair from some bridesmaid. If you communicate louder than everyone else, you will be sure to solve all problems. Remember that, kids.

We make our way outside after saying goodbye to 3 people, where there is a pickup idling. Beside this pick-up is an angry young man being talked to in rushed tones by the Groom, who is Taking Control Of The Situation. The Situation focusing on one of the guests, who is in jeans and a t-shirt laying down in the back of the pick-up and cursing. He was also throwing beer cans and other random items out of the truck. I know this because the bridesmaid made sure we could all hear it. Were you outside that day? You might have heard it.

We got out of there nice and quick after that. As we were leaving, I untucked my shirt. It was time.

We pulled out of the parking spot slowly, as random people were randomly walking in random places. We pulled out into the road, drove about 15 seconds and came to a light, right behind the pick-up truck. I know the drunk guy was still in the back, because both hands came up at one point sporting middle fingers. Not towards us, but rather the people in the cab who were driving him away. So we were sitting there at the light, and who should happen to pass us heading in the direction of the wedding? Two cop cars, lights-a-flashing.

Cops were called. To a wedding.

Amid the confusion, I managed to swipe a misspelled and incorrectly dated candle. With that and some of the pics and videos I took, there are memories that will last a lifetime.

For My Fellow Ravens Fans.

2007-07-22T22:42:00.000-04:00

There's a great article from the Baltimore Sun about the greatest offensive linemen ever, Jonathan Ogden.

I suggest you go check it out.

That's all for now.

Tune in soon for The Greatest Wedding Ever.

News You Should Care About.

2007-07-20T15:50:00.000-04:00

Ike Turner won't have his own day.

The Mayor of St. Louis has turned down a request to make September 2nd "Ike Turner Day". I don't know about you, but this is a complete travesty. For an ethically superior man such as Ike Turner to not have his own day is ridiculous. I bet his 13 ex-wives are incensed.

He wrote an autobiography in 2001, in which he denied his supposed abuse of Tina Turner during their marriage. Here is a quick quote from said autobiography.

"Sure, I've slapped Tina... There have been times when I punched her to the ground without thinking. But I never beat her."

Give this man his day. Anyone who can go toe-to-toe with Tina Turner in a no-holds-barred slugfest automatically gets both my support, and my love. Each of which is fleeting, so hold on to it.

__________

PETA is screaming for Michael Vick's head. Nike has suspended his shoe. People are protesting with cries of "Sack Vick," which I find excruciatingly original. It works two ways. Brilliant. But what, pray tell, is the NFL doing? They are thinking about asking Vick to take paid leave.

They suspended Pac-Man Jones for the entirety of the season, Chris Henry and Tank Johnson for most of it, all for misconduct. Tank even got cleared of his DUI charge, but he's still out. And they ask Vick to take paid leave?

I just don't get it. I suppose the NFL is just covering their ass in the very off-chance Vick is actually innocent of the allegations. He blamed his relatives, by the way. This link is for a video of his house getting raided.

By the way, Michael Vick is foaming at the mouth for this dog.

See what I did?

Foaming at the mouth?

Like a rabid dog?

Nevermind.

__________

Entertainment Weekly just published this picture of Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man.

I am definitely pumped for this movie. Not having been a big Iron Man fan as he exists in the comic book, I am able to go into this with a bit more of an open mind than I did with Spider-Man and X-Men and Batman and Superman.

You gotta have faith. Thank you, George Michael.

__________

Comingsoon.net posted this about a set visit to the movie Get Smart.

Steve Carell is Maxwell Smart, and I have high hopes.

Much like Frank Sinatra.

__________

I'll end with this. The Hopefully Released Earlier Than November 2008 movie Wolverine has a director. A guy named Gavin Hood has been tagged to take the helm, and I have never until now heard of him.

Still, I'm pumped like a West Coast Party.

And a West Coast Party don't stop.

New Technology Is Confusing.

2007-07-19T20:01:00.000-04:00

So I guess when you get older, you're just allowed to not know how things work.

I was on my way back from getting dinner tonight, and I passed by two older folks getting out of their car after parking on the side of the road by a parking meter. This road has parking meters, which is the reason I am writing this entry you are currently loving the shit out of.

So they got out, and both of them walked up to the parking meter. Parking meters have apparently been around since the 1930's, the first of which was installed in Oklahoma City in '35. This says to me that everyone, at least in the United States, knows what a parking meter is and has at least seen someone work it.

Which is why it struck me as odd that both of these old folks looked at the thing like it just sprung up next to their car when they parked at might at any time jump out at them and rob them of their social security checks. Maybe they watched too much Get Smart and thought perhaps there was a secret agent hidden inside somewhere.

They looked at it. Circled it. Consulted with each other - which is how I know they weren't foreign and had never heard of a parcomètre. The old guy gave it a few squints and might have passed gas. I'm still not sure if they actually figured out the whole coin-in-the-slot part. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt, though.

So, back to my original assumption. Apparently, when you're old, you get to forget how the basics of everyday life unfold. If there's a ticket on your car, it's ok because you're old and did not know the parking meter needed to be fed.

What? You're not supposed to empty your bowels into your pants?

Screw it, I'm doing it anyway.

Telepathy & Attempted Highway Homicide.

2007-07-18T20:47:00.001-04:00

As much as I would like it, I guess I'm better off having not developed telepathic abilities.

"Why is that?" you ask, not really listening in the first place.

Well, I probably would have killed at least a dozen people today by broadcasting the words FAST LANE in giant neon flashing letters directly into their minds, causing instant brain aneurysms and a huge accident leading to hours worth of traffic jams.

Seriously, if you are going to drive around under the speed limit with a large cooler and several bulk packs of bottled water strapped haphazardly to the roof of your car, it may be best for all involved in the drive if you kept to the right of the four-lane-65-mph highway.

Only you can prevent forest fires.

Hollywood Needs To Explode.

2007-07-17T09:07:00.001-04:00

I just read a story over on Ain't It Cool News that caused my blood to turn cold.

Apparently, The Powers That Be in Hollywood are planning on making Ace Ventura 3.

Normally, I would stand and applaud this decision, and explain to those I socialize with how great of an idea this really and truly is.

I cannot do that, unfortunately. They are making it without Jim Carrey.

"How is that even possible?" you ask with shock and no awe. Well, it seems they will be using the premise that has always worked so well in the past with sequels. It will be Ace Ventura's son that has the adventure. Something about a panda. It doesn't matter.

This hasn't worked before, and will not work now. I loved Dumb & Dumber. The sequel sucked. Or prequel, I guess. Why was it so bad? Because Jim Carrey wasn't in it. If you are going to a sequel, you must have both Carrey and Daniels.

Take a look at all the good sequels out there. Even good spinoffs. They have something in common. A true connection to the movie they are based upon. Not a suggested connection, like "It's his son," as is the case with this thing they are calling Ace Ventura 3.

I don't need to go on about this. Suffice to say, this is going to be awful. I feel bad for the kid they cast as Little Ace, because no one is going to like him. I thought Eric Christian Olsen, who played Lloyd in Dumb & Dumberer did a great job playing off of Jim Carrey's Lloyd. The movie still sucked, though. The guy who played Harry, in my opinion, was somewhat awful. No comic timing, no real connection to the other main character. It sucked.

This movie will suck, and it's a shame. I am a 30 year old man and I freaking love both Ace Ventura movies. They are individually awesome. I fully enjoy when Carrey goes over the top and it works.

This movie is a worse idea than Alvin and the Chipmunks. And we know how I feel about that.

Master Of My Universe.

2007-07-17T01:45:00.000-04:00

I have something to write about regarding a commercial I saw last night. It was only 45 seconds long, but it smacked me right in the face and screamed, "Wake up!!! People will buy anything!!!!"

But I'm not going to write about that right now. Instead, here are photos of old 80's vintage He-Man action figures I used to have. Both He-Man's and Skeletor's mounts are not included, nor any vehicles.

I think that's about all of them. At least, from what I can remember. I also had several He-Man vehicles, plus the aforementioned mounts of He-Man and Skeletor, the tiger and panther respectively.

I know. It's all pretty awesome.

Two Things...

2007-07-12T21:27:00.001-04:00

First off, the World's Tallest Man just got married.

Bao Xishun is 7'9", and his wife comes in at a respectable 5'6". Let's all take a moment to wish them well, and to assume the stereotypical Street Fighter garb is only for the PR photo.

Secondly, it seems a former Paris nightclub owner - no, not that Paris - has come out and said that Jim Morrison actually died in a toilet stall in his club back in 1971.

This goes against the original account of his death, which finds him dead in a bathtub in his hotel room, down the hall from Meg Ryan.

Sorry, that was Val Kilmer.

His death has been surrounded by speculation (much as Jimi's, Bob's, and every other music icon that bought the farm), but the overdose-in-the-tub story is generally accepted. Naked Indian Optional.

This guy is now putting out a book, where he informs us of the true demise of Morrison. Supposedly he had some doctor guy come into the bathroom, confirm Morrison's death, then some drug dealers came in and picked up Morrison, dragged him to his apartment, then dumped him into a bathtub.

My question. Why, if this is the case, did it take 36 years for this important information to surface? According to what I read, there was a conspiracy to cover this up by the club owners, fearing scandal. If you ask me, which you always do, this smells of some dude trying to make a few bucks because he's old and poor now.

I prefer to remember Jim Morrison the way we all should... all pruny and wrinkly from dying from an overdose of heroin in the tub. Much more poetic that way.

And in my version, there is definitely a Naked Indian.

Thank You For Smoking.

2007-07-11T13:47:00.000-04:00

In roughly exactly 33 days to the approximate T, I will be turning 30 years of age. August 13th is my birthday, and I counted the days until then, taking into account the 31 days July has, and came up with 33. That's how I figured it out.

Not only is this date monumental in the marking of my 30th year of life outside the womb, it is also the time in which I have decided I need to give up childish things. No, no, not the comics or frequent Star Wars viewings or video games or toy collecting or immature and politically incorrect jokes. Rather, smoking.

I have been a smoker since I was 16, or thereabouts. I remember getting mad at something, possibly my parents or something with school or the lack of any and all attraction being received from the opposite sex. Whatever it was, I met a friend of mine at the lake near the mall and had myself one of his cigarettes. I didn't inhale.

Nor did I inhale the next several I smoked in the days and weeks following.

Then, one day, outside of the Howard County Library in Columbia, I did inhale. A little twinge of the chest, perhaps my lungs' way of saying, "Oh shit, there goes the neighborhood," and I was on my way. I got really, really light-headed, had to sit down, then had me another.

A couple days later, I have a Marlboro Red on the way home from school. For those of you who smoke, you know what kind of reaction a young kid who doesn't smoke will have off a Marlboro Red. Those things are potent. So my friend was driving, and he wouldn't stop all the way for me to get out. Instead, he kept the car slowly moving, as friends are wont to do in keeping with Fucking With Each Other. I had such a buzz off the cigarette I fell completely over, then slowly got up, dizzy as hell, and went into the house.

Shortly after, I began smoking. Not as much as would come, but smoking nonetheless.

So now, I'm turning 30. This means I have been smoking for about 14 years. A stupid choice made by a kid with no real vices besides masturbation, and I'm finally ready to give it up.

I am nervous as hell. I know what it feels like to go only 3 days without having a smoke. You begin to get a little tense for no reason, a bit edgy, and feel kind of like you are being fed a caffeine IV drip. I have what you could consider a mild form of Tourette's Syndrome, so when I got without nicotine for an extended period of time, this irritability is accompanied by an increase in frequency of my tics.

In other words, it sucks. I quit for almost a year once, several years back. It was for a girl, so that pretty much ended when we did. Why I didn't just stay quit, I'll never know.

Non-smokers don't quite understand what it is to quit smoking. It is not a matter of putting down the cigarette and backing away. We are not only addicted to the nicotine, but smoking itself. The act of smoking becomes a part of you. When I hold a beer, the other hand wants nothing more than to have a lit cigarette in it's grasp. When I'm taking a long drive, it feels natural to smoke a few on the way. After a big meal, having a smoke makes it feel like you are not stuffed. Your hands are trained to hold, to flick, to fidget with. The nicotine is easily 70% of why we continue to smoke. The other 30%, though, is simply smoking.

The worst part will be having to sequester myself somewhat. If you've quit a week ago, you cannot go out. The bar is OFF LIMITS. There is no way any recent Quitter has enough willpower to waltz into a bar or club and just have some drinks and not smoke. It doesn't matter if said Quitter has the patch on their arm, or is chewing some nicotine gum, the Quitter will lose the battle. Because of that 30%. Because they see all these people around, one hand drinking a beer, the other tapping some ash into the ashtray. The Quitter wants to tap that ash. The Quitter wants to take a nice drag. The Quitter just wants to hold the cigarette. Smoke it, yes, but first, just hold it.

What this rambling mess boils down to is my plan to quit smoking. After my birthday, it's on. No more. It's ridiculous to continue. I've probably already doomed myself to a slow death by cancer. I might as well give myself a fighting chance.

So if I seem to be acting a little different after August, if I seem snappy and irritable, or impatient, or extra fidgety, just give it time. Eventually, it will go away. The craving will stop and I'll be back to normal. Except for the other 3o%. That will never go.

Maybe I can start back up when I hit 60.

Hot Deli Mustard.

2007-07-08T02:32:00.000-04:00

I was drinking at a bar in Old Ellicott City tonight.

The bar is called La Palapa.

The pattern on the bathroom floor looks exactly like the deli mustard used at my favorite deli across from my work.

I do not like deli mustard anyway, as it is flush with horseradish, which I am also not fond of.

Even so, I will never eat their hot deli mustard.

Even if I liked deli mustard.

French's all the way!!

I should go to bed.

Transformers Review. One Word. It Was Freaking Awesome.

2007-07-07T17:08:00.000-04:00

To quote Jim Carrey in The Cable Guy: "I don't know what the big fuss is about... It ruled!"

Detractors, shut it. I just saw Transformers. Seriously, I got out of the theater at 3:17pm today. I had pretzel bites with mustard and a Coke. I also had a Fan-Boy orgasm that lasted as long as the movie did.

This movie rocked. It was awesome. It was a spectacle among spectacles. Whether or not you like Michael Bay is irrelevant. The movie is good, naysayers be damned.

Allow me to address several of the Reasons Not To Like Transformers that I have read or heard from various people. Some from reviews on Ain't It Cool News, others from Comingsoon.net, and a few other sources. This is not to say those sites only showcased negative reviews. Far from it, they had several positive as well.

One of these is No Character Development. This is a dumb complaint for two reasons. One, the only human character you really need to care about is Sam Witwicky, played by Shia LaBeouf. They established a little bit of Care For This One with one of the army guys, but he's not the focus. Sam is the great-great grandson of the man who found one of the evil Transformers frozen in the Arctic Circle. I am not going to go into detail about who is called what and what they are looking for and which are the bad guys and blah blah blah. All of that has been tread and retread in every other review. This is about breaking down the bad reviews.

So, again. No Character Development. We meet Sam. He is an above average intelligence student. Kind of a dork, kind of an outcast. We see him in school, with another friend, interacting with his parents, trying to impress a girl, even taking care of his dog. In this time, we invariably come to like Sam Witwicky. We recognize this as a good kid with his head and heart in the right place. We want that girl to like him. We want him to be a hero. Many can identify him, as he is the Everyman. Young, but there it is. Because we like him, and because we are happy for him when he gets the car and rooting for him when he gets the girl into his car, he is a developed character. Developed enough, as the movie is not called The Adventures of Sam Witwicky.

The other characters are numerous and some just show up for no apparent reason. Or that's what the Bad People will tell you. Each character, no matter how "under-developed," serves his or her purpose. Anthony Anderson is one of the guys who just shows up. The reason for that is, he's the Computer Hacker. He is, actually, The Best Computer Hacker. His comic moments are worthy of LOLs, and he helps the Government after an entertaining raid on his Grandmother's house. Check mark for Computer Hacker.

Jon Voight is the Secretary of Defense. He is the Government Guy trying to keep everyone calm and find out What The Hell Is Going On. We like him, after initial skepticism. Check mark for Government Guy.

John Turturro shows up as the head of a secret government agency that doesn't really exist. He is odd, egotistical, and somewhat funny. He knows about the Transformers, and knows they have a connection to Sam Witwicky. We don't like him, but we might later if he can redeem himself. Check mark for Creepy Government Spook.

Bernie Mac is the car dealer where Sam first gets his Transformer. He is funny, has one of the best comedic moments in the movie, and is there for nothing more than comic relief and to get the Transformer to Sam. Check mark for Comic Relief Cameo.

Megan Fox. She is the hot girl Sam wants, and comes with a "mechanic" past. Sam has goo-goo eyes for her. That's enough for us. We now like her and want Sam to win her over. Check mark for Hot Girl Good Guy Wants.

Aside from the Army guys, who we just want to survive, that's all we need. These players all serve their purpose well in the context of the story. This movie is, in the end, about what one reviewer called Giant Fucking Robots. We know the purpose for each character we meet, and we are invested in Sam.

Another gripe was regarding the plot. What is boils down to is both the evil and good Transformers are looking for Something Big. If the Evil Guys find it, we are doomed. If the Good Guys find it, we are not doomed. In many movies of the sci-fi genre, that plot is in use. So why bitch about it? It's a perfectly fine premise to build a movie around when the movie you are building around that perfectly fine premise contains many scenes of Transformers transforming, fighting, transforming again, chasing each other, transforming, then fighting some more.

The fight scenes and chase scenes and transforming scenes were awesome. So much attention was payed to detail it as ridiculous. When I purchase the DVD, these are the scenes I plan on slowing down, possibly zooming in on, etc. So many things are moving and twitching and sliding into place, it comes across as genuinely real.

Michael Bay loves moving camera shots. Lots and lots of them. There's even a sequence beneath the Hoover Dam where a small evil Transformer is in a shootout of sorts with some Government Guys and the Computer People. In this scene, the camera rotates around the whole bunker for a bit, which is exactly what happened in Bad Boys II when they had a shootout in some Jamaican drug dealer's house. So we've been there. Why, though, is this a problem for people? I read one review where it was suggested that Bay had every shot moving at all times. This, my friends, was exaggeration.

When the camera is moving around, it works. It gives you a sense of how big the Transformers really are, which is huge.

Another I heard was the absence of the Main Evil Robot for much of the movie. See, now, that was the point. The Bad Guys were there not only to find Something Big, but also to free the Main Evil Robot who has been kept frozen and entombed by the Creepy Government Guy and his compatriots. So it stands to reason we do not get much of him until later in the movie. BUT. When he does get free, he kicks some serious ass.

To quote a Good Transformer: "It's Megatron! Fall back!!"

The Good Guys who kick butt all over the place are scared of this dude. Awesome.

But then, who is not scared of him? Why, the Main Good Robot, of course! Which leads to another awesome fight sequence.

As this is already way, way too long, I'll wrap it up here. My point is, put away all the "But They Didn't Do It Like That In The Original!" crap. I loved Transformers growing up. I had a ton of them; Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Jazz, Starscream, Megatron, Soundwave, etc etc etc. All the original metal ones, not the plastic versions that came later. I watched the cartoon and loved it. I watched the movie and gasped when one of the Transformers actually said "Damn it!"

But to the fanboys who bitch about lore and origins and the like, get over it. The cartoons we watched back in the day were based off of TOYS. There was never any build up off of a cartoon or a movie or a comic book. People made the toys, then thought, 'Hey, we should make up a cartoon off these things so we can sell the shit out of them!'

What I saw at the movies was my childhood thoughts come true. I was skeptical when I heard they made Optimus Prime and mack truck with flames. I thought to myself, 'Self, how will they make Megatron turn into a little gun?'

In the end, I didn't care. The movie was funny, intense, and a gigantic spectacle of computer animation and serious action. It was at times cheesy, and for the most part, completely predictable.

It was freaking awesome.

I Have A Bad Feeling About This...

2007-07-05T15:40:00.000-04:00

Jason Lee... why hast thou forsaken us?

On a side note: It's bad enough they're making this movie. But if they really portray Alvin, Simon, and Theodore as little gangsta chipmunks, I will go on a shooting spree in Hollywood.

Not A Transformers Review.

2007-07-02T16:09:00.000-04:00

Not a Transformers review, just a small part of a Transformers review. Ain't It Cool News has several on their site, some with spoilers and some without. I only read the reviews without spoilers, as I would rather find out the important stuff by watching the movie. I do like to read the regular reviews on their site, as many are posted by fanboys such as myself.

So below is the greatest compliment I've ever seen a movie get by someone. Click on the quote and it will take you to the review itself.

"It was awesome. It was like a big honking slice of Awesome-toast buttered on both sides with awesome. It was a double serving of Hell Fucking Yeah with a side order of OMFG. If you are pumped for this, if you are ready to embrace this, if you want nothing more than to see mind blowing action unlike anything you have ever witnessed, then you will shit your shorts and giggle like a fucking school girl."

If that isn't a shining, glowing endorsement to go see Transformers, I don't know what is.

Autobots, transform and roll out!

eBay Commercial.

2007-07-01T01:49:00.000-04:00

Look, I know I'm late to the party with this, but eBay might just be one of the Best Things Ever.

I have found everything I could ever want on there and more so. Seriously, remember Brewster's Millions? If I was to get that kind of money, eBay would become my bitch so fast it would be forced to change it's URL to eBayThanksMatt.com.

Among the treasures I have purchased. The entire set of Frank Miller's Sin City graphic novels for roughly $60. In the store, that would have run me well over $100. I am currently awaiting an updated version of the game Oregon Trail. Yeah, that's right.

Several other graphic novels. A McNair Ravens jersey for Nichole. The entire run of The Greatest American Hero on DVD.

Matchbox cars, one of which is a Special Edition Knight Rider KITT. A Pac-Man lunchbox. Battle Beasts. Some Star-Com toys. An Atmosfear game from way back (scary game where you had to watch a VHS starring an Evil Guy along with the game)

And let's not forget my Darth Vader Toilet Seat cover. You can get a gander at that from my previous post about my bathroom.

My point, if I could be said to have one, is that eBay rules and I spend too much money there. I used to think Amazon.com was the shiznit, but I have since matured and moved on, as my purchase mentions should have already told you.

According to a recent email, Oregon Trail is en route. Can't wait to go hunting then die from dysentary.

Robots In Disguise.

2007-07-01T01:28:00.000-04:00

Transformers comes out on July 3rd. This movie will have giant robots fighting each other. One of those giant robots is pictured below. His name is Optimus Prime and he is the leader of the Autobots.

This movie will also have a young woman by the name of Megan Fox playing the lead female role. She is pictured below and seems to be the love interest for Shia LeBeouf.

There is no way any straight male between the ages of 6 and 40 should not see this movie. Just a thought.

It's About Time.

2007-06-29T21:30:00.000-04:00

Oh happy day! Silicone Skeletora and her four old friends are reuinting for a tour! Instead of five hot chicks wearing tight clothing and flaunting their English sexuality while at the same time supporting the Power of Girls, we'll be getting toned down dance moves for the geriatric of the bunch and hoping against hope someone's shirt does not pop open.

Loneliness. The Finale, if you will.

2007-06-26T15:14:00.000-04:00

I have been slacking on this, but it's not out of ignorance or personal choice not to disclose the rest of my blast from the past. It's because I completely forgot about it until I found the two pages earlier today.

This is part three, but is also the last part, so instead of Volume 3 or something I decided to go with Finale. Upon reading it myself, it is entirely unfulfilling in the sense that I seem to have went from personal admittances and emotion, to random ranting and impersonal goings-on.

What began as a somewhat coherent stream of thought settled into a distracted rant involving anything but the subject I began with. Perhaps that lends to the state of mind I was in: I began a bit broken and confused about what I wanted to relate, and ended up back to random, unimportant thoughts that to me conveyed a sense of "getting over it."

Decide for yourself. I'm making it sound deeper than it appears.
_________________________________________________________

I don't think I'm lonely anymore.

I mean, I'm alone, as in I live alone, but the oppression of the feeling of loneliness seems to have dissipated. The days are nicer. I think I like my job more, too, which may lend to the whole Feeling Better thing.

I have a TV again. 27" flat screen TV. So in a sense, I now have a crutch again. Something to lean on, to distract me from anything I want it to distract me from. Hell, I've writing at least twice already to watch TV. Only for a few seconds or minutes, but still. Ten fuckin' lines on a page and I'm already stopping to check out the TV? It's "Trading Places," which I've seen countless times.

So what is it that pulls me back? I've seen it, I can see it pretty much whenever, but I keep looking. And this happens all the time, whatever I may be doing. I missed TV so much, and now I am realizing it is more of a drain. So, what, cut down? Like smoking or something? I don't think it works that way.

But anyway. I'm tired. Drank last night, didn't sleep much, and slept on the couch at that. Why when you get too much sleep you're tired, and when you get only a little, you're tired? It stands to reason that if you sleep for, say, 10 hours or some shit you should bounce out of bed (there I went again) eith the energy of a hyperactive 10 year old on a sugar high.

You know what's even more of a distraction? Jamie Lee Curtis topless.

Hold on a sec.

Ok, scene's over.

Now, I sleep alot, sometimes. Go to bed 5am, get up at 2pm. That's... 9 hours. Plenty, right? And yet, I want more. Good night's sleep and I'm yawning like a champ around 8:30pm. I don't get it. Is it from too much work? Or am I just predisposed to sleeping alot and it carries over?
See what I mean about distraction? This is the most shallow writing I have done it quite a while. I started with something, I think, but it seems to have coalesced into something virtually worthless.

Because of the distraction. And it's voluntary, which seems to make it worse. I don't have to look up, I'm not missing anything. So at the moment, this is pointless, so I'm gonna go ahead and stop.

I'm getting hungry.

And tired. Did I mention that?

What Is Wrong With The World.

2007-06-25T15:19:00.000-04:00

This is a picture of a 40 year old man and a 16 year old girl.

They were recently married. A high school coach married one of his athletes.

This is the kind of guy who needs to be severely beaten with a 2x4... you know what? Let's make it a 4x8. Beaten, taken to the hospital, healed, and then beaten again. I find this kind of thing utterly disgusting, as it is easily a form of child abuse.

Congratulations to him and her parents. You have been successful in completely ruining this girl's life.

Bravo, bitches.

Real Men Wear Pink?

2007-06-25T14:36:00.000-04:00

How did this happen?

I know it's not exactly a "new" fashion trend, but I would like to know: Who was the first man to look at a pink button down shirt and think to himself, "Man, I could really pull this off."

I don't understand it. When I was a boy, PINK was for girls, BLUE was for boys. All the other colors were interchangeable. Yellow and red and orange and green, pretty much any other colors were okay to switch around. Even girls could do blue. No problem.

Pink, though, equals girls. It always has, and everyone knows it. When the phrase, "It's a girl!!!" is exclaimed, screamed, or morosely uttered, the color associated with the pronouncement of gender is pink. In contrast, when the phrase "It's a boy!!!" is morosely uttered, screamed, or exclaimed, the color associated with the pronouncement of this opposite gender is most certainly not pink.

So again, how did this happen?

I see men walking around with light pink button down short sleever shirts tucked into their khaki shorts. There are men having dinner with bright neon pink polo shirts. Men are pulling up cute pink shorts over their tighty-whities. Believe me, every man wearing pink is also wearing tighty-whities. If I still wore them, I guess I could wear pink too.

Underneath sport coats, men are rocking the pink for all it's worth. Well I say thee nay. Pink is not a manly color, it is the color of girls, usually age Zero to Young Adult. Older women can wear pink, sure, but typically you will see the most pink on a young child of the fairer sex.

Any father who places a pink shirt on his young boy needs to be immediately stripped of his Dad Card and made to walk the streets in a dress.

Then again, some yuppie might get wind of this and decide it's going to be the new male "thing".

I have my evening gown on stand-by.

Another Batman Update.

2007-06-18T15:56:00.001-04:00

For some reason, I seem to be turning my little ol' page here into a Batman movie update site of some sort. Some of this stuff is too good to pass up. For instance, the below pic.

Yes, it's a Bat-Bike. Although, apparently it is being called a Batpod. I'm not sure if they refer to it that way in the film, however, but I would really like them to. Just once, kind of a tongue in cheek thing between Bruce Wayne and Alfred, perhaps. This pic comes from, interestingly enough, latimes.com.

There is also video of it being ridden by Meredith Vieira on the Today show. I am related to her through marriage, you know. Her husband is my Mother's cousin. This is why I'm hot.

Here's another, clearer pic for you. Not of Meredith. It's the Batpod.

On A Side Note...

2007-06-17T20:49:00.001-04:00

Who the hell let K-Fed back into the news??

The word is that K-Fed has been talking more and more with Britney, while at the same time it comes out that he may have impregnated his ex-girlfriend (who he left for Britney. While his ex was pregnant and already had one kid by him.) Shar Jackson. This has been vehemently denied by Shar. Or her representative. Do no-name people have representation?

Anyway, all that doesn't matter. What matters is that K-Fed's 15 minutes should have officially expired, and no one should talk about what he is doing at any time. This person needs to be forgotten as a temporary celebrity and banished from any and all headlines. In fact, I really shouldn't even be talking about him right now.

With Paris in jail, these tabloid folk seem to be confused as to what they are supposed to do after getting out of bed.

How Big The Trees Are.

2007-06-17T20:27:00.000-04:00

I was over one of Nichole's friends' house the other evening, standing on his back deck and chatting with a few of her other friends. One of them, John, made a random comment of the size of the trees. This is not a direct quote, as it was from Friday night and the quality of my memory does not last that long, but it was something like:

"Have you noticed how big the trees are?"

That simple question had never crossed my mind, and I don't know why. I've lived in the Columbia area for pretty much my whole life. With the exception of a combined 8 years on the eastern shore, I have lived in this area. For those unfamiliar with my personal geography, Columbia is basically a suburb of Baltimore. Roughly 15-20 minutes outside of the city.

It didn't hit me much when it came up, probably because it was around 10pm or so. The next day, though, Nichole and I were driving around and looking at houses for sale. I would like to be able to move into my own home by this time next year-ish, so we were just looking around, seeing what we liked and what would be a good fit. As we were driving by my old neighborhood, I decided to take a spin around, just for old times' sake.

Damned if the trees weren't big. Seriously, I've never thought about time passing. You think, Man, it's been 12 years since I graduated high school, or I remember you when you were this big, or Really? No winning season in ten years?

That kind of thing seems to be how we relate to a large amount of time passing. If you really want a feel of time passing, go look at the trees around where you grew up. It's almost daunting. Those things were huge. They were big when I was little, and now they're gigantic. All of them. All around the townhouses and by the creek and in the woods.

Big trees. Time flies.

Dark Knight Update. Of Sorts.

2007-06-14T23:39:00.001-04:00

I have only the highest expectation for The Dark Knight. I typically feel this way about almost all comic book movies, but this one especially. I didn't even feel this good about Spiderman 3 and the first two were excellent. Batman Begins was a great re-introduction to Batman movies, and I think (the director) Christopher Nolan and (writer) David Goyer really got it right. Christian Bale was an inspired choice and is my favorite to play the character since Michael Keaton. Keaton might still be my favorite, though.

Be that as it may, I think the reason I am so geeked for this movie is the Joker being the villian. As you may have gathered from a previous post, I am totally gay for the Joker. Best... villian... ever. I was over at ComingSoon.net earlier and saw a story about some new pics from the new Batman movie.

The first here is supposedly the Jokermobile, so to speak. This is allegedly the car the Joker will be driving in the movie.

This is great, because in most of the stories written by Jeph Loeb and illustrated by Tim Sale, one of the best duos to put out a comic book - and definitely the best Batman team - the Joker tends to drive something like this. The purple, the kind-of-beat-up look is perfect, as I can't imagine the Joker driving around something shiny and new.

Although he did used to drive a Jokermobile with his face really big on the front of the car.

The next pic is of Batman's new look. It is pretty similar to the suit from Batman Begins, with some new twists here and there. One of which is a modification done to the actual mask. It has been separated from the neck in a way that allows for more movement of the head. Before, he would have to do a half turn of his torso to look around, whereas the new mask will allow for natural movement. Should help in defeating bad guys, I would think.

As of now: July 18, 2008 release date.

Should This Concern Me?

2007-06-11T20:12:00.000-04:00

In each elevator at work there is a small metal box within which you can find the elevator's Certificate of Registration. This is given by some sort of Labor & Liscensing Something Or Other. I just looked at it roughly thirty seconds or so ago, and I've forgotten already. Such is my short-term memory.

The certificate looks like this:

It really is in all of them, I just happened to be in elevator #6. Which is ironic, as there are exactly six elevators. That might not be ironic. Still, though, the position of the elevator I used would not occur to me as #6. I would see it as #3, I think.

Be that as it may, on each certificate, in the lower-ish right there is an Expiration Date. We all know our car registration expires, so it seems only proper that elevator registrations would have the capacity to do so as well. Below is a picture of the Expiration Date. This date applies to each elevator, not only The Illustrious #6.

Sorry if it's hard to read, but I only had my cellphone camera handy, as I am not in the habit of bringing in an actual camera to work. Women don't tend to take their shirts off at work, so who needs a camera?

The date reads: 11/23/2006.

This elevator's certificate has been expired since November of last year. Does the owner(s) of our building simply not care that we are now and have been riding around in unregistered deathtraps since the 23rd of last November? This, to me, shows an exorbitant amount of lethargy and blatant disregard for our safety, as well as make a mockery of everything an elevator's Certificate of Registration is about.

Are you legally allowed to drive a car without registration? If the elevator gives way and crashes to bottom, who gets sued?

Please, everyone. Take a look at your elevator's certificate of registration and make sure it's up to date.

Only you can prevent forest fires. Thanks for listening.

The Winchester, Defined. Possibly some ranting.

2007-06-09T18:58:00.000-04:00

The question hasn't come up, but I'm going to answer it for you anyway.

"Why The Winchester?" you ask with some puzzlement and an all-consuming need for an explanation.

The Winchester stems from one of the greatest movies ever. It's a movie that transcends genre, and hits with a perfect blend of comedy, drama, romance, and zombie attacks. This movie is Shaun of the Dead.

There are few movies I would describe as perfect. Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back is one. Shawshank Redemption is another. Dumb and Dumber. Citizen Cane.

Shaun of the Dead falls easily into the category of a perfect movie. The two main characters, Shaun and Ed, are a perfect comedy team. They play off each other like they have been doing it forever. The movie itself is basically a comedy, but there are moments of pure drama that are both edge-of-your-seat type moments, as well as tragic. Seriously, there's a scene near the end that almost makes you want to cry, then you gasp, then you see someone ripped open by zombies.

It's been labeled a zom-rom-comedy. Zombie Romantic Comedy.

Quick overview: Shaun is a regular guy, trouble with his girlfriend, dopey friend who never quite grew up, rocky relationship with his stepfather. He works a dead-end job, visits the same bar every night, and is essentially going nowhere in life. Then, he goes to sleep. Upon waking, the world has changed, and zombies are everywhere. Time to save the day.

Sort of. Not save the day like he saves mankind and is a hero. No, he plans to save his day. The people he cares about. Girlfriend, Mom, Friends, etc.

One of the great things about the movie is how easy it is to like Shaun. You tend to like him immediately. He's not good looking, doesn't have a lot of money. Lives in a townhouse with two other guys, and one of them is Ed, who it seems came over one day and never left. By the way, you'll like Ed too. You'll want to smack him in the head a couple times, but he tends to steal the show. I use his "two seconds" catchphrase all the time.

After watching the movie, re-watch it and pay attention. You see the same scenes, the same people, some of the same jokes throughout the movie, and it doesn't get old. Everything ties back into itself. As far as the zombie thing goes, you can see and feel it coming, and it makes you want to shake Shaun out of his general complacency and tell him to get the hell out of England.

I'm not going into too much detail here because I really want you to go watch the movie. It is totally worth it.

Now. Remember when we started, and you weren't wondering where I got my blog's name from? The bar Shaun and Ed frequent is called The Winchester, and it plays a major role in the movie. It is also a bar that any one of us would love to have as our local watering hole.

All in all, this is sort of my own personal homage to Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the men who wrote the movie. Wright also directed it, and Simon plays Shaun. These guys are also responsible for the movie Hot Fuzz that came out recently. Also very good.

You've got red on you.

Episode III Novelization.

2007-06-09T01:46:00.000-04:00

I know many people did not like the prequel Star Wars movies. The numerous complaints I've heard range from bad story to bad acting to too much CGI to Jar-Jar to Darth Maul being killed too early which I agree with to the CGI transformation of Jedi Master Yoda.

Some of this I agree with, some I do not. The prequels are definitely inferior to the original trilogy as a whole, but I was not as disappointed with them as other Star Wars fans. I thought the little boy that played Anakin was a pretty bad choice of actor. It was painful to watch him. BUT, that movie was not about him, per se. While it was about the Jedi finding him, it was more about how things started to go bad in the Republic, how the Emperor began to accumulate power, and how Obi-Wan met Anakin and came to train him as a Jedi. Also, the Pod Race was pretty cool.

Yes, I realize how I sound.

As far as Jar-Jar goes, here's his role. While all adults are instantly annoyed by his presence, as they should be, children are not. Nichole's daughter will be 4 in September. I have began to expose her to Star Wars for two reasons. One, I love the movies and loved them as a kid even more, therefore I figure she will like them, because she's a kid. Two, it drives Nichole nuts. Kelsey, her daughter, can point out and name R2D2, C-3PO, Chewbacca (Chewie, to her), Leia, Darth Vader, Yoda, and lastly, Jar-Jar. He looks silly, he talks silly, he acts silly. He's for the kids, people. Let it be.

So, way too long story short, I liked the movies well enough. The lightsaber action was great. What I intended to tell you in a much shorter format, though, was to try out the books.

Right now, I am reading the novelization of the third movie, Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith. Written by an author named Matthew Stover, it is actually very, very good. There have been a ton of books written about Star Wars - commonly referred to as the Extended Universe. Some take place years after Return of the Jedi, some occur even before The Phantom Menace. Some are worth a read, others not so much.

If you were unhappy with the third movie... if you wanted more than what you got, then read the novel. It gets into characters' heads, gives you scenes that never took place in the movie but tie in perfectly, and expound upon some of the action scenes from the movie. If they had taken the fight with Count Dooku in the beginning of the movie and shot it according to what is in the book, it would have been 10 times better.

Even just the dialogue and character relationships are worth it. In the movie, Padme and Anakin love each other. Fine, good, super. In the book, though, you get a feel for the depth of their relationship. You get to experience Padme when she first sees Anakin after he is away for months, and how her emotion spills over when she simply glimpses him.

The utter confusion Anakin experiences between his loyalties to Obi-Wan, the Jedi Council, and Palpatine allows you to understand his eventual transformation to Darth Vader. In the movie, it seems almost anti-climactic. He gets mad, cries, then is Darth Vader. Way too easy. In the book, you feel his pain and insecurity. You can see how twisted Palpatine's manipulations become, and how easily he pushes and pulls Anakin until the end result is inevitable.

Again, I realize how I sound.

I could go on, and would like to go on. It is, however, past 2am. I plan on finishing this chapter - I am currently on Utapau, where Obi-Wan is confronting General Grevious - and going to bed. I hope this has been enlightening. Maybe I should do more Geek Book Reviews.

What? Something About Paris??

2007-06-08T20:36:00.000-04:00

I must be out of the loop because I have no idea who Paris Hilton is...

The above statement, unfortunately, is false. I wish it was true. Oh, how I wish. To not know anything about Paris Hilton (and who she is sleeping with and who she is wearing and who she is singing about and what kind of alcohol she likes to consume and what her nipples look like and how she used to carry around a small dog until it became unfashionable and now the thing probably sits in a room somewhere wondering why it has suddenly been shunned like the foul beast it is) would be absolutely spectacular. To not be subject to her daily goings-on would be much appreciated. If I knew nothing of her DUI's, court appearance, jail escape, and subsequent re-entry, I would be perfectly content with my life.

Alas, this is not how our country works. For some reason unbeknownst to Yours Truly, we seem to feed on this kind of thing. We leech off the raw emotion this kind of celebrity hounding creates within us, be it a genuine satisfaction that she got her just do, or appalled that such a thing could happen to such a nice rich, racist whore.

This was some sort of headline on every single news source I checked today.

The first link there? As of right now, 8:55pm on Friday, June 8, had a big red banner at the top of their website that read: Breaking News: Paris Hilton ordered back to jail

Breaking news?? How did we come to this? Why are we so utterly devoted to finding out as much as we possibly can about some random person? This woman is not a huge movie star. She is not a star athlete. She is not a famous musician. She is a Rich Person. That is all. Nothing To See Here, Keep Moving.

For crying out loud, a reporter was hit by a car while surrounded by other reporters and photographers trying to get a shot of this bitch being carted back to jail. I don't remember the link so I can't lead you to it, but there was a mob around the police car, the cop used a loudspeaker to tell everyone to get out of the way, and instead of moving they crowded closer. So, the cop took off. Good for him.

I find it sickening how shallow and heartless we, as a people, have become. Our pursuit of everything celebrity dumbs down our culture and whittles down our children's capacity to know what is important and unimportant.

That being said, this is a GREAT picture.

And Another Thing...

2007-06-07T00:21:00.001-04:00

I cannot understand how I can work in an office full of adults ranging from the ages of 20 to 60+ and have to worry about my food being stolen from the kitchen refrigerator by one of the adults I just mentioned.

I graduated high school in 1995. When I left, who knew I wouldn't really be leaving?

Seriously, I would give one of your left nuts to catch someone in the act of stealing my food. There are some things in life that are worth being fired over.

I Should Really Go To Bed.

2007-06-06T23:57:00.000-04:00

I work in television.

As anyone who works on the side of production, they can tell you the hours tend to suck. Hard. Since '99, when I began my illustrious career, my schedule has consisted of: 3:30pm-11pm, 4:30pm-1am, 3pm-11:30pm. Sometimes, if games are running late, the out time for a day off work can be anywhere from 2:30am to 3:30am. I have arrived home after 4am before. It's not ideal.

I knew this going in, so please understand I am not trying to complain about such work hours. I chose them myself by staying in this field and knew they would be as such, therefore I do not have the right to whine. Now, if I have to stay at work until 3am or so, then I am permitted some griping. Otherwise, no. Suck it up, because it's your job.

That being said, this kind of schedule lends itself to an awkward sleeping pattern. I have been getting up earlier recently, but before moving in with my girlfriend, my sleeping schedule used to fit a cycle of Bed At 5am, Wake At 2pm. Give or take 30 minutes here or there.

Say you go to work at 9am, and get home around 6:30pm or so, allowing for the drive home and traffic and staying late and arriving late and taking a longer lunch and whatever else may slow you down or speed you up. Well, it's the same time frame for me, except later. Say I get home at 12:30am. That is my 6:30pm. When you get home, you might eat some dinner, maybe watch some TV, read a book, have some sex, surf the internet, read this blog, then cozy on up for a nice doze before beginning the next day. You do not go right to sleep. And why would you? It's only 6:30pm!

This is my conundrum. After leaving work, I need time to unravel. Relax. Watch TV. All the aforementioned stuff. So even though it's 1am or so, I am not ready to hit the hay, as it feels like Evening to me. Finally, come the middle of the night, I am now ready for sleep.

The crappy thing is, this schedule is hard to break. My hours at the job are 3pm-11:30pm right now. Even so, the last two nights I have stayed up until 4am or later. Typically, I am not in bed until at least after 2am. I just can't seem to do it. I want to, I would like to, but laying down at 12am does not find me sleeping. Rather, my mind races, I toss and turn, stare at dark portions of my room, and be annoyed that I cannot fall asleep.

I write this only because it is currently on my mind. It is 12 minutes past 12am. I could easily lay down right now, as my bed is literally seven inches from where I am sitting. Nichole is already asleep, her daughter is knocked out in her room, and here I sit, punching away at keys, my right leg fidgeting in that way that gently shakes everything around you. And yet, I cannot make myself go to bed. I wouldn't actually get to sleep for at least another hour, if not more. I know that around 3am, Nichole's daughter will wake herself up and come in our room, and we'll have to put her back to bed. I know she'll be back around 7am or so, and either climb into our bed or try to wake us up because she's up, and that's what little kids do. So it is in my best interest to go to sleep now.

And here I sit, boring you with tales of how I am sitting here. It's like some twisted version of insomnia. I don't intend to bitch and whine and moan about job hours and the like. As I said before, I chose this profession. I could of become a realtor or something. So I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

Sometimes, it gets annoying.

By The Way...

2007-06-04T01:24:00.000-04:00

...apparently Anna Kournikova is not single. It seems Enrique Iglesias was joking when he said they split up. Here is a link to a website that sells medieval weapons that can be used to dismember Enrique for such a hurtful lie.

Not Feeling Hostel, Just Annoyed.

2007-06-04T00:25:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I saw a clip online from the movie Hostel II. This movie is the sequel to Hostel, and brings in a brand new, original premise. In the first installment, a group of guys find this great hostel where they get laid, then ultimately brutally tortured. In the new one, Eli Roth has taken the huge step of completely revamping the movie, by using - get this - chicks, instead of dudes.

I know. Wow, right? Instead of some guys finding the hostel and getting sliced and diced, it's some chicks who do the exact same thing. Inspired? I think so. See, though, the beauty of this idea is that you can take off one or all of the chick's shirts and sell more movie tickets. I fail to see how Eli Roth cannot be thought of as Pure Genius. Especially because he wrote, directed, and produced both of these movies. It amazes me how he could write the first Hostel, then sit down at a typewriter and punch out a completely different movie!

That being said, I loathe this kind of film. I'm not a fan of the horror movie in general, but I can see the appeal of some of them. Good psychological twist, interesting story, cool evil guy, etc. These are fine reasons to go see some of the horror flicks I've come across. I haven't enjoyed all of them, but I know others have and that's absolutely super.

But this type of movie isn't a movie. It's a 90-minute or so shock/snuff film. All it does is allow some uninventive "director" to say, basically, "Look how demented I am! Come, see how crazy I can be!! Isn't this some crazy stuff I can do?"

It annoys me, as it should annoy everyone. It demeans people, as far as I'm concerned. Saw was okay. It had some great plot twists, and with the exception of Westley (if you don't get that reference, just keep moving) chopping off his own foot, there wasn't many Look At All The Gore moments. Saw II was different. In that one, all I saw was Look How Sick We Can Be, with a small twist at the end that made you feel kind of bad for Donnie Wahlberg. I left the theater thinking I should have never walked into the theater. They're lucky that popcorn is so good.

What I'm trying to get at is as such. You can make a really good, really scary and demented movie without having to resort to shock and awe. In Psycho, the gore goes to the extent of blood running down a drain. The Shining has a naked corpse make out with Jack Nicholson, but the scary part is seeing hundreds of sheets of paper with the same sentence written over and over in varying patterns same sentence written over and over in varying patterns same sentence written over and over in varying patterns same sentence written over and over in varying patterns same sentence written over and over in varying patterns same sentence written over and over in varying patterns same sentence written over and over in varying patterns.

I have not seen either of the Hostels, by the way. "How then, can you judge?"

Two reasons. First, this is my blog. Second, keep reading.

Remember the scene I told you about at the beginning of this post? The one I found on the World Wide Web? It began with several men gathered around a naked woman chained upside down. This woman will henceforth be referred to as Chained Naked Chick. Naked woman? Sweet, send me the link. No, I will not. Try to focus. These men light some candles on the floor around a small pit of sorts, then leave the room. Another door opens and another woman enters the room. This woman is also, naturally, naked. This woman will henceforth be referred to as Evil Naked Lady. Dude, two naked chicks in one room, one of them's chained up, and you think it's a bad thing? No, just a dumb thing.

Evil Naked Lady walks slowly, but with purpose, to the small pit of sorts where she lays down, propped up a bit by the first step into the small pit of sorts. It kind of looks like a hot tub. You see where this is going. The Chained Naked Chick is gagged, by the way. So there she is, Chained Naked Chick, struggling with her chains whilst vertically reversed and dangling. Evil Naked Lady then picks up a scythe, which I did not see previously and I can only assume has been sterilized, and caresses Chained Naked Chick with it. Using it to remove Chained Naked Chick's gag, Chained Naked Chick cries, pleads, and cries while Evil Naked Lady smiles. Immediately after smiling, Evil Naked Lady begins to slowly slice up Chained Naked Chick so that Chained Naked Chick's blood runs down and drips all over Evil Naked Lady. Another cut, more blood, screaming, etc and so on.

That was the point where I stopped watching the clip and searched for hot celebrity women for my desktop background at work. The clip was dumb. It was pointless. It was a perfect example of the aforementioned Look How Sick We Can Be mentality. Worse, it was unimaginative and served no purpose except for that of giving an adolescent kid a look at some tits and an idea in his perverted head.

I know it will make money. It's inevitable. In light of that, I can and will hope that it completely bombs, makes no money whatsoever, and puts Eli Roth on some sort of Directorial Blacklist. I also hope it destroys any possibility of anyone making any kind of movie like this ever again. There's no art to it, no meaning, and no entertainment, in my humble opinion. What part of watching people be violently tortured in different ways is appealing? Seriously, give me a good explanation of that and I will take everything I just said back.

Oh, and after reading all this, see why my title to this post is so freaking clever?

I know. I'm good.

Shady Office Folk.

2007-05-30T20:23:00.000-04:00

So Comcast SportsNet Mid-Atlantic, where I am employed, is located in a tall office building in Bethesda. This building rents out office space to businesses looking to do business from the confines of an office space. Some floors are devoted entirely to one company, others have different companies on the same floor. This is a common thing in office buildings. It's okay, I didn't know at first either.

We were originally located on the 1st and 2nd floors. The studio and control room, where I spend the majority of my time, could be found on the 1st floor, while upstairs housed the News department, Master Control, editors, feed room, creative services, etc. There were people in another building across the street, but that holds no relevance to this soon-to-be-highly-entertaining blog.

On a side note: We refer to the anchors, producers, APs, and such as News even though we do all sports. It may seem a bit odd but it works, so just let it be.

A new studio and control room and newsroom and stuff was built on the 6th floor of the building not too too long ago, and we moved the operation up. Part of our staff stayed on the 2nd floor, and all the people dealing directly with the shows we produce came upstairs. From what I was privy to, we were supposed to take over the entire floor and have all of our offices and staff in one large area. Also from what I was privy to, someone dropped the ball and did not rent it all out in time, allowing another company to take the space we had not yet acquired.

I told you all that to tell you this: There are no signs, logos, or indication that there is any other company but ours on the 6th floor. In the lobby, there is a glass wall displaying where each company is located in the building. The one that shares our floor has nothing there. When the elevators open onto our floor, there are several Comcast SportsNet posters framed around the elevators. This says to the average elevator rider, "Hey, this floor has Comcast SportsNet on it."

If you stand looking through the large windows in front of our newsroom, turn to your right. There is a short hallway, with a solid wood door at the end. A small electronic device is attached to the wall beside it, where you wave your little electronic key pass to unlock the door. The door is plain, no signs. The hallway is plain. Every now and then I have seen people come out of it, or passed a non-descript office worker in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. This is how I know there are people who work through that door.

What do they do? Who are they? Who do they work for? What kind of company doesn't tell anyone what kind of company they are? What are they doing back there? I tried my electronic key pass on their door. Didn't work. I'm contemplating on hovering around the hall and heading in when someone opens it up.

There is no window on the door, did I mention that? Are they being sequestered because of the nature of their work? Maybe they are in the espionage business and could tell me but would have to kill me. This has just been bothering me for awhile and I desperately needed to get it off my chest.

I hope no one past that door reads it.

While I have the time...

2007-05-29T15:42:00.000-04:00

Kind of a quick hit here, for I am at work and we have roughly 15 minutes before we start actually doing work. Not much time, but we make do.

First off, my computer at home is really grinding my gears, as it seems to be getting slower and slower. I don't understand it. It has been slow for awhile now, being an older model and not as up to speed as these hip new computers the kids are using these days. How I long for the days of MS-DOS and text prompts and simple commands and yellow or green screens and BBS boards where only one person at a time could call a computer and leave messages and play turn-based games with others and get frustrated when the line was busy and I had the handle Thanatos and the line would cut off whenever Mom or Dad would pick up the phone. I think I'm getting old.

That wasn't what I came to tell you, though. They released a couple more photos from the production of The Dark Knight. Apparently, Christopher Nolan is shooting some of the scenes from the movie on IMAX cameras, which is usually reserved for documentaries and the like. One of the scenes will be the reveal of the Joker. Below is what seems to be the actual shooting of that very scene, although any glimpse of the Joker is blurred by a screen or glass of some sort:

So this looks pretty sweet. A nice, close, in-your-face moment to look forward to during the movie. I got this from ComingSoon.net, but it can be found other places as well.

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On a side note, I wanted to share this with everyone. Apparently, Anna Kournikova is now single again, so you single guys out there each have a shot. Provided you are rich, famous, good looking, and do not spend your free time reading this crap. Also, you will have to accept the fact that you are kind of doing Enrique Iglesias if you do in fact land Anna. That, however, should be considered a perk.

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Lastly, this weekend I went to Bethany Beach, in Delaware.

"What?!!?!!" you shriek with an abundance of exclamation points and bold type. "That's insane to go to the beach on Memorial Day weekend and brave the traffic and crowds and such! You must be awesome."

That's correct.

When finishing off a night out at Harpoon Hanna's in Fenwick Island, I suddenly felt the need to relieve myself of the increasing pressure I was developing in my bladder. In heading to do so, I found one of the two urinals occupied by another gentleman who had discovered the same problem I had. So I used the one he was not using.

The reason I'm telling you this is as follows: The urinal on the left was normal height, the one on the right was lowered. You know, for kids or dudes who roll like that. This guy was at the normal height one, which left the shorty for me. Thing is, I'm 6'0" tall. This guy was about 5'7" at the most. So it made for an interesting dynamic.

Loneliness. Part Two, it would appear.

2007-05-25T11:10:00.000-04:00

So continues my blast from the past. As I said before, I found it interesting that in the first part of this I used a third-person viewpoint to narrate. Then, here, I find myself using first-person. Why the change? Did I intend the first part to be a selection from a larger narrative or story I wanted to tell? Or did I decide it was absurd to put myself out of myself in order to get the emotion across?

Who knows? Not I, assuredly. The question is neither here nor there, I'm afraid. That is what I did, therefore that is what I will transcribe here. No reason to edit when I'm just copying, so take it for what it is, as I am doing.

By the way, I'm not certain of the time frame between the last one of these I so diligently penned. I believe it was a day or two.

_____________________________

I don't have a TV.

Well, I do have a TV, but it has not been delivered yet. She took the one we had (feels weird to say HAD, but there it is), which is understandable considering it is hers. But now I don't have one. It's been so long since I have been in this situation, and it leaves me wondering what to do, exactly.

Don't get me wrong, I like reading and all, but it still feels like I'm disconnected somehow. I don't think we realize the utter dependency we have on small, material - if you will - things. I don't watch news, really, so it's not like I'm really missing anything there. I work at a TV station that does strictly sports, so ESPN isn't a daily necessity. I haven't seen a boob in a few days now... that kind of sucks.

But otherwise, what am I missing? A movie I've already seen over and over? The chance to play a game that I own that I've played the hell out of already? Sitcom shows that will be repeated countless times? Commercials? Fuck that, can't stand 'em. Although, the energy-drink-eye-of-the-tiger one is pretty funny. I work at a TV station, where there is a monitor or 10 in every room. It's not like I never see the thing. So what is it?

Maybe the loneliness thing again. Although, I had a TV before and that didn't help, so that can't be it. The glow, I guess. Just having it there. If I'm reading, I can have it on muted, maybe it keeps my apartment from being so damn empty. That's got to be part of it. My walls are pretty much barren. Shit, who am I kidding? You know what I have up on my walls? ONE PICTURE.

It's a good'n, mind you. A big silkscreen pic of Baltimore done in 1975. She bought it for me after we were dating for about 2 months. The fucker cost almost 600 bucks. That'll teach her to drink, right? That shocked the hell out of me, when I first saw it sitting in her room. Helluva thing. It's a pretty strong connection to her, which brings up some hurt, I suppose, but it's not just that. I liked the hell out of it ever since I saw it in the bar. Always talked about how I was going to buy it someday. It's now a reminder of what it was like then, that would be about 3 years ago or so, I think.

When everyone was around. When I hit the bar and knew half the people in it. Nowadays I go in, I might know 3 people, maybe no one but the bartender. Sit there at the bar, drink, and hope someone shows up or calls me or something. It sucks, in a word. So I sit here alone, then go out with nobody and meet up with no one. Quite a life, huh? Not my fault, really. Damn musicians moving around trying to break into the biz. It was like everyone scattered right around the same time. All of a sudden, every other day or every week you hear "So and so's moving to so and so with so and so." Great, happy for 'em.

Part of me thought everything would be great to get back here. Settle in, re-insert myself, return to the haunts, etc. The rest of me knew it wouldn't and couldn't like that, which is why that side fought against it. But I had to get her out of that town. Her happiness topped mine in importance. I didn't force her there, but still, the responsibility fell to me. Now I'm here, she's gone, things have changed.

The world has moved on, to steal from King.

I guess I'm moving with it, albeit only because the current is moving that way. Lord knows I'm not swimming. Almost wading against it, trying to backpedal my way to how things were. I know I have to stop myself from blaming her, or even blaming anything. No one's responsible for my decisions or actions or blatant lack thereof. I can change, but for some reason I'm also fighting full-tilt against it. That's why I'm up at 5am, sleeping 'till 2pm. That's why my pant size grows, why my shirts get tighter. Cuz I won't change.

Hell, I got pissed when my other pen died! And now this one's going as you can see. Although, I will probably transfer this to computer, so that last bit is moot. But the point is not. If we don't allow ourselves to change, what the fuck point is there to doing anything? A merri-go-round loses it's fun eventually. It's easy to write that, now I just gotta live it.

Yeah, try telling that to me.

I promise I'll try to stop whining so fuckin' much.

Quick Notes.

2007-05-21T23:08:00.001-04:00

So it was released today that Anthony Michael Hall is joining the cast of The Dark Knight. Apparently his role is of some importance, as according to him he is seen throughout the movie. There has already been much fan-boy debate and assumption over what his role will be, from mainstream choices such as the Riddler, to more recent characters like Tommy Elliot (a childhood friend of Bruce Wayne's who ends up trying to kill him, in short), also known as Hush.

Obviously we all just need to wait and see, but while we do, allow me to offer my explanation (which is probably extremely accurate). My guess is as follows:

Anthony Michael Hall will in fact be playing The Riddler, real name Edward Nigma. Get it? E. Nigma? Yes, yes I know. Nigma will be incarcerated in the film, most like in Arkham Asylum, Gotham's home to the criminally insane. After having virtually no luck in catching the Joker, the protagonists in the film will use Nigma as a Silence of the Lambs kind of sounding board to try and figure out what the Joker will do next. Gordon and Harvey Dent will be the ones that decide to go to him for aid. In my thinking, Batman will not be agreeable to using Nigma and not trust his findings. Perhaps this will set up some kind of Riddler action in the third movie, although the thrust of that one will undoubtedly be the transformation of Harvey Dent into Two-Face and his subsequent loss of sanity.

So there you have it. Mark the date and time, because you heard it here first.
___________________

I work for Comcast SportsNet, and therefore I work, ultimately, for Comcast. A few days ago, our cable suddenly went from Only Showtime (Dexter returns in October!) to All The Channels. I get free cable, working for Comcast. So I called today to ask whether or not the cable had been switched over from Nichole's account to mine and the man I spoke to said he could not tell me, I had to contact my HR. I gently pleaded with him to just take a look, not make any changes or anything, just look and tell me if it had been switched over, because I am expecting a DVR and Internet to go along with the one cable box I already have. No can do.

So Nichole calls me tonight and says she called about the cable being out. They could not find her account, so she gave them my name. The woman she spoke to clicked a few buttons, then told her Yes, the account has been switched to me, Yes, they will be giving us money back for the two previous bills we paid, Yes, someone will be coming by Wednesday to install the internet and hook up our DVR, and Yes, cable has been out here and there and will be fixed shortly.

So my question is why could the young man I spoke with earlier not just tell me that?

Why would a company make it so hard for their employees to get information about their own accounts?
______________________

It took just over fifty dollars to fill my tank today. Gas was $3.12 per gallon. That really grinds my gears.

The Joker. Geek Out.

2007-05-21T00:45:00.001-04:00

Batman Begins was a good movie. Two of Batman's recurring villians from the comic books made their way on-screen, and it wasn't exactly his "main" two. Scarecrow and Ra's al Ghul are not the first two evil guys people would think of when thinking of Batman's greatest villians. Even a comic book stud like myself would place several others before these two, yet there they were. And I say Bully For Them.

It probably took some amount of guts to tell Those Of Higher Up that the real main villian would be a person that anyone unfamiliar with comics would not know. Ra's al Ghul definitely had many good and major plotlines throughout Batman history, but he does not wear a flashy suit or rob banks or look like a penguin, as does his foe The Penguin.

I think it's how he got his name.

So good for them. Got some lower tiered, as far as the general public goes, villians to thwart Batman.

Now bring it on.

The Joker is easily my All-Time Favorite Villian. Across the board. As far as heroes go, Batman runs third in my book, with Spider-Man and Wolverine holding the top spots. The Joker, however, is the best villian ever. Want to know why? Thought you might.

He's crazy.
He looks like a clown.
He pulls off a purple suit like no other.
He's smart and devious.

But best of all, he's a homicidal maniac.

This clown kills people without any regard. His henchmen have been killed for not laughing at his jokes, for asking questions about a caper, and for not telling him Batman had one of those... things. Poor Bob.

The Joker kidnapped Commissioner Gordon after putting a bullet through the Commish's daughter's spine, then showed him naked pictures of her during a funhouse ride. The Joker kidnapped a whole roomful of babies, and when the Commish's wife came to rescue them he tossed one to her then shot her when she caught it, killing her. In Frank Miller's awesomely sweet Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, he kills about 300 people in one sitting during a talk show appearance, then poisons about a dozen Boy Scout students before finally having his back broken by Batman. After a short talk with Bats, he twists around until he breaks his own neck.

On top of all that, he is also personally responsible for what could be considered Batman's greatest failure. After meeting up with Arabian arms dealers, he traps Robin (the second one, Jason Todd) in a shed with his mother and beats him to a pulp with a crow bar. Then, he ties up Robin's Mom and leaves them both, Robin barely breathing. Robin manages to untie his Mom, but then they notice a bomb about to go off. It goes off. Scratch one Robin.

I could go on and on, but I'm not going to. No villian has ever matched the pure joyful viciousness the Joker has displayed. If I seem to be going to far in my depiction of him, being that it is a comic book character, it is only because my Inner Geek demands it of me.

So I told you all that to show you this, the first picture released of Heath Ledger as the Joker in the new Batman movie coming; The Dark Knight.

I cannot freaking wait for this movie. Jack Nicholson was spectacular as the Joker. But that was a Tim Burton film and had an element of camp to it. Loved it, but this is different. This might be the Joker I have always liked better.

My Geek Flag is flying high, I am proud to say.

Loneliness. Part One, it seems.

2007-05-20T15:35:00.000-04:00

I was leafing through the many different notebooks I have kept since college the other day, and stumbled upon one that was with me through both college and after. I used it once since then, it appears, and although I do remember using it I had since put it away and not remembered using it. If you follow me.

What I found was some writing I had done after an ended relationship. My current girlfriend, Nichole, and I have been together almost two years now. We are just recently moved in together and everything is going well as I'm sure you were wondering and are happy to hear it.

Previously, I was in a relationship that lasted roughly two and a half years or so. I won't go into the details, both because you don't really care to hear them and I feel like I'm so far past it that it doesn't even matter anymore. Also, I tend to keep things light and fluffy and this is getting dangerously close to personal.

So why post it? Good question. I found it intriguing to go back and look at what state I was in, which, if you go on to read this whole post, was "Not a good one." Not hopeless, but full of self-pity and pure awareness of said self-pity. There will be more, as I wrote several pages worth. This is just the first part, where for some reason I wrote in third-person. Did I intend for this to come across as someone else? Was it my own way of putting myself out of the situation in order to convey a sense of neutrality or lack of care? No one knows, and until I am able to work it like Hiro and travel though time, we can only speculate.

So enjoy, I really did find it rather interesting.

That might be because I wrote it and it was about myself, though. You never can tell.

__________________________

Loneliness doesn’t just appear. It’s not like a surge of anger or a barked laugh. It grows. It cultivates. You do not wake up realizing, “I’m lonely.” You wake up and feel hunger or pain. No one has woken up feeling lonely when they went to bed with none of those thoughts. It’s when you realize life has changed. Loneliness is coming home night after night to no one after having someone there every night before. Loneliness is renting a video game and three movies you intend to return the next day. It’s having seen every single sex scene in every B-movie appearing nightly on Showtime or Cinemax. Looking at the mess around you and not caring.

Loneliness is thinking up ways to describe loneliness.

That’s how he felt. A bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish has been sitting on the coffee table for 5 days now, untouched. Are you kidding me? Two loads of laundry accomplished? He knew everything was going to change before she even left, and yet the desire to keep things the same keeps him from even straightening up. Laziness accompanied with a general malaise stops the trash from being taken out or the fish tank from being cleaned. He looks at the green film on the side of the tank and does nothing. He can see the green attaching itself to the fake stems and fake plants and doesn’t move.

What would it take to clean? 20 minutes? At most? But no, apparently self pity takes precedence. Waiting for the change to happen instead of making it happen. He searches his apartment for inspiration and it looks back at him with no sympathy. Is it even home yet? It was supposed to be, then she disappeared. It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t a surprise. It might have been entirely upsetting, once the anger dissipated. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before.

Numerous times, really. Of course, his fantasy of the aftermath was nowhere near what is real. It couldn’t be, and he knew it. The idea still lives in his mind. Every day. Did he trick himself into thinking this is what he wanted? Or was it just easier that way? If this is what he wanted, then the loneliness embedded into is bones must be a fabrication. An invention. It feels too real, though. He has friends. Close, and yet distant. One works nine to five, Monday to Friday. One is unemployed, about 40 minutes away. One is two hours away. One is moving to Alaska. What’s the capital of Alaska? Juneau? I don’t know, Juneau? I don’t know, Alaska. One can be found any night of the week at a choice of two bars. His own work schedule leaves him the afternoons free. He sleeps through them. On his days off, he rises in the late afternoon and wallows in himself until close to late night, when he finally leaves his apartment and drives directly to the bar. He calls no one, he doesn’t answer the two calls he may get.

She called him today, actually. He didn’t answer. Call her to check up, the message said. He hasn’t called back. He will, later, when the likelihood of getting the voicemail is highest. She comes to move out most of her stuff tomorrow. He doesn’t know when, but he doesn’t want to be here. And Viola! His boss calls and gives him an early call time to work, approximately 3½ hours early. Go figure. Is he supposed to be miserable?

His thoughts consist of winning the lottery, or suddenly being granted the power to make things happen. The power to read minds, or make people do what he wants, or stop time, or hundreds of other scenarios in which every desire he has is fulfilled. Irrational, comic-book-driven thoughts that have absolutely no bearing on reality. These things will never happen and he is fully aware of that and cannot let the ideas go. Can’t leave it alone.

The question pops into his head every single day. WHY. Why me why him why now why then why the fuck not? Never deserved this. And at the same time he knows he does. He deserves all of it. Because of wasted potential. Could’ve could’ve could’ve. No should’ve. Fuck should’ve. He didn’t, so there is no should’ve. Another why. Why can’t he go back? But to only some parts, so the others can remain. It’s dumb and stupid and pointless and it will not leave. No matter how hard the thoughts are pushed they will not budge and it can become maddening.

Tears pop up but almost never pass the lid. Anger boils and immediately gets taken off the burner. How long until it goes too far? How long can it be squashed? He has thoughts of letting it out. He knows it would be pointless and he would be beaten. This fear seems to control the anger. The rage develops but the fear dominates.

His hand hurts, and it’s getting kind of dark and the lights are out. He has about two hours before he goes outside. Now it’s time to lament his loss, fill one of the voids with some food. Maybe jerk off. Probably jerk off.

And the nightly battle to stop caring.

He likes pastrami.

My Bathroom.

2007-05-18T21:40:00.000-04:00

(Originally written March 19, 2007)

When I say My Bathroom, I am not referring to a previous blog describing the bathroom I envisioned for My Restaurant. I am referring to My actual Bathroom in my apartment. What follows is a brief yet informative paragraph detailing how My Bathroom went from a bathroom to My Bathroom.

For those that don't know, by the end of this month I will be fully moved into an apartment with Nichole. I am leaving mine and moving into hers, which will then become ours. That's how it works. Before this move, we had discussed whether or not we would upgrade the apartment from it's current Two Bedroom/Two Baths status, to a Two Bedroom with a Den/Two Baths unit. Keeping the current apartment until the lease is up would save us roughly $300 or more in monthly rent, but we sacrifice having extra room (which, with a 3 year old in the house, is sometimes missed). We came to a compromise of sorts. We keep the apartment we're in but I get to have the 2nd bathroom, which is attached to the master bedroom. This can still be used by herself and her daughter, but I am allowed to decorate as I see fit. This is partly because she already had settled into the apartment and I don't feel the need to upset her design or motif by putting my stuff up - which tends to have that bachelor/nerd feeling to most of it. This is how I got My Bathroom.

So. I am close to being finished with decorating. When I do, I intend to do a quick video tour of said bathroom and post it, maybe within a blog as well. Until then, allow me to share some of the gems I already have.

By utilizing eBay, which to those who are unfamiliar just may be the greatest website ever, I have been able to get a few items that really tie the room together, much like a good rug without urine. My first purchase was a fine piece of bathroom decor found on www.spideyshop.com. I was able to track down a Spiderman Soap Dispenser.

It's even better than it looks.

With that done, I decided to keep with the Spiderman theme a little and on the same website found some Spiderman shower curtain holders.Yeah, I know. They're pretty bad-ass. Again, that site is www.spideyshop.com for those interested.

"But Cwazola," you say with some rhyming dismay, "what shower curtain could possibly be worthy enough to hang from such totally awesome shower curtain holders?"

Just this one:

Yeah, that's right.

For my next purchase I decided to switch sides, as it were, and venture into DC territory. The comic company DC, not Washington. In another exploration of eBay, I came across a custom made trash bin that seemed to fit in perfectly with the rest of my items, as well as a promise of clashing with them all as well. This is what I am going for, so the deal was made and I am now proudly throwing my sticky toilet paper wads into this:

"Are those comic book panels?" you ask.

Yes. Yes they are. Somebody in Canada took a small waste bin, cut out panels from a comic book featuring Batman and Robin, then glued them onto the trash can. This was just awesome enough to grab my attention.

One of the final touches should be owned by Yours Truly by tomorrow. It is really quite the pièce de résistance, even though it is, as I mentioned before, ONE of the final touches.

A Darth Vader Toilet Seat Cover. I know, I didn't know such a thing existed either, but when you type in the words darth vader toilet seat cover, eBay produces one. It's like magic.

So those are all I can really show you now. I have a few shadow boxes to put up on the walls to put some toys on display - one of which will be my Matchbox Exclusive Star Car KITT from Knight Rider when it arrives. I haven't decided what else will go up, but I'll let you know as I'm 100% positive you will be wondering. Also, I have a magazine bin with a couple Wizard Comic Book Magazines, a Quadratec Jeep Catalog, and a Daredevil graphic novel. Nichole bought me something called The Bathroom Book, which is a neat little book with a bunch of random facts in it. Good stuff.

So next time you're over for a beer or maybe some GI Joe battles, find some time to cop a squat in My Bathroom. I'll keep the seat warm for ya.

Borrowing From Girls Gone Wild.

2007-05-18T21:33:00.000-04:00

I think I'm going to steal the idea behind Girls Gone Wild. Except mine will be slightly different as to avoid copyright infringement. It will be a DVD series about home renovation featuring the kitchen called Floors Gone Tiled.

Shortly thereafter, when the success allows me to build upon my franchise, a new series about boring museum visits will debut.

Tours Gone Mild.

Maybe get a little crazy with the makeover fad. Curls Gone Styled.

If you would like to pre-order your copy just pay my bar tab.

Greatest Movie Ever?

2007-05-18T21:32:00.000-04:00

This morning, at approximately 7:06am, I may have found what may just be the Greatest Movie Ever. Now, I was only able to catch about 20 minutes or so but I am convinced that when I do in fact watch the entire cinematic masterpiece, I will be able to say that in all confidence.

For those of you who do not know who Nick Fury is, let me give you a very quick, short background. Nick Fury is a Marvel comic book character, the head of an organization called S.H.I.E.L.D. [Supreme Headquarters, International Espionage, Law-Enforcement Division - originally. It's been changed but that's not what's important.] It's a counter-terrorism/intelligence agency that deals with superhuman threats. Basically. Anyway, Nick Fury is the head of the agency, and a TV movie was made called Nick Fury: Agent of Shield in 1998. This is the movie of which I speak. Not being a huge fan of Nick Fury's character in the comics - don't get me wrong, I like him and he's an enormous bad-ass - I did not display the kind of enthusiasm I may evoke for such films as X-Men, Spider-Man, Batman, and of course the upcoming Superman Returns. That was until I saw who was playing the incorrigable Nick Fury.

Out of fucking nowhere, it's David Hasselhoff.

As they are wont to say in Marvel Comics... 'nuff said.