Have any of you finished the last Harry Potter book?

I read it this weekend, and finished last night at the godawful early hours of this morning.

All throughout reading these books, I've noticed that they make fine parables for the current war on terrorism/Islamofascism. I'd be willing to bet, though, that the author's intention (much like Tolkien, I'd imagine) was not to create such a parallel. But I just can't help but see it. Does anyone else? Just figured I'd ask...

Posted by: shank at 07:34 AM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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Recently, I started bringing some CD's to work so I could listen to tunes in the office. We hired a new analyst a few weeks back, and she heard the music coming from my office the other day. I think it was some Mississippi Delta stuff or some other old southern blues bastardization of gospel music. "OOOOHHhh! That's nice!" Her exuberance was somewhat off-putting.

The next day, I said to her "Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not shutting my door to be rude or anything; I just wouldn't want my music to bother anyone." I figured if no one heard it, they wouldn't be bothering me telling me what they thought of it. I already know it's good, that's why I'm listening to it, please don't interrupt me with your opinion or that epileptic, pathetic, middle-aged cracker ass-shaking of yours.

"Oh, no problem at all. Especially if you keep playing that jazz stuff you had yesterday!"

Jazz my ass. I smoldered a bit on the inside. Who the hell confuses blues rock with jazz? I kept my mouth shut on the grounds that saying a word would make me look like a music snob, or at least just a prick. Can't have people knowing I'm a prick, no sir. I smile weakly at her and pretend I'm busy.

This morning she comes in and gushes, "You like jazz right?"
"Yeah." I try not to imagine what kind of musical selection or conversation is going to follow because I might laugh. Or cry.
"Have you heard the new John Mayer CD?" I fight the tears welling up inside me. "It's so great! I mean, it's all jazz!" The tears begin to give way to disappointment. "I'll have to bring it in, or maybe I can just burn a copy on my computer!" She sounds so excited. Excited like a retard.

I seriously considered telling her that John Mayer isn't jazz, that I'm utterly perplexed at how she came to such a distinction; that he is in fact just shallow, corny, pop pablum formulated to appeal to a specific audience of juveniles who view the world as a simple place with simple problems and equally simple solutions; that jazz is anything but that; and if she brings in a copy of that CD (which I'd graciously have to listen to all the way through at least once, to avoid the prick problem above) it'll just give me a goddamned headache. But I decide that maybe acting like a complete psycho is not a good idea, so I give some kind of non-committal "Heh" or something.

I suppose the real shame is I hear that he's a good musician; and I just can't get past the lyrics. It's like chocolate covered poo. You're all, "Look there's something covered in chocolate! Yay!" Then you bite into it and find yourself somewhat disgusted, probably nauseated, and feeling like "Why would someone do such a cruel thing like that? Why?"

Posted by: shank at 11:33 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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My glasses were getting a little worn recently, so I decided it was time to suck it up and deal with the hassle.

I like the frames I have, but the lenses were getting pretty badly scratched up. Besides, I don't have prescription sunglasses, and I was really looking forward to getting some transitional lenses so I could check out chicks at the beach.

During a break in the middle of my day, I walked across the street to my optometrist's office. It's a local shop, and I've been going there for years since they're so close to my office. After talking with the lady about what I was looking for, we ended up striking a really good deal. I was able to get a package deal if I got the transitional lens and this anti-glare/scratch-resistant coating. I wasn't planning on getting an extra coating since the transitional lenses already said they were scratch resistant, but for the price it didn't make sense to turn it down. I got the whole thing at about 27% off and felt like I was doing pretty damn good; especially since we hadn't crested my insurance cap for eyewear.

"Well then, let me take those frames to the back and trace them for the new lenses."
I had no idea what this entailed, but it seemed logical to me. "Okie dokie," I said to the nice lady who just saved me some dough.

About two minutes later she comes back, sits down at our little table, holds the frames out to me and says, "Did you know these are about to break?" She teeters one of the ear peices back and forth, and sure enough; that sucker is held on by about three molecules of metal - right past the hinge near the front of the frame.

Immediately I can tell this dumbass is trying to take me for a ride. If my glasses were in that state during my walk over to the optometrists or at the point I took them off my head and gave them to her, they would have fallen apart in my hands. It is obivous to anyone sitting at the table who has a preschool diploma that this bitch just broke my shit trying to get the lens out of it. Having had glasses all my life, I am aware that when the optometrist takes your glasses away from you, they are in no way responsible for them if they break. Sounds like bullshit, I know, but it's true. I take mine in for the occasional tweak, and they always tell me that if they break them, they're not at fault. I look back at this dumbfuck with a blank look on my face.

"We might need to order new frames," she says as if it's not patently obvious.
Being a cheap bastard, I know that my frames were inexpensive. "Well, can you order that same frame?"

She calls someone on the phone, yadda-yadda, and says to me, "Okay, here's the deal." My asshole puckers, because I know I'm about to get it. "This frame, in the color you wear, is on backorder. However, they have a brown gunmetal color available." I wonder to myself what the hell kind of color brown gunmetal is. Bronze? Metallic Turd? "So what I'm going to do is overnight the brown gunmetal, we'll call you when it's in and put your current lenses in those. That way you have something to wear. Then, when your lenses get in we'll put them in the brown frames, and switch them into your new frames when they come off backorder." I look at her, then my frames, back to her; and try not to say the word 'Fuck.' "Sound good?"

I think for a moment, lean in and say, "It sounds like a story I once heard. A parable, if you will. See, one day this guy was just going about his routine when he felt some discomfort, and discovered there was a broomstick in his ass. He thought to himself 'My word, this is quite irritating'; so he sought professional help to get the broom removed from his ass. Tragically, during the procedure (indeed, almost near the very end!); this trained professional ended up breaking the broom handle off in the man's ass. He wanted to scream, but he was too astounded at the technical ineptitude of the trained professional. Then the person whom he sought help from proposed something that made the man want to cry and kill at the same time. The person said, 'How about you come back tomorrow, we'll pull the broken-off peice out, stick a thicker broomstick in your ass because that's all we've got right now, then when we get a thinner broomstick in we'll swap the thick one out, then when we've got the tools we need, we'll remove the broomstick altogether. But the tools are on backorder and we don't know when that will be. Oh, and you'll be paying for all this too.' " I lean back, without breaking eye contact, and settle into my chair. It was all very Hannibal Lecter: direct, violent, but spoken in an even tone.

She offered to pay for most of the new frames, gave me a steeper discount on the lenses; and I walked out of that place getting the frames and lenses (with all the options I wanted) for just over $100. I'm still a little miffed because I have to jump through all the hoops, but this cheap bastard has never heard of a deal like that. Goddamn right too, because I've got to wear glasses with tape on them for a day or so.

Fuck.

Posted by: shank at 06:19 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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How is it that a word could mean one thing and it's opposite at the same time? Take the word 'cleave' which has two definitions; the more obvious of which is to cut or split. However, it also has another meaning - to adhere or cling.

This sets up all kinds of confusing situations, and eventually renders the word itself absolutely meaningless and unuseable:
A good writer should cleave himself of ambiguity, and cleave to the pursuit of words that cleave themselves from the mediocre mainstream vocabulary.
See. No one could ever agree or disagree with the above statement, because it's virtually impossible to tell exactly what that statement is. And it sounds retarded.

If you take this a step further and use the word 'uncleave', it opens up a veritable literary wormhole of sorts. Since the word is its own opposite, it's impossible to tell which form of uncleave is being used - the one that means uncut or the one that means unstuck. Silicet:
"I thought you told me you cleaved that."
"Well, that's because I did cleave it."
"I can plainly see that it is most certainly uncleaved."
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"No, you said cleaved."
"Don't be an ass. It's as cleaved as uncleaved can be."
"Listen to me goddammit. That is not cleaved, and if you want to argue about it, we can go outside and I'll cleave you."
"Now that just doesn't make any sense. How bout you go outside and cleave yourself, mothercleaver."

Essentially, a word that is its own opposite can't possibly have any meaning at all, except in context; and context, being merely the perception of the reader, can fluctuate not only among readers, but among readings by the same reader given any number of external and internal events.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, this is bullshit and somebody better do something about it. Pronto.

Posted by: shank at 12:22 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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We don't leave until Thursday, but I can barely contain myself. I simply can't imagine having to wait another 48 hours to be on vacation.

I reserved my car today. Each time I go to Vegas, I rent a dream car. For a guy like me, Vegas wouldn't be Vegas if I didn't spend some time behind the wheel of a decent car. Decent meaning:
1) The car must be a coupe, hard top or 'vert is irrelevant.
2) The car must be a sports car, not a Mustang, Camaro, Seabring, Solara, or any of the other useless but oxymoronically ubiquitous designs.
3) The car must be rare. Something you don't see everyday, and definitely something you can't rent at your local Rent-A-Wreck.

My choice this time came down to two finalists, a Shelby Cobra and a Lotus Elise. I ended up going with the Lotus for a couple reasons. Firstly, I feel it's going to handle better through Red Rock Canyon better than the Cobra might. The front engine design and overall power to weight ratio of the Shelby is going to make it a little squirrely in the turns. Not to mention it's probably not going to have the balance the Lotus will. So Lotus it is!

Definitely sprung for the extra insurance coverage too.

Posted by: shank at 08:11 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Dear Neighbors-
Hi! We're the young couple that just moved in down the street. You know, the ugly house. The rental with the patchy lawn and the wrinkled asphalt driveway.

Look, I know what you're going to say; but there's no way in Satan's searing Hell that I'm getting my paper-pushing ass out in the 90-degree heat to walk around behind a fertilizer spreader. Sorry. Besides, it's not like it's killing the property values around here. Don't get me wrong, if it was my own place I'd be out there doing it, because it probably bugs me almost as much as it bugs you. But let's be honest, this place is too goddamned ugly for anyone to actually buy. That's why it's a rental.

Thanks!
The Ugly House People

P.S. Thanks to the folks at 2907 for the pallets! Yeah, we snagged 'em from your garbage pile because they make great fuel for the fire pit in the backyard. If anyone else ever has any, feel free to give us a holler and we'll come pick them up!

Posted by: shank at 03:48 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I was just at the grocery store and I saw a famous guy. An actor, to be specific. Except I don't know his name.

It's similar to having a song in your head, but not knowing the name of it; except worse, because I can't offer anything up that would describe him to anyone. I'll try though.

He's a medium build guy, short curly hair that's dark, with just a few tinges of gray maybe. He's probably between 40 and 50. He's got square facial features. Not angled like Dolf Lundgren, but maybe more of a Harvey Keitel. The bottom of his face, the jawline and chin; seem wider than the rest of his face. And just a tad younger than harvey.

I can't remember a single movie he's in, but I don't remember seeing him ever smile. He's got a raspy voice, not too gravelly, just kind of a whiskey sort of tone. I've got this flash memory of him being some gritty kind of character who projects a lot of anger. Not crazy, energetic anger; but kind of simmering powerful anger. Can't remember what movie or a scene I saw that in or anything; but he was definitely so pissed he was kind of sweating a little. God, this is horrible isn't it?

Posted by: shank at 06:31 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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Heading back to Vegas the middle of this month. My cousin and some other folks are all turning 30 and they wanted to do it out there. It's going to be good times.

They all want to go eat at one of these fancy tapas bars on Saturday night. Hey, I enjoy great food as much as the next guy; but I don't give a rats ass about exotic garnish and funny-shaped plates. And furthermore, why the hell would someone go to a restraunt that sells you food that other people can eat of your plate? I guess as long as the sangria is flowing we won't have any problems. But I'm not sure, because I've never had sangria. I'm hoping this fruity joint sells PBR or something just in case.

My favorite hole in the wall joint in Vegas is this place called the Stage Door. It's this total dump on Flamingo, nestled in the shadow of the Flamingo Hotel and Casino. You can get a beer and a hotdog for $2.

Go down to the end of the block at Flamingo and Koval and there's Ellis Island. Less divey, but they've got an outdoor barbecue and $7 dinner plates that could feed a small family. They give you like half a chicken and four sides. It's ridiculous. I suggest the ribs.

There's a tond of other places, but I'd hate to give away any real treasures.

Posted by: shank at 06:34 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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So recently the company I work for signed a contract for a large purchase. We spent just under one year shopping vendors, whittling down our top choices, and then negotiating with each one. This afternoon I sat down with 2 other guys from my company and the sales rep for the company we decided to go with. The first thing I notice about the sales rep (and something that has always bugged me about him) was his goddamned dirty fucking fingernails.

Listen asshole, if we're going to make a six million dollar purchase with you, clean your god forsaken fingernails! What the hell is wrong with you? This dipshit is taking home comission on six mils and he doesn't even bother to take a goddamned shower before he shows up? What the ever loving hell is up with that? Fuckin' ell! I make a fraction of what this toady bastard hauls in every year and even I can manage to keep myself clean!

We buy capital fuckin' assets from Pigpen. I'm on the wrong side of the business.

Posted by: shank at 03:42 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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1 You think that's bad? It turns out that our rep for my last big software purchase is Canadian. Canadian!!

Posted by: Jim at May 25, 2007 07:19 PM (oqu5j)

2 Finally the money is comin' up north muthafackas!!

Posted by: Oorgo at May 28, 2007 12:03 PM (ZUQGo)

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So The Wife came home last Tuesday night dry-heaving and pissing about some serious abdominal pain, "I think I have appendicitis," she groaned. I mean, women can really bitch about the stupidest shit sometimes, and me being your typical sensitive but super-intelligent male; I was like, "You probably just need to fart really bad."
"Just go get my old nursing text and read the part about appendicitis!"
So I read her some shit about abdominal pain in the right lower quadrant, and god knows what else. She's convinced she's going to fucking die; and I'm sitting there calculating the odds that tonight is the night my perfectly healthy counterpart gets stricken with some acute but deadly syndrome. I beg her to shut the fuck up and sleep on it.

Okay, so I have to negotiate this for several minutes, plead, and finally beg for her to come to bed and we'll reconoiter in the AM.

Eventually she went to sleep (thank God, this cracker has to get up early, know what I'm sayin'?). Anyways, she calls me the next morning at about 11am, on the verge of tears, talking about abdominal pain. Now, she's finishing nursing school in about ten days, and she had a test that evening. We rationalized that there was no point in going to see the PMD or an Urgent care center because they wouldn't have the diagnostic capability to tell use if she actually had appendicitis. She goes to the Emergency Department.

Which is nice, because I work at the hospital and I could come check on her every so often. You know, between building the $200 million capital budget that was due the next day. Just a little thing I had going on, and The Wife wants to piss and moan about a fucking fart she can't get rid of. more...

Posted by: shank at 05:52 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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more...

Posted by: shank at 08:12 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I want a new car. Not that there's a single thing wrong with my current car (quite the contrary), I just kind of get bitten by this bug every so often.

It all started when my buddy got one of these '07 twin-turbo Beamer coupes. He's crazier about cars than I am, and they had to bring this thing over on a boat direct from Germany. He paid 52 g's for the car and he's already got 12 more in mods planned. Seriously, I don't think I'll ever be rich enough and stupid enough to buy a BMW; but I have to amdmit that thing is retarded.

And then there's the weird trend. A lot of the enthusiasts I hang out with who drive the same model car I do, have all sold their cars and bought an S2000. Like ten or fifteen people I know have done this. I think they're great cars, but I don't see myself taking my kids to school in one.

A nice ancillary twist is that The Wife probably needs a new car before I could ever honestly propose that I get one. Her car has close to 100,000 miles on it and isn't very comfortable (though it's been more cost-effective than my own).

But none of this stops me from dreaming about the TL Type-S, the STi, the EVO, or others. I just can't help it.

If I was a real ass, I'd tell my wife she could drive my car, and I'd get a new car; but she's not dumb. Dammit. Then I wonder if we traded in her car and mine; we could get her something with a low payment and I could drive our beater truck for a year or two. I could save money driving the paid-for beater, and in a while I'd be able to buy something nice at a low payment too. It'd be kind of hard to let go of my car though, but if I knew there was something better waiting for me, it would be worth it.

Posted by: shank at 05:30 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I keep thinking that saving for retirement is probably not a good idea. In all seriousness; the chances seem high that nuclear holocaust, world war, and/or collapse of the global economy will occur before I ever have the opportunity to see the maturation of such a fund. Honestly, I think I'd be better keeping my spare cash under a fucking mattress if that's the case, because doing so would make me the richest dude on the block.

Everyone else would've lost their ass in the ensuing chaos, stock market crash, etc.; and I'd be the only one with real money. I wouldn't use that money to pilot my way to the top of the miserable heap that humanity had become, though. Doing so would only make me a target, and I don't own any guns or feel like hiring security. I'd take my cash savings, and move the hell out to the country. Buy a big plot of land, raise crops to feed my family. Oddly enough, that sounds really relaxing.

Except for the whole 'civilization plummeting into chaos', 'collapse of global economy', 'nations reduced to warring tribal factions' thing. I just figure if I get far enough into Kansas I'll be alright, because people will forget the midwest even exists.

It's that line of thinking upon which we've based our decision to start a garden in the backyard. Okay, well it wasn't that line of thinking, but I like to imagine it was. We want to grow muskmelons, watermelons, cucumbers, tomatoes, squash/zucchini, peppers, spinach, lettuce, broccoli, carrots, herbs, and an attempt at Muscodine grapes. Yeah, I know. But we both grew up in families that had large gardens, and I come from a decently long line of farmers. I'm not kidding, when I was a kid, we had a 12x30 in the backyard of our suburban home, and my grandfather had one in the front yard of his suburban home that dwarfed ours.

I don't have the nuts to put ours in the front, I'd probably get attacked by these yuppies that live in my neighborhood. Hey, I thought yuppies had died off too; but let me tell you, those motherfuckers are alive and well. Remember the rant from a couple days ago? Friggin' the exact same scenario happend on Saturday night. It's not very often I call 'em blind; and I have to admit I was a little disappointed that things turned out the way they did.

We had some friends over for the night, and we all sat on the porch enjoying the nice weather and the fire burning in the backyard. Apparently, my neighbors were having a little soiree of their own, as we could hear groups of people coming to their back porch for the occasional smoke. Eventually the man of the house hops the fence (which is to say, he damn near busted his drunken ass trying to get through the hedge, climb the fence, and make it to the other side; a fairly quick, graceful motion while sober but a rather palsied and clumsy operation for him), to come over and introduce himself. This is the truth, he fucking walks into my backyard wearing a pair of black, flatfront slacks, shiny black leather shoes, a belt (seriously, who the hell wears a belt on the weekend??), and this collared, button-down shirt that looked like it was made out of satin or something. "Yeah, we're just drinkin' a shitload of wine [I fight to keep from rolling my eyes], hangin' out." He introduces himself as a mortgage lender/writer, hangs for a few minutes, shooting the breeze, and then says, "You guys should totally buy this place." He was a nice enough guy, just totally vacuous. It's fucking Saturday night, 11pm, you're hammered, and you still can't avoid trying to make the sale. How terribly depressing.

It could have been worse though, he could have been a total prick. He was friendly enough, which I must say I'm thankful for. I could be living next to someone more like myself, which would either result in mutual (but unspoken) disregard or monthly fisticuffs.

Posted by: shank at 06:13 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Firstly, this site reached it's 10,000th comment tonight. May we all wonder at the tidal wave of comment spam; and those of us in hats, tip them to the new revolution. Well, that and the fact that the 10,000th comment probably belonged to me. Becuase I'm a whore. more...

Posted by: shank at 12:07 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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There's one bus driver on my route from the commuter lot to my stop who insists on playing contemporary Christian tunes. Jesus freaks don't neccesarily bother me or anything; it's just that their music...well, it sucks.

It was this dude softly singing, in this moderately high (and decidedly wimpy) tone; backed up by some generic soft rock-ish band. Not surprising. Being a resident of the Bible Belt, I've been exposed to a decent range (to use the term loosely) of contemporary Christian music; and it's all the same. Musically non-descript and (ironically) devoid of inspiration; this genre is similar to pop in that it's not created out of a love for music or artistic expression. That's what makes it so bland. I've heard a few good bands, but they only sounded good because they were imitating the sound of a more mainstream artist/band.

However, since I was locked inside a moving vehicle this morning, silently enduring the sounds of mediocrity; I decided to listen to the words. I almost burst out laughing. Here's this singer, in near falsetto, repeating the following chorus:
God Cooooome, God Cooooome, God Cooooome...
I smirked on the inside, and continued to listened to the verses.
...I can feel you inside of me...
Wait. Do what?
...Fill me up with your warmth...
Oh come on. I hope I wasn't laughing out loud at this point; because I was either listening to a seriously warped closet case elicit his cry for help, or this band was purposefully trying to mess with people's minds.

The moaning lyrics, about being touched by the spirit/bathed in white/etc with regular returns to the choral plea for God to cooooome; continued nearly the entire ride. Funny, yes. But also disturbing. I mean, I kept picturing people singing along with this kind of stuff, like; what's going through your head when you sing the words "I can feel you inside of me, fill me up with your spirit"? Seriously, if Christina Aguilera was singing that song, the MPAA or Mothers Against Filthy Sluts or somebody would be smashing CD's in the street.

Posted by: shank at 11:05 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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The Wife and I went out and bought our Christmas/promotion gift the other night: a 42" plasma HDTV. It's glorious. I can't wait until the cable guy comes tomorrow and hooks up the digital/HD so that we may worship at the altar, enveloped in the warm glow of millions and millions of pixels.

At the end of the month, I'm going to this convention on my employer's tab. It's to a decent locale, one of my favorites actually. But the material is so specific to my industry/sector, that it's fated to be the most boring three days in recent memory. It's got all the elements too: corny consultant to kick the thing off, garanteed to be full of this empowerment/7 Habits type of shit that people make millions of dollars on simply by regurgitating someone elses schtick every two years; a day of breakaway sessions that have titles like 'Watching the Grass Grow' and 'Underwater Basketweaving', and social breaks mixed in. Those are the worst, the networking sessions. It's like 'Here, have some finger food and join the meat market. You can peddle your business card, or simply whore yourself out to your peers!'

Seriously, my boss was turned down by two other people (more appropriate candidates, IMO) before she asked me. I said yes because 1) I love going to this particular city, 2) I have friends there, and 3) I get to go solo. Under normal circumstances, I'd bring The Wife; but she's got a full schedule during that particular time. Still though, going alone is better than being accompanied by some snivelling ass-kisser from Middle Management No-Man's Land who's way too eager to impress someone. Those types are never ever any fun on these kinds of things.

Posted by: shank at 07:35 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I guess I'm a little miffed that America didn't somehow manage to lift this tradition from the Euros. I mean, running around town dressed up like an NYC sewer rat on PCP, screaming in the streets and swatting butts with a stick? Jesus, that sounds like a hell of a great way to spread some Yuletide cheer!

Finally, a way to celebrate Christmas that doesn't involve ugly sweaters, tacky family photos, eggnog, fruity caroling, those hideous 'Family Newsletters' people insist on sending, or latently pedophilic icons. What, you're telling me you don't think Santa's just another covertly sexual commercial device hoisted on society by our capitalist overlords?

Just look at the silouette of the sleigh: A long column of reindeer, extending out in front of a man who, of course, totes around his very own giant sack. Oh yeah, and don't forget that he gains entry (in the dark of the night, no less) by plumbing the depths of your chimney with little surprises for your children. "Come here and sit on my lap, little one!" Indeed.

Posted by: shank at 06:02 PM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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Getting drunk in an airport is impossible. There's just not enough money in the world. My recommendation - mix a half bottle of Coke with some Jack. You'll be three sheets to the wind before your first connection, and the second flight will be a kickass good time. Even if you're sitting next to two middle-aged divorcees from Jersey who're sporting vintage Jellies.

Speed limits were meant to be broken; which is why no one obeys them. Seriously, have you ever known anyone who drove the speed limit? Everyone always goes for five over. I'd stake my reputation on it.

You're a tourist, of course the locals don't like you. Tread lightly but for the love of Pete don't be some kind of pantywaist.

Posted by: shank at 09:21 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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In the next twenty days, I will only spend 6 at work. That's right, it's vacation time bitches!

I leave Thursday afternoon for a snorkeling/camping trip with my big brother. It's his bachelor party, and he wanted to do something with just the guys. I don't see any strippers in our future, but my brother was never really the stripper type, so it's not surprising.

Then I come back for a week, and leave again that weekend for his wedding. That's the long one, almost 10 days. I drive out on a Saturday, and The Wife joins the party the following Wednesday. Uncles, aunts, cousins, and people I'm not sure how I'm related to usually come out of the woodwork for weddings; prompted mostly by an open bar and the chance to make extended family feel "socioeconomically disadvantaged". Well, not all of them; but there are more than enough. I plan on having breakfast on the beach every morning and spending some serious time in the water. I think I'm slates somewhere in there as best man, so I suppose I might have to put a shirt on at some point; but we'll have to play that one by ear.

Of course, all this means I'll probably have a severly limited Christmas vacation. Meh.

Posted by: shank at 05:13 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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I expended a great amount of effort today working up various posts that revloved around making fun of John Kerry. I'd patch together a few ideas, stand back and take a look, then rearrange; eventually deciding to ball it up and start over again. I mean, there were just too many approaches; and I figured the blogosphere was already churning a few of them around. Then I realized that it was just all too obvious, too easy of a target. It's not exactly a ground-breaking revelation that politicians are morons.

The Wife and I have begun showing the apartment to people. We're finally moving into a home in a few weeks, and we've got to find someone to take over our lease. I mean, it's a great little apartment at an insanely competitive price; which is good. But cheap stuff attracts crackheads, and crackheads don't usually pass credit checks.

I can always recognize them when they call too. It sounds shallow, but in truth it only takes a short conversation with someone to figure out if they're mentally there enough to pass a credit check.
"Yeah, I'm calling about the apartment?"
"Great, it's got a blah blah blah, some blah, a blah in the blah..."
"Wow, sounds nice. I really need to find a place too."
"Well, you can come on by and check it out if you want. However, I fell like I should at least tell ya that the management company is going to want to run your credit when you apply. Not that it's anything to worry about, but I don't want to waste your time looking at an apartment if you don't feel comfortable with them running your credit."
"Oh really? Damn, that's crazy. See, cuz in my last apartment, in California before I moved out here; I had this crazy roommate. She actually burned the place down, and that's why I had to move out..."
I usually fall into a trace of "Mm-hmm"s and "Yeeaah"s at this point. Generally my concious mind will come up for air about the same time this person breaks into a story that resembles an episode of 90210 or something.
"...and I've been praying about it lately. You know, I wrote a letter to God and stuck it in the Bible, you know, cuz that's what they say to do..."
Dive! Dive! Dive! And I'm back in REM sleep. I mean, if your last apartment was burned to the ground and you've resorted to telling common strangers that you write letters to God; your credit can't be all that great.

Posted by: shank at 06:15 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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