The girlfriend is celebrating a big birthday in a few months (25!), so we're heading to London at the end of March.
To quote that girl in Saved By the Bell before she became a stripper, "I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so...scared."
While I can't wait to walk the streets of London with me bird in 'and, watch loveable chimney sweeps dance and sing, and get a banger in the mouth**, I don't really think I'm much of a traveler. I worry too much. I like my house too much. I'm constantly worried that my cat died or peed all over everything (which is usually the truth), or the house caught on fire, or my white trash neighbors noticed I wasn't home and decided to finally break in and steal my few sticks of furniture. And London, with their pickpockets and Jack the Rippers and Draculas and soccer hooligans running all over the place sounds pretty scary. Wait, Dracula hung around London, right?
But I'm going to try to let all that slide and have a good time, just like a normal person would. We'll see how it works.
Hey, anyone want to donate to my vacation fund? Paypal makes it easy.
*Yes, I realize using "London Calling" is the laziest headline ever when writing about London, but I'm feeling especially lazy today. It's the first day of spring, give me a break.
**Yes, all my knowledge of other countries comes from Fox TV shows, just like how all my knowledge of opera comes from Bugs Bunny cartoons.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Dear Lady in the Black Accord
First off, that red thing a block ago? That was a stop sign. You were supposed to apply the brakes.
Secondly, in America, when making a turn, we generally only use one of the two lanes in the road (i.e., not the one that might contain another car or bicyclist on his way to work). I'd go into how easy it is to make a turn signal in today's modern car, but I've given up on that. The savages have won.
You did look very happy talking on your phone, but did you ever stop to consider the person on the other end? Do they really want to listen to your bullshit at 8:15 in the morning?
"Guess what? I'm driving to work!"
"Daddy's little girl has certainly grown up."
"How's your day going?"
"I dunno. It's 8:15. It hasn't started yet."
However, if I hadn't stopped to yell at you, I might have missed seeing the following things on my way to work:
A black cat wearing a fluorescent pink cast chasing a bird
A fat guy with no shirt on, man boobs out in proud defiance of the laws of both God and man, pushing a dog in a baby cart in the 40 degree weather. He looked a lot like a younger version of this guy:
A woman in a '70s Cadillac singing along to the Eagles with the window open
A woman on the Riverwalk singing over and over again, "Jesus, Lord almighty."
It was like I was in an art film (the kitty with a cast represented my soul), or perhaps you actually did hit me like you wanted to and I was stuck in some sort of weird purgatory until I could absolve my sins.
So actually, thanks for running that stop sign, making a wide turn with no signals and almost hitting me. It started the day off on a surreal note.
Secondly, in America, when making a turn, we generally only use one of the two lanes in the road (i.e., not the one that might contain another car or bicyclist on his way to work). I'd go into how easy it is to make a turn signal in today's modern car, but I've given up on that. The savages have won.
You did look very happy talking on your phone, but did you ever stop to consider the person on the other end? Do they really want to listen to your bullshit at 8:15 in the morning?
"Guess what? I'm driving to work!"
"Daddy's little girl has certainly grown up."
"How's your day going?"
"I dunno. It's 8:15. It hasn't started yet."
However, if I hadn't stopped to yell at you, I might have missed seeing the following things on my way to work:
A black cat wearing a fluorescent pink cast chasing a bird
A fat guy with no shirt on, man boobs out in proud defiance of the laws of both God and man, pushing a dog in a baby cart in the 40 degree weather. He looked a lot like a younger version of this guy:
A woman in a '70s Cadillac singing along to the Eagles with the window open
A woman on the Riverwalk singing over and over again, "Jesus, Lord almighty."
It was like I was in an art film (the kitty with a cast represented my soul), or perhaps you actually did hit me like you wanted to and I was stuck in some sort of weird purgatory until I could absolve my sins.
So actually, thanks for running that stop sign, making a wide turn with no signals and almost hitting me. It started the day off on a surreal note.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The Lonliness of the Long Distance Runner
I'm not sure how I stumbled into joining the track team. I think some friends from middle school joined freshman football and were already reaping the rewards in female attention. I would soon discover that there was a big difference between track and football when it came to the ladies.
It was determined that I was too uncoordinated for the hurdles, too wimpy for discus or shotput, and too slow for the sprints. So I was shuffled off to the distance events.
While some might see this as the deep right field of track (my position throughout middle school PE), it suited me just fine. I have a strong stubborn streak, so this was probably the best place for me. I could just keep on keepin' on, and try not to come in last.
Distance running was fun, giving me the same feeling long-distance bike rides give me now. You're completely alone, you don't have to talk to anyone, and you can use the time as a sort of meditation, to work out humorous blog posts or life-changing plans or what have you. Plus, at the end, you feel physically and mentally wrung out, a nice ...afterglow of a feeling.
But for all the character building and sportsmanship and whatnot I suppose I learned, one of the things a former high school distance runner will never forget is the boredom.
Getting out of school at 1:30 was awesome! Then you'd ride a bus for about an hour, which was cool, since I'd pass the time by blaring punk rock, throwing food out the window, and being obnoxious. Then you get to the school hosting the track meet.
Then you waited.
And waited.
And waited.
You'd watch everyone else compete in their events, at least for a while. You couldn't eat or drink anything. Well, maybe some people could. I couldn't. Distance events were the last things scheduled, so by the time your event rolled around, everyone else was sitting on the bus, ready to go home, while you had spent 7 hours alternately nervous and bored before your 15 minutes of running (or more. I once ran an extra lap since nobody was there to tell me how many I completed).
Cross country was a little better, if only because you ran through actual trails, with nature and stuff around you, and you were usually finished by 11 in the morning.
Secretly, we all realized running was boring, but still got all indignant that we weren't generating the same excitement as other sports. Once we were practicing while a TV crew set up to film that night's football game. With all the righteous anger a group of teenagers can gather, we peppered the poor cameraman with comments about how he should be filming the real athletes, us. Those football players didn't even have any lower body strength! There's no way those guys could last more than an 880!
Those were all great arguments, but you know why they didn't film us? Because we were boring! Who the hell would want to watch a bunch of teenagers huffing and puffing through the woods for 20 minutes? Hell, we didn't want to watch each other and we were on the team together.
I actively discouraged my parents from attending meets because I liked to act the fool without my parents around to assess the damage I was doing to the family name, but I'd also like to think I'd spare them the boredom of sitting on some unpleasant bleachers for hours on a Saturday morning after working all week. Mom and Dad, you're welcome.
It was determined that I was too uncoordinated for the hurdles, too wimpy for discus or shotput, and too slow for the sprints. So I was shuffled off to the distance events.
While some might see this as the deep right field of track (my position throughout middle school PE), it suited me just fine. I have a strong stubborn streak, so this was probably the best place for me. I could just keep on keepin' on, and try not to come in last.
Distance running was fun, giving me the same feeling long-distance bike rides give me now. You're completely alone, you don't have to talk to anyone, and you can use the time as a sort of meditation, to work out humorous blog posts or life-changing plans or what have you. Plus, at the end, you feel physically and mentally wrung out, a nice ...afterglow of a feeling.
But for all the character building and sportsmanship and whatnot I suppose I learned, one of the things a former high school distance runner will never forget is the boredom.
Getting out of school at 1:30 was awesome! Then you'd ride a bus for about an hour, which was cool, since I'd pass the time by blaring punk rock, throwing food out the window, and being obnoxious. Then you get to the school hosting the track meet.
Then you waited.
And waited.
And waited.
You'd watch everyone else compete in their events, at least for a while. You couldn't eat or drink anything. Well, maybe some people could. I couldn't. Distance events were the last things scheduled, so by the time your event rolled around, everyone else was sitting on the bus, ready to go home, while you had spent 7 hours alternately nervous and bored before your 15 minutes of running (or more. I once ran an extra lap since nobody was there to tell me how many I completed).
Cross country was a little better, if only because you ran through actual trails, with nature and stuff around you, and you were usually finished by 11 in the morning.
Secretly, we all realized running was boring, but still got all indignant that we weren't generating the same excitement as other sports. Once we were practicing while a TV crew set up to film that night's football game. With all the righteous anger a group of teenagers can gather, we peppered the poor cameraman with comments about how he should be filming the real athletes, us. Those football players didn't even have any lower body strength! There's no way those guys could last more than an 880!
Those were all great arguments, but you know why they didn't film us? Because we were boring! Who the hell would want to watch a bunch of teenagers huffing and puffing through the woods for 20 minutes? Hell, we didn't want to watch each other and we were on the team together.
I actively discouraged my parents from attending meets because I liked to act the fool without my parents around to assess the damage I was doing to the family name, but I'd also like to think I'd spare them the boredom of sitting on some unpleasant bleachers for hours on a Saturday morning after working all week. Mom and Dad, you're welcome.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Shoot the Piano Player
I have very few beliefs or ideals, but I do posses a great love of democracy. I am a true lover of the people. The elites can suck it.
This goes double for the arts. I think poor and middle-class people should have art and music supplies airlifted in regularly. Give it to them as a tax break. Besides, it will keep them occupied so they won't have the time or inclination to break into my pleasure compound.
Some of my favorite art and music has come from the untrained, the unschooled, people who just have a burning desire to express themselves and create something out of nothing.
Lately, however, this love for the common people and their artwork has taken a turn.
As part of some sort of city-wide program, two pianos have been moved into the library lobby. The idea is for people walking by to play them and express the beauty which lurks within their weather-beaten and cigarette-reeking fingers.
For the most part, people are actually playing or attempting to play songs, which is a nice surprise. I was envisioning lots of angry Hulk-inspired bashing, if not teams of our regulars pushing the wheeled pianos out the front door in a mad rush to the closest pawn shop.
So while the idea has been somewhat successful, it is telling that the people who birthed this idea are safely walled away far, far away from the actual pianos. Me, I work on the two floors where I'm constantly hearing pianos echo throughout the day.
Last weekend, someone plinked out the piano part to Elton John's Benny and the Jets for about an hour. I'm not a big Elton John fan in the best of times, other than that Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting song, when he actually put some rock music in that rock music of his, but hearing the same six notes over and over again in the course of an hour would make the most hard-core Elton John fan run for the exits. Since that day, I have had just about every Elton John song I know running on a constant loop in my head, taking up precious space that could be used for making coherent blog posts.
Not only am I starting to feel like I work in the perfume counter at a particularly low-rent mall, I'm starting to hate the piano in general. If Beethoven himself got on one of the pianos, backed up by Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Schroeder from Peanuts, I'd still want to set the thing on fire and dump it in the river.
Nobody seems to know when the pianos will be removed, but my love for music and artwork coming from regular people? That was removed several weeks ago.
This goes double for the arts. I think poor and middle-class people should have art and music supplies airlifted in regularly. Give it to them as a tax break. Besides, it will keep them occupied so they won't have the time or inclination to break into my pleasure compound.
Some of my favorite art and music has come from the untrained, the unschooled, people who just have a burning desire to express themselves and create something out of nothing.
Lately, however, this love for the common people and their artwork has taken a turn.
As part of some sort of city-wide program, two pianos have been moved into the library lobby. The idea is for people walking by to play them and express the beauty which lurks within their weather-beaten and cigarette-reeking fingers.
For the most part, people are actually playing or attempting to play songs, which is a nice surprise. I was envisioning lots of angry Hulk-inspired bashing, if not teams of our regulars pushing the wheeled pianos out the front door in a mad rush to the closest pawn shop.
So while the idea has been somewhat successful, it is telling that the people who birthed this idea are safely walled away far, far away from the actual pianos. Me, I work on the two floors where I'm constantly hearing pianos echo throughout the day.
Last weekend, someone plinked out the piano part to Elton John's Benny and the Jets for about an hour. I'm not a big Elton John fan in the best of times, other than that Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting song, when he actually put some rock music in that rock music of his, but hearing the same six notes over and over again in the course of an hour would make the most hard-core Elton John fan run for the exits. Since that day, I have had just about every Elton John song I know running on a constant loop in my head, taking up precious space that could be used for making coherent blog posts.
Not only am I starting to feel like I work in the perfume counter at a particularly low-rent mall, I'm starting to hate the piano in general. If Beethoven himself got on one of the pianos, backed up by Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis and Schroeder from Peanuts, I'd still want to set the thing on fire and dump it in the river.
Nobody seems to know when the pianos will be removed, but my love for music and artwork coming from regular people? That was removed several weeks ago.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Reflections On a Picture My Friend Kevin Uploaded to Facebook
It's 1986. You've just gotten off work and all you want to do is microwave some Orville Redenbacher, drink some Miller Lite and watch Magnum, P.I..
Your significant other wants to go out.
Shit. Instead of a relaxing night at home, you're going to have to be in a crowded, sweaty club, full of obnoxious people, overpriced drinks and DJs playing Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, when you could be watching Magnum solve a mystery and mess with Higgins.
Then again, if you go along with this idea and don't act like too much of a baby, there's the possibility you could get laid at the end of the night, so after some negotiation (two hours, tops, with the possibility of one dance depending on darkness, intoxication levels and music selection) you end up going out.
After walking in you realize you've made a mistake and are already checking your watch every few seconds wondering what she sees in this place. You've got better music at home, and you don't have to pay to drink, either. I'll bet Magnum's doing something cool right now.
"No, I don't feel like dancing right now. You go ahead, though. I'll be right here."
Jeez, this sucks. I wish I had that popcorn I was going to make. Well, she's happy, maybe that'll pay off later. I should really go to the bathroom.
God, these people are just terrible. Don't they have to work in the morning? And they see me heading to the bathroom. You can't just move two steps? No? You're going to make me walk all the way around you while you have your yelly conversation? Yeah, that's cool, why ...
Holy shit.
Hanging out by the bathroom you see them. Three people who deserve to be carved into a Mount Rushmore of '80s awesomeness.
"What...what are you guys doing here?"
"We're looking for people to join our big rock and roll comedy awesomeness tour. Mr. T's sleeping on the bus. Looks like you're tonight's big winner."
"Let's go. I can call work from the road."
After that, people describe your life as a roller coaster ride. This is laughingly incorrect, as you will only encounter constant highs, highs not known to mortal men. You will experience explosions of excitement and exquisite life-changing ecstasy day after day. You will also be turned onto Rodney Dangerfield's secret knowledge of the occult, which will pay dividends for the rest of your life.
At least that's what I got out of the picture. You might just see Pee Wee Herman, Rodney Dangerfield and David Lee Roth hanging out in front of what looks like a county fair or miniature golf course.
Your significant other wants to go out.
Shit. Instead of a relaxing night at home, you're going to have to be in a crowded, sweaty club, full of obnoxious people, overpriced drinks and DJs playing Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, when you could be watching Magnum solve a mystery and mess with Higgins.
Then again, if you go along with this idea and don't act like too much of a baby, there's the possibility you could get laid at the end of the night, so after some negotiation (two hours, tops, with the possibility of one dance depending on darkness, intoxication levels and music selection) you end up going out.
After walking in you realize you've made a mistake and are already checking your watch every few seconds wondering what she sees in this place. You've got better music at home, and you don't have to pay to drink, either. I'll bet Magnum's doing something cool right now.
"No, I don't feel like dancing right now. You go ahead, though. I'll be right here."
Jeez, this sucks. I wish I had that popcorn I was going to make. Well, she's happy, maybe that'll pay off later. I should really go to the bathroom.
God, these people are just terrible. Don't they have to work in the morning? And they see me heading to the bathroom. You can't just move two steps? No? You're going to make me walk all the way around you while you have your yelly conversation? Yeah, that's cool, why ...
Holy shit.
Hanging out by the bathroom you see them. Three people who deserve to be carved into a Mount Rushmore of '80s awesomeness.
"What...what are you guys doing here?"
"We're looking for people to join our big rock and roll comedy awesomeness tour. Mr. T's sleeping on the bus. Looks like you're tonight's big winner."
"Let's go. I can call work from the road."
After that, people describe your life as a roller coaster ride. This is laughingly incorrect, as you will only encounter constant highs, highs not known to mortal men. You will experience explosions of excitement and exquisite life-changing ecstasy day after day. You will also be turned onto Rodney Dangerfield's secret knowledge of the occult, which will pay dividends for the rest of your life.
At least that's what I got out of the picture. You might just see Pee Wee Herman, Rodney Dangerfield and David Lee Roth hanging out in front of what looks like a county fair or miniature golf course.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Dennis the Menace
Remember that old '50s TV show based on the Dennis the Menace comics? No? It used to be on Nick at Nite all the time. It was called Dennis the Menace.
Well, about 15 years ago I was visiting my parents and decided to drive up to Tampa to check out this antique toy show. I figured there would probably be some cool old robot or monster toys that I probably couldn't actually afford, but it's not like I was doing anything else, and maybe that cute girl that ran that vintage store in Ybor City who was nice to me would be there and she'd dump her stupid boyfriend/co-owner and we'd start a new life together, buying and selling awesome old toys and ...
Oh yeah, Dennis the Menace.
Jay North, the actor who portrayed Dennis was advertised as being a special guest star for this thing. I didn't really care. I was more concerned with the two women in front of me who kept braying in horrible New Jersey accents about how the show was being run inefficiently because it was done by Floridians.
I'm not a huge regional pride guy. I mean, sure, you have a connection to your area, either because your parents made you grow up there or you were too frightened of the bigger world to move away or you just like the area, but really, who cares? What are we? Bosnia?
But these ladies were really rubbing me the wrong way, mostly because they betrayed a lack of manners. I wouldn't go to wherever they were from and loudly complain that people used made-up words like 'youse' and 'dese' and dressed in wife-beaters and sweatpants. When you're in a foreign place, you accept the local culture.
No matter where I went, they always seemed to be right in front of me. They had to make comments at every booth, saying stuff like, "What is dat? Dat's stoopid" to vendors, and generally bringing a hateful little cloud of sarcasm and rudeness into my hunt for robots and Draculas. Strangely enough, the only thing they seemed to be excited about was the special appearance by Jay North.
I finally lost them and was hanging around a booth that was full of boss (and expensive) Planet of the Apes toys. As I'm poking around I hear Jay North take the stage. I still don't care, so I keep shifting around the plastic apes, wishing that my part-time offset printing job actually paid enough to provide for both essentials and awesomeness.
After a while, I realize that Dennis is getting more and more excited, so I start paying attention. I manage to catch him right in the middle of a rant about how television changed for the worse in the '60s.
"It seems people didn't need family friendly TV anymore," the Menace raged. "No, they only wanted weird stuff about hippies driving around solving mysteries, smoking dope and having sex."
Wait, how did I miss that show? Was that on HBO?
He continued on in that vein for a while, sounding angrier and angrier, but that's the only quote I can remember. I'd like to say that someone pulled him off with one of those big shepherd's crooks, but I'm pretty sure that didn't happen. I did see the cute Ybor City vintage store owner, mumbled a "hi" to her and left without buying anything or starting a new life.
A couple years after that I heard Dennis the Menace had a right wing radio show, which makes a lot of sense, although it's not on his Wikipedia page. He will probably be Florida's next senator.
And the obnoxious women? They would end up being the first female co-presidents of the United States. But that is a story for another time.
Well, about 15 years ago I was visiting my parents and decided to drive up to Tampa to check out this antique toy show. I figured there would probably be some cool old robot or monster toys that I probably couldn't actually afford, but it's not like I was doing anything else, and maybe that cute girl that ran that vintage store in Ybor City who was nice to me would be there and she'd dump her stupid boyfriend/co-owner and we'd start a new life together, buying and selling awesome old toys and ...
Oh yeah, Dennis the Menace.
Jay North, the actor who portrayed Dennis was advertised as being a special guest star for this thing. I didn't really care. I was more concerned with the two women in front of me who kept braying in horrible New Jersey accents about how the show was being run inefficiently because it was done by Floridians.
I'm not a huge regional pride guy. I mean, sure, you have a connection to your area, either because your parents made you grow up there or you were too frightened of the bigger world to move away or you just like the area, but really, who cares? What are we? Bosnia?
But these ladies were really rubbing me the wrong way, mostly because they betrayed a lack of manners. I wouldn't go to wherever they were from and loudly complain that people used made-up words like 'youse' and 'dese' and dressed in wife-beaters and sweatpants. When you're in a foreign place, you accept the local culture.
No matter where I went, they always seemed to be right in front of me. They had to make comments at every booth, saying stuff like, "What is dat? Dat's stoopid" to vendors, and generally bringing a hateful little cloud of sarcasm and rudeness into my hunt for robots and Draculas. Strangely enough, the only thing they seemed to be excited about was the special appearance by Jay North.
I finally lost them and was hanging around a booth that was full of boss (and expensive) Planet of the Apes toys. As I'm poking around I hear Jay North take the stage. I still don't care, so I keep shifting around the plastic apes, wishing that my part-time offset printing job actually paid enough to provide for both essentials and awesomeness.
After a while, I realize that Dennis is getting more and more excited, so I start paying attention. I manage to catch him right in the middle of a rant about how television changed for the worse in the '60s.
"It seems people didn't need family friendly TV anymore," the Menace raged. "No, they only wanted weird stuff about hippies driving around solving mysteries, smoking dope and having sex."
Wait, how did I miss that show? Was that on HBO?
He continued on in that vein for a while, sounding angrier and angrier, but that's the only quote I can remember. I'd like to say that someone pulled him off with one of those big shepherd's crooks, but I'm pretty sure that didn't happen. I did see the cute Ybor City vintage store owner, mumbled a "hi" to her and left without buying anything or starting a new life.
A couple years after that I heard Dennis the Menace had a right wing radio show, which makes a lot of sense, although it's not on his Wikipedia page. He will probably be Florida's next senator.
And the obnoxious women? They would end up being the first female co-presidents of the United States. But that is a story for another time.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I'm Your Garbageman
My trash can was left rolling around out in the street this morning. I am at the age where this results in letters to the editor and decade-long speeches on how nobody takes pride in their work anymore.
Truthfully, I can't say anything. Back in high school my friends and I came up with a game. I drove a huge '77 Lincoln Continental. Think of a tank, only faster and a bit more maneuverable, piloted by a 16 year old blaring out Bad Brains and the Clash.
Every Thursday was trash day. Every Thursday morning I'd pick up my friends to drive to school, and we'd cruise the neighborhoods looking for trash cans. After spotting one, I'd floor it, sending the trash can either into outer space, or frequently being dragged under my transmission for a half mile or so.
Naturally, this was hilarious to us.
There was one house that constantly put their three garbage cans out in a sort of pyramid shape, which was pretty much asking for us to drive through it. Looking back now, considering it was Bradenton, the owner could have been a WW2 veteran, a guy who served his country honorably and whose only solace now came from arranging his garbage cans once a week.
Being teenagers, we didn't think about any of that or even consider what pains in the ass we were. We just liked seeing all the trash cans fly away when being hit by a huge chunk of Detroit steel.
Man, was I a shitty kid.
So today when I have to lug my empty trash can from the street in the rain, or I have to stop the car in the street because the can has blown into the driveway, I figure it could be a lot worse.
Truthfully, I can't say anything. Back in high school my friends and I came up with a game. I drove a huge '77 Lincoln Continental. Think of a tank, only faster and a bit more maneuverable, piloted by a 16 year old blaring out Bad Brains and the Clash.
Every Thursday was trash day. Every Thursday morning I'd pick up my friends to drive to school, and we'd cruise the neighborhoods looking for trash cans. After spotting one, I'd floor it, sending the trash can either into outer space, or frequently being dragged under my transmission for a half mile or so.
Naturally, this was hilarious to us.
There was one house that constantly put their three garbage cans out in a sort of pyramid shape, which was pretty much asking for us to drive through it. Looking back now, considering it was Bradenton, the owner could have been a WW2 veteran, a guy who served his country honorably and whose only solace now came from arranging his garbage cans once a week.
Being teenagers, we didn't think about any of that or even consider what pains in the ass we were. We just liked seeing all the trash cans fly away when being hit by a huge chunk of Detroit steel.
Man, was I a shitty kid.
So today when I have to lug my empty trash can from the street in the rain, or I have to stop the car in the street because the can has blown into the driveway, I figure it could be a lot worse.
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