They sang another victory song

For today, all is right with the world.

----------------
Listening to: Dropkick Murphys - Tessie

That just happened...

I was cleaning up my desk, trying to find a stack of budget reports. I toss some papers to the floor. I spin my wheeled office chair around, reach for the stack on the floor, tilt the the chair, tip over, send the chair flying across the room, crash half into my desk, half into the floor, kick a cup of soup and a piece of cornbread off the desk and onto the floor, and knock over the trash can. I swear loudly, and look up to see three people standing in the doorway, stunned. As I get up, I mash my hand into the cornbread, effectively smushing it into the carpet (and my hand).

This happened roughly 15 minutes ago.

Fucking hell.

The soup is fucking everywhere.

Shipping up to Boston

So.

Friday I get an email from my friend Jen, asking me, if the Red Sox series go to game seven, do I want to go?

Do I want to go? OF COURSE I want to go. But... shit. I have a wedding to go to. Two of Mrs. TK's work friends are getting married on Sunday. I regretfully, and tragically, decline. I turn down a chance to see my team play in Game Seven of the American League Championship Series.

I am not a happy boy. I get home Friday night, and...

Me: Yeah, Jen offered me a ticket. Bummer, but I told her I couldn't make it.
Mrs. TK: Ouch.
Me: Yeah.
MTK: Wait... you know what? You should go.
Me: WHAT? But... we...
MTK: Whatever, we'll take two cars, or I'll get a ride from someone. We'll go, you can stay for the ceremony, have a drink and some hors d'oeuvres, and then take off. You better call her before she gives the ticket away.
Me: (happy dance)

Folks... this is one of those moments when you know you've married the right person. Not that I didn't know it before, but... I mean, that's All-Star wife material right there. Hall of fucking Fame.

Saturday night, we watch Game Six with baited breath. Victory! Celebration!

Sunday. Watch a little football, get all gussied up for the wedding. Drive to Newport, RI. Sit through a beautiful ceremony (seriously. It was outdoors in a field on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Spectacular). Go inside. Drink a beer during cocktail hour. Sit down. They announce there will be three toasts. THREE? First up: Maid of honor. Hers... it's nice, but... it's long.

• Quick aside here. I've been the Best Man at two weddings. I have a simple philosophy on toasts: Keep it simple, be funny, don't be crude or too embarrassing, and be BRIEF. People are there to eat, drink, dance, and maybe make some bad decisions. Don't keep them from that. OK, that's all.

Best Man - quick, sweet, touching.
Father of the Groom: Likewise.

I bolt up, run over, shake the groom's hand, hug the bride, and I think I left a vapor trail, I ran out of there so fast. I barrel up to Boston - It's 6:45, the game starts at 8:15, and I've got 75 miles to drive, the find parking (on a night when parking... let's just say it's scarce), get to the park. I fly up to Boston, park in a garage, get in a cab and say, "Get me as close to Fenway as you can." Cab driver hauls through downtown, I throw money through the glass, and... I made it by the middle of the first inning. Proceed to watch the game in my wedding attire and a baseball hat. And let the record show: I DID NOT SPILL MUSTARD ON MYSELF!

And... well, most of you know how that ended. Let's just say there was lots of yelling, lots of high-fiving and hugging complete strangers, and I am very sleepy today. But I haven't stopped smiling yet.




----------------
Listening to: The Avalanches - Frontier Psychiatrist

BELIEVE.

Now we end up takin' the long way home, Lookin' overdressed wearin' buckets of stale cologne

Soooo... Mrs. TK and I, being the suburban wunderkinds that we are, were feeling hungry and cheap a few nights ago. And where do you go when you're hungry, broke, and want to watch baseball? Why, Applebee's of course!

As I've mentioned before, we live in super-suburbia. So of course there's an Applebee's, just like there are ubiquitous Dunkin' Donuts, car dealerships, friendly neighborhood convenience stores, barber shops named Joe's or Pete's, and little league parks. Our particular one is quite nice, as those things go. Except this night was a bit... unusual. Different, shall we say.

We went on a weeknight, took our seat in the bar section, ordered something to drink and started perusing the heart attack-inducing menu. As I'm glancing through it, the following conversation takes place:

Mrs. TK: Um... does anything about tonight strike you as odd?
Me: No.
MTK: Look around.
Me: (looks around) What? Just a bunch of guys watching the game. Looks like some construction workers.
MTK: Uh huh...
Me: Weird. Those two guys are sitting kind of close to each other... and... rubbing each others backs...
...
...
What the hell?
MTK: I think our Applebee's turned gay!
Me: What? Just because there's a gay couple here?
MTK: Keep looking....

And then we realize... I think we're the only straight couple in the room.

At Applebees.

In suburban Massachusetts. It was somewhat unusual. Our waiter was gay. The bartender? gay. Most of the patrons? Also gay. It was actually kind of awesome. Our "friendly neighborhood bar and grill" had come out of the closet! And it was a mix of nicely dressed, well coiffed gay men, and guys in dirty jeans and work boots with awesome Masshole accents. Picture this conversation, if you will, between a Masshole and the bartender (spelling to reflect the accent):

Masshole: What's up, kid.
Bartender: Oh, nothing.
Masshole: Dude, it's my fahkin' birthday on Satahday.
Bartender: Oh, that's so great! Congratulations!
Masshole: Yah, dude. We're gonna go out, get fahkin' bawmbed.
Bartender: Sweet!
Masshole: (Now rubbing the bartenders hand) Yah, dude. Fahkin, you should come out, kid. We're gonna have cocktails, mebbe go dancin' or some shit.
Bartender: Really? I'd love to!

I mean... talk about incongruous.

Anyway, I'm just glad my little suburb is open-minded enough to have this. It makes me quite happy, actually. Our friendly neighborhood Brokeback Applebee's!



Awww.
----------------
Listening to: Say Anything - The Writhing South

I go to work like a boxer, train the brain and aim to outfox ya...

Dear applicants who have sent me resumes recently:

OK, look. I understand that I can be something of a jerk. And perhaps my standards are a bit too high. Maybe it's not you. Maybe it's me. But... if I could just take a teensy, tiny, little second of a moment to point out a few things? Would that be OK?

1. Please spell my name correctly.

2. Please spell the name of my agency correctly.

3. I understand that you are "eiger" to start a new position. However, you do not appear to be "eiger" to use a spell-check, you dumb fuck.

4. A beeper? Seriously? You left a beeper number as a contact number? I'm not looking for a drug dealer. (Although... let's talk later, OK?)

5. While the irony is delicious, I cannot, in good conscience, look closely at someone who wrote that they are "proficint in Microsoft Work." Thanks for playing, though.

6. OK, look. The apostrophe thing. It's (NOT "ITS") killing me. Absolutely killing me. Please, learn to use it properly? Before I explode? Look, there's a whole website about it. Read it. Learn it. Love it.

7. "I can manage meetings and maintain meeting materials masterfully." While I am basking in your alliterative glory, I only barely understand what this means. Also, was it deliberate? Because if it was, I either want to shake your hand or throw you off a bridge.

8. I also understand that you sometimes use the same cover letter for a variety of applications. However, it is important to point out that this is not the Museum of Fine Arts. You stupid bastard.

9. I like a comfortable work environment. So I can appreciate those who work towards that. However, can we talk about your interest in "building rappaport with those who I work with"? As in... Michael Rappaport? Because while I loved him in True Romance and Kiss of Death, I don't think he belongs in this agency. Especially since you plan on creating some sort of cyborg-Michael Rappaport with your co-workers. Because that will end badly for everyone.

10. Please spell your own name correctly.

Thanks.

Sincerely,

TK

Two notes:
1. Yes, someone did spell their name wrong. One way on the cover letter, another on the resume.

2. Shut up, Meg.

"I swear I want 'em to play that song on the pipes at my funeral when I die"

OTV, this one's for you pal.



Better luck next time.

Let em' in on your secret heart

Who's ready for some rambling? No? Well, go screw, 'cuz it's happening.

Tuesday was something of an event for me. It was an otherwise normal day, work, eat, etc. And then, that night, I went out for a couple of drinks. Which is, as some of you may know, not that unusual. What made it unusual was that I went out with two fellow bloggers. It was... actually, it was great. They were both fun, very cool people. I must admit, I was nervous as hell about it. I mean - it's the internet. Who knows what people are like in the really real world? What if they turned out to be giant douchebags? Or werewolves? What if they tried to kill me and turn my skin into sheets and feast on my steaming entrails?



Worst of all, what if they were just flat-out fucking dull?

Well, they weren't. They were charming and funny and cool as hell.

But it brings to me a strange point - I feel like I've lifted the veil that has shrouded my blogging (journey? career? endless diatribe?) thing for the first time. I mean, until recently, I never actually considered meeting anyone who I read, or who comes by the ole' Meat Factory. It's somewhat comforting that they were actually normal semi-normal people.

But see... here's the thing. Here's my strange little secret.

No one knows about this site. With the exception of Mrs. TK, who treats it like she treats my tattoos, my drinking, and my clumsiness - that is, just another side of the man she foolishly decided to marry. Not one friend, not one family member, knows anything about this. And for a while, that used to be cool. As I said to Matt once, I kind of liked having this secret world. It was fun, and it was special, and it was mine and mine alone. And I still like that about it. I know that I'm probably the exception and not the rule - I think a lot of peoples' friends and family know about their sites. Not me.

When I started this mess over a year ago, it was basically just so I could comment on other sites. Then I took about a six-month hiatus, then started up in earnest. Now... now people actually read it. I'm not always sure why, but you do (and don't think I don't appreciate it). But I still never told anyone. I guess after a while, it got weird to think about:

"Oh, hey guys. By the way, for the last 18 months I've had my own website that I write in sort of regularly and now know a bunch of people that you've never heard of."

I dunno. I just don't know. I don't know why I've suddenly started to think about this, but I have. And I'm not sure what to do.

Anyway. Enough about that.

Some of you may have read about my plight last night over at I'm Quietly Judging You. If you care to, check that out and come back (but don't read the comments, because they're a quagmire of lunacy and barely constrained sexual tension). Well, you should be happy to know that our Executive Director took pity on me. We were sitting in the terminally dull meeting, listening to the Police Commissioner ramble on about some shit. I was going out of my mind. Checking my watch compulsively, and fidgeting like a 5 year old who had to pee (one thing you may not know - I fidget incessantly. All the time. I might have OCD. But I can't go 30 minutes without getting all antsy in my pantsy). And then, we heard a roaring noise...

... it was fighter jets. They were flying over Fenway, which is only a couple of miles from my office. I glanced out the window glumly, turned back to the table, and my ED caught my eye and gave me the subtle high sign, and silently mouthed:

"Get out of here".

I double taked, stared at him, and he repeated his gesture, and I quietly gathered my paperwork, smiled at him, and fucking BOLTED out of the building, down the street, into my car, and made it to the bar where me friends were in time for the middle of the second inning. (It's worth noting that my ED is a Yankees fan, and still took pity on me. I think I'm going to send him a nice fruit basket.)

So alls well that ends well. I made my meeting appearance, and got to see a great game and had a great time.


"That's right buddy"

That's all for now. But I got subpoenaed yesterday for court tomorrow, so maybe you'll get to hear about that.

HOLY FUCKING HELL. UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE:

I just got offered tickets to tomorrow night's game. God, I take back some of the things I said about you.

Everyone's so intimately rearranged, everyone can focus clearly with that shine

Look, I know it's been a while. Shut up already, will you? I've been busy. It's not you, it's me.

Actually, it's you.

In all seriousness, September was one of the busiest months I've ever had, and it's looking like October isn't going to downshift much, either. But I suppose I should write something, for fear that someone will give me even more shit. So here's the recap of the past week or so.

I went to a wedding this past weekend, which was fantastic. It was the wedding of my half-Indian, half Kansan friend, and his now-wife, who is Lithuanian. Let's just say it was quite eclectic. Saturday night was the dull-as-watching-paint-dry Christian church ceremony, with more than 50% of it in Lithuanian. It's bad enough that I don't know shit about Christianity, but now we have to do it in other languages?

As a side bar, let me just say - I've been to weddings of a variety of different denominations, and man - do Catholics know how to fuck up what is supposed to be a celebratory day. No offense to any Catholics, but... man. Did we really need the passage about the guy with sores all over his body? Did we really need that? Egads. And also - can we do something about the pews? I'm a naturally fidgety person, and I thought that if I shifted wrong, I was gonna tear that thing into toothpicks by accident. Small and uncomfortable is not a good combo if people are gonna be sitting (and standing. and kneeling. rinse, repeat.) for a couple of hours in a row. Though I suspect it would have been funny to see me standing in the wreckage of a church pew in my suit, waiting for the lightning to strike.

Anyway. Saturday night was the reception, which is where all the fun is anyway. And it was a ball. I, of course, remained sober and sedate, as is my way. And by that I mean... I got rowdily drunk, and my friends and I did whiskey toasts, which is never a good idea. But I succeeded in not spilling anything on myself, which is the equivalent of me winning a war single-handed.

The following day, after waking up and feeling like someone had left a steak knife in my brain, we went back and there was the Hindu ceremony, which was fascinating. Of course, one of my friends (and a groomsman, incidentally) was so hungover he simply left in the middle of it, to go (as he phrased it) "shout at his shoes". Not pretty. But the ceremony was great, we had a lovely brunch at a hotel on the Charles River with a great view, and I accidentally got drunk again. At one in the afternoon. Whoops.

Friday, Mrs. TK and I went to The Big E in Springfield, MA, which is a... I'm not sure how to describe it. It's a combination of carnival, amusement park, shopping expo and livestock expo. It's actually far weirder than it sounds. But it was a surprisingly fun time, and not just because of the inordinate number and variety of mullets. I think the highlight of it was there was a demonstration by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, where they did intricate choreographed patterns and whatnot on horseback. Mrs. TK was fascinated by the horses, I was fascinated because in my mind, the Mounties are always dressed like that. That's what I like to think, anyway. I picture bars and supermarkets up in Canada with guys dressed like this all the time wandering in and out. I think this is what they wear when they have sex, or mow their lawns. At least, I hope so.



Wednesday I got a new tattoo. I was gonna post pictures, but that turned out to be harder than I thought. It's on my shoulder and wraps around my arm a couple of times. Not an easy photo to take. It was a great experience and I love the new work. So anyone in the Boston area - Redemption Tattoo in Porter Square, Cambridge. Good spot. Ask for Josh.

Anyway. There's my recap of the past week, for anyone who cares. This week marks a momentous occasion - namely, meeting up with a fellow blogger for the first time. Should be interesting, though he's probably a gigantic douchebag. I kid, Matt, I kid.

Only not really.

Oh, and one more thing:



Fuck. Yeah.


----------------
Listening to: Dropkick Murphys - Wicked Sensitive Crew

Oh, for fuck's sake.

It's the 21st again.

Welcome back to the world - continued

Part II - The Land of Rape and Honey

I don't know why I titled it that... I just really like that album and was listening to it recently. Scroll down for Part I.

Sunday:

So I zip down to the airport. I stand in line for what seems like weeks to go through security. My hangover has kicked itself into a higher gear. I'm crying on the inside, because
a) I'm missing the Pats game that night
b) I'm missing the Sox game that night (IDON'TWANTTOTALKABOUTIT!)
c) Remember, the hangover.

But I make it through security and.... waitaminnit.

Wait just one goddamn motherfucking minute. Some of you may remember my retardo-trip through Lagaurdia with my sister a few years ago. Remember? When I got searched like 87 times? Well, this time went off without a hitch. Which was great. Except for the fact that I was carrying the following things in my carry-on luggage:

1. A lighter (no flammables!)
2. A bottle of iced tea (no gels or liquids!)
3. A book of matches (no flammables!)
4. Hair gel (no gels or liquids!)
5. A pocket knife (no knives!)

Great. I feel really fucking safe now. Just super.

ANYWAY. Blah blah blah waiting waiting waiting. Finally, an hour after the flight was supposed to take off, we board the sonofabitch. And I... all 6'2", 200 lbs of awkward, gangly, hungover TK... am in the middle seat in a three person row.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to TK's private hell # 436.

Sold out flight. No other seats. I walk past an exit row with two people who couldn't possibly be over 5'8". Let me tell you something, folks. If you are under six feet tall and you request to sit in the exit row?

Go fuck yourself. I hope you catch syphilis and die. I hope you get hit by lightning while falling down a well filled with venomous snakes. You are, to borrow from Shepherd Book, going to a special hell, reserved for child molesters and people who talk in the theater.

So. I elbow and knee my way into the middle seat and prepare for 5 1/2 hours of torture. My only saving grace is that there is no one in front of me, so the seat will stay upright. And the people next me are small, so I can monopolize the elbow and leg room. Which I did. But sweet merciful fucking Buddha, was it torture.

But I get into LAX without further incident, other than an aching back and ruined knees. I check into the hotel at around 12:30, check SportsCenter briefly, and fall asleep like I fell into a hole.

Monday:

I begin our conference. It alternates between being very interesting, and incredibly boring. No middle ground. I'm dead tired, and in the middle of it, I go back to the room and take a nap. That night, I meet a friend who is also in LA for business and have a great dinner. I conclude that yes, LA is still a shitty town. Particularly if you don't have a car. And the cabs are basically legalized extortion.

Tuesday:

I saw Floyd Mayweather. Other than that, nothing even remotely interesting happened.

Wednesday:

I skip the entire morning session of our conference to sit in bed and watch Superman Returns. Mainly because I am a lazy bastard, but also because they weren't covering anything useful in that session. I then pack my shit, head downstairs and wait for the shuttle bus. Everything goes smoothly. I get to the airport, and thank the supreme baby Allah, this flight is NOT sold out. I get an aisle seat. In an exit row. I dance a little jig. The guy at the counter looks at me funny. I dance a little jig some more, then carry on before I get my dancin' ass arrested.

I go through security. I'd tossed my lighter and matches earlier, not wanting to press my luck. My knife and hair gel makes it through. Despite still feeling a little uneasy about our lax national airline security, everything is going smoothly.

I get to the waiting area. I read my book. I eat a sandwich. I listen to my Ipod. Everything is going smoothly.

The plane is slightly delayed. The guy on the loudspeaker at least has a decent sense of humor about it. Everything is going smoothly.

We board the plane. I have the entire row to myself! I dance a little jig again, this time while sitting in my luxuriously spacious seat. Everything is going super smoothly. The plane takes off. I'm happy. I'm on my way home. They serve drinks, and I have a celebratory vodka tonic. Everything is going smoothly. I start to get hungry. Of course, in the modern air travel age, they no longer serve meals, instead making you PAY for them. I'm temporarily pissed, but so pleased with my good fortune so far, I splurge and buy an eight dollar salad.

I open the salad and promptly spill it on myself.

"Hmmm..." I think to myself. Oh well. I've made it for three days without spilling anything on myself, which is a personal best. That's not a sign of anything, right?

Right?

My salad is surprisingly tasty. It's some sort of Asian chicken salad thingy, with a thick brown sweet and sour dressing. The dressing comes in a little plastic cup, with a peel-back lid. I'm trying to apply said dressing. The lid is giving me trouble. I get it partially peeled back, and figure I can just aim the small hole I've opened, squeeze the cup, and squirt the dressing onto my salad.

Can you see where this is going? Well... you're wrong. It's so much worse than that.

I'm still having trouble. My monkey hands cannot cope with this little dressing cup. I squeeze the cup a little harder. And then... well, folks, then the wheels come off this bitch.

I squeeze too hard. The lid pops straight up into the air. The thick, brown dressing comes firing out of the cup, shoots diagonally across the aisle, and hits a random stranger right in the neck.

God, I'd love to say I'm making this up.

He now has a splat of dressing on his neck, and it is dribbling down his collar. He's freaking out, because he has no idea what happened. He jumps out of his seat, slapping at his neck, and spinning around, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. He is also inadvertently smearing dressing all over his shirt. I want to die. I want to pop the emergency exit and just leap out of the plane. He catches me, frozen in time, the offending little cup still crushed between my stupid monkey fingers. I bolt up from my seat, but I still have my belt on. I spill more of my salad onto the floor. I gently place the salad on the seat next to me, unbuckle my seat belt, bolt up again, hit my head on the overhead bin, and begin apologizing profusely (and slightly dizzily). We have now officially Drawn Attention To Ourselves. I am dying a little bit with each passing second. I give him my napkin. I think about taking my shirt off to help with the cleanup, then decide it would make a bad thing worse. The flight attendants come and provide him with extra napkins. I apologize some more. He says "it's fine. It's fine. IT'S FINE!!!"

I sit down again, and quietly, with flushed face and bowed head and salad-y shirt, finish eating. The rest of the trip is an exercise in awkward, shameful dread.

We land without incident. I hurry off the plane without making eye contact with anyone. I rush outside, run to my car and realize... I left my goddamn glasses on the plane. As of 90 minutes ago, they still can't find them.

So yes. The newly christened American Airlines Salad Dressing Incident of 2007 shall now take its rightful place next to the Batteries and Water-Spitting Debacle of 2001, and the Great Safari Ketchup Fiasco of 2006.

It's good to be home.

Welcome back to the world

Well, I'm back from my oddessey into the wilderness of central Massachusetts and the artificial land of plastic and pretense that is Los Angeles. I did not get eaten by bears. I did not get assaulted by Sean Penn. All in all, with a few minor quirks, it was a good few days. Do you want to hear more details? Settle down, don't all put your hands up at once. Here's the quick version.

Part I - Into The Wild

Friday:

The plan was to meet at my friend Tim's house to gather up the group, pack up the cars, and barrel down to Munro State Park in Florida, Mass. We were supposed to meet at 6:00, except that I got a call from Tim at 3:00 saying he'd gotten home early and was already drinking. So at 4:00, I quietly stood up, glanced around, nonchalantly announced "I'm going for a cup of coffee", and walked out of the office, down to the parking lot, got in my car and headed for Tim's. I got there and two more friends were there, playing darts and casually sipping beers.

The bachelor and another friend arrived at 6:00. The six of us then piled into two cars (the remaining two friends had left that morning to start setting up the campsite) and took off. The drive took about three hours, and was uneventful except for two things:
1. I almost shredded my brakes on a wicked hill that felt like it was ten miles long.
2. My two passengers, upon learning that I didn't mind if they had a beer in the car, proceeded to get ROARING drunk over the course of the trip. Here's to designated driving.

We got to the park at around 9:30. It was PITCH BLACK. We all strapped on back packs with tents, sleeping bags, a cooler full of beers and whatever we could carry in our hands, and proceeded to hike for about an hour and fifteen minutes. On a narrow path that was next to a ledge that fell straight into a river. In complete and utter darkness, except for our headlamps. We each got blinded at least once. We each fell down at least once. We each drank at least one beer over the course of the hike. No one died or was (seriously) injured. I know, I was surprised too.

We arrived at the campsite at around 11:00, and it was absolutely awesome. Our advance team had done fine work. A fire was roaring, sausages were being grilled, a tarp had been set up as well as a couple of tents and two camping hammocks (also under tarps). We pitched the remaining tents, ate, and then hastily hammered down all the beers we'd brought, dipped into the bottle of Bushmills, and got raucously drunk. At some point I made it into the tent. I do not remember the when or the how.

Saturday:

That morning, I woke up as three friends came in to tell me they were going to hike back to the parking lot to pick up the remaining gear and the remaining beer. I told them they were the greatest friends ever, rolled over, and went back to sleep. I woke up a couple hours later, excited that everything we needed was now here, and ready to crack my first High Life. Except when I got out of my tent... no one else was there. No one else was awake. There was no beer. There was no additional gear. And then I had a terrible realization:

I'd dreamed it. Seriously. I'd fucking dreamed it.

Shit.

I wandered around in the wilderness for a while until my next friend woke up. We shot the shit, until he got bored and decided we should wake up the rest of the gang. I agreed. He produced a bugle (A BUGLE!) from his backpack and proceed to desperately bleat through it. It sounded somewhat like an elk being sexually assaulted by a bear. Cue cries of dismay and hatred. But it worked. They rose like zombies buried in tents, to consume water and Advil. Finally, three of us sacked up and strapped on empty backpacks and hiked back to the cars. I must say, the hike in broad daylight was much nicer, and muuuuuch safer. We emptied out the cars, made it back to the campsite, and felt much better with the only major task of the day taken care of.

The rest of the day was composed of more hiking, creating campsite B on a small island in the middle of the river, me taking a nap in a tree, grilling, more grilling, and then, by nightfall, staggering around drunkenly making empty threats at each other, bullshitting and laughing our asses off. At one point we tried to cook eggs by putting them in the camp fire, thinking the theory was the same as hard boiling them. Aaaand then we spent ten minutes running around, dodging exploding egg bits. All in all, a day supremely well spent. And I once again succeeded in not hurting myself, other than a minor incident when I fell into the campfire.

Sunday:

Woke up. Wanted to die. Realized that I had to hustle because... I had a fucking plane to catch. Proceed to complain incessantly. Pack up my shit, break down the tent, load up as much gear as we can, eat three strips of bacon and hike back to the car with Tim, leaving the rest of the gang to amuse themselves for the remainder of the day. Tim... he looks bad. Like I-might-have-to-drag-him bad. But he soldiers on, deathly pale and sweating profusely, each of us carrying about 50 pounds of gear, and we make it to the car. We load up, and head out. Twenty minutes later, Tim looks no better. I ask him how he's doing. His response: "I'm trying to keep it together... I might be losing the fight." I get nervous. We drive past a different park entrance.
Tim: Hey, let's look at what's over there!
Me: You betcha.

I pull into the lot, and before the car is at a full stop he's out the door and... um... well, you can probably figure it out. I sit and listen to music, he gets back in and looks slightly less awful. We get back on the road, and I eventually drop him off, swing down to my house, unload the car, kiss the wife, unpack, take a shower, check my email, pack again, kiss the wife again, get back in the car and drive to the airport.

Stay tuned for Part II, wherein I continue my hatred of L.A., suffer through a miserable flight, get very little sleep, and have an "incident" on the plane ride home.

It'll be dark soon, and they mostly come at night... mostly.

I know! Three posts in a single WEEK! It's like December all over again.

Don't get used to it.

But I'm going on a brutal stretch over the next few days and probably won't be near the internet...

Does that even make sense? "Near the internet?"

Whatever. Shut up. I told you not to question me in front of company.

ANYway. After work tomorrow, I'm barreling over to a friends house, packing a bunch of gear into a couple of cars, and heading out to the Berkshires to go camping. It's a friend of mine' bachelor party. I know, it's not the conventional bachelor party, but he's not a conventional friend. The most exciting part will be arriving at 9:00 at night, and then hiking a mile into the campsite with all our booze camping gear in pitch darkness*. And hoping to not get attacked by bears. It's also supposed to rain all weekend. Should be a blast. File this under "it seemed like a good idea at the time".


Look, I'm not scared of bears. And I love my friends. But all I'm saying is that IF there are bears, and one of them starts to feel punchy and come after us... I'm throwing a motherfucker to the ground in front of him. Just so you know. Should any of you meet me and there are bears nearby... I will totally toss your ass at him to save myself. It's important that you know these things.

Did I just use the phrase "toss your ass?"

Fuck it. I'm comfortable with that.

Anyway. Jesus, enough with the sidetracking already! AS I WAS SAYING. I'm going camping Friday, then burning rubber home on Sunday so I can shower, eat a sandwich, pack and drive to the airport and fly to Los Angeles. Where I shall spend 3 fun-filled days at a conference about how legislative changes are causing adjustments into our low-income housing tracking software.

That is exactly as exciting as it sounds. But on the bright side, it's L.A., which is easily one of the worst cities in the union.

So after tomorrow evening, I'm off the grid until Wednesday. Although, since I only post once every week or so, you probably won't even miss me. You rotten bastards.

----------------

*Fortunately, most of us have headlamps. Although, eight guys drunk in the wilderness with flashlights on their heads will most likely result in at least one of us getting blinded. And... um... does anyone know if bears are attracted to bright light?


----------------
Listening to: Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan & Michael Brook - Longing (Aki Nawaz Remix)

We interrupt this blog for a very important message:

First, some examples:

Example 1: If I do not like you, you are a loser. NOT a looser.
Example 2: If I am slow, I will lose the race. NOT loose the race.

I swear to fucking God, the next person who mixes up the words "lose" and "loose" - as in "I am going to loose my mind if you people don't learn to motherfucking spell"... that person is going to wake up in the trunk of my car.

In.
Fucking.
Pieces.


As you were.


This message was brought to you by the people who told you that "heighth is NOT a fucking word, fuckbag. It's HEIGHT, goddammit."

Democracy is the worst form of government - except all the others that have been tried.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. It's been a while since I posted. Shut up. I've been busy. Busy doing what, you ask? Well, I've been... um... er...

Like I said, shut up.

Really, not much blog-worthy has happened. Yes, I went to a couple of great bbq's (if you haven't guessed, that's a summer staple of mine). I had a friend from Seattle come visit. The Red Sox have been on what can only be described as an intermittent tear (and I know that doesn't make sense, but one of you will understand it). The Patriots just dismantled my second least favorite football team.

But probably the most interesting thing that happened was I went to a City Council meeting last week. As a result, I was able to witness democracy at it's absolute worst (hence the Churchill quote in the title). Call it Paralysis by Democracy. So instead of writing something clever or regaling you with further tales of injury or awkwardness, allow me to just bitch for a little while.

I've probably touched upon this in the past, but one of the things I got involved in as a result of my job was to join a city sub-committee tasked with improving community-police relations, and neighborhood quality of life. It is, for the most part, a complete waste of time. But the city council ordered the committee to be formed, and they needed members of the police department, city agencies, and community activists to be involved. Seeing as how I work for a city agency that deals with housing, I got picked to join. I suppose you could say I was volunteered.

So for the past few months, I've gone to meetings every week where we sit around and talk about how to make the city a better place to live, and how people can grow to understand and appreciate the police department better, and how to deal with the perceived escalation of youth violence and crime in our fair city.

Bullshit.

Basically 90 minutes of pure bullshit every single week. And to a certain extent, I didn't mind at first. It got me out of the office, and it was an excuse to sit around and basically talk urban politics with city councilors, the chief of police (including my infamous gaffe written about here) and meet people from other agencies. But after a few weeks, I realized that it was a complete waste of time.

A bit of background: I work for an agency that provides housing to low-income families. I think you pretty much have to be something of an idealist to get into that line of work... I sort of stumbled into it about eight years ago, but it resonated with me, and now I've reached a point where I don't really know how to even do anything else. Which is convenient, because I actually love what I do. And the agency I work for is nationally renowned as one of the best. These are all good things. I also genuinely believe that many of the people on the committee with me truly want to help. However, one of the things that helps me be effective at my job is, in addition to idealism, a healthy dose of both honesty and realism.

And this group is not realistic. And they are not being honest with themselves. And that has basically derailed the entire process. Because when you get a group of wide-eyed folks like this together, it becomes this sort of "save-the-world" gangbang (there's that word again), but with people not actually addressing the problems.

Example: One of the problems people keep bringing up is "the youth problem". As in, we need to get young people more involved. We need to keep them out of trouble. We need to keep them in school. We need to stop youth crime. There are two truths to this, and one of them is born of simple ignorance, the other of something more subtle, yet more insidious.

1. There is no "youth problem". Statistics in the city show that over 90% of crimes are committed by men (not boys, MEN) between the ages of 19-26. These are not youths. These are grown-ass men who can't control their temper. Sure, the argument could be made that it is in childhood that these men learn their evil ways. And that's a valid point. But if that's the case, we need to work on education and daycare and teaching people to be better parents. We don't need a new emphasis on policing. And if we want to keep kids in school... we need to have better schools. But those are too hard. And this group wants easy solutions. So we're not addressing education. We're not addressing lousy parenting. Instead, we're picking easy targets (kids and the police department), even when, at the root, this is not the problem. Do we have crime? Absolutely. Shootings, and I think there were two murders this year. But it's not some crime wave being committed by a rash of evil teenagers. Which leads us to...

2. When we say "youth problem" we mean "black kids". This is the uglier truth. Because this group is very careful to never mention race or ethnicity. But they talk about kids hanging out at the park late at night (the park in the "darker" neighborhood) and they talk about rap music, and gangs. And what they mean is we have a problem with black people. Trust me. I've been around. Except that crime stats show that very few crimes are being committed in the parks. And as for a gang problem? A gang problem, as defined here, is basically three kids who get into a fistfight with another three kids, basically because one of them looked at the other wrong. This is not a gang problem. I worked in North Philly. That's a fucking gang problem.

But somehow, society has reached a point where three black kids sitting on a bench and being loud causes people to fear them. The sad truth. How many of us get a quick pang of fear when three black guys walk past you late at night? Be honest. Yeah. I thought as much. And I know that there are a million sociological reasons for why this happens. And in South Central L.A., maybe you can make a case for it. But not here.

Anyway. This all resulted in hours and weeks and months of debate over a problem that is basically smoke and mirrors. And finally came to a head at the council meeting I went to last week. And we had the mayor, and the city councilors and a bunch of other political hotshots there. For a three hour meeting on what to do next. We'd established our (albeit exaggerated if not outright fictitious) problems, and posed some solutions. What to do next?

Well, for starters... it took 90 minutes to figure out where and when the next meeting would be. NINETY MINUTES. Should we serve food? What kind of food? Where should we hold it?

Bear in mind - the MAYOR was there. But he refused to make the call, insisting on a democratic process. Mainly, I think, because if the next meeting was a bust, he didn't want to be the idiot who'd fucked it up (did I mention it's an election year?). After 90 minutes of discussion as to time and place, we moved onto... the next subject. The only problem was, no one had figured out what the next subject was. Seriously. No one knew why we were there. The council had called a meeting to discuss our findings. And to schedule a meeting. But they didn't know how to discuss it, as bizarre as that sounds. And since no one on the council, nor the mayor, wanted to take control and risk ruining our beautiful democracy, we spent another 90 minutes discussing what to discuss next. I swear I am not making this up.

So. I went to a three-hour meeting where nothing happened. People were wringing their hands and getting upset and... accomplished nothing. The final result of the meeting? All issues (including when/where/how to have the next meeting) were tabled... until the next meeting.

Oh, God. I only hope that a meteor crashes into my car before that date. Because if I have to do this again... well... you'll probably read about someone spontaneously exploding in a city in Massachusetts and go "Oh! So that's what TK's real name is. Well, he did warn us..."



----------------
Now playing: Tonedeff - Porcelain
via FoxyTunes

I know you've got a new favorite

When your favorite team gets swept by the forces of darkness, and you have a REALLY crappy day at work (like today) there is nothing to do but take a cue from another blogger, and retreat to your happy place. So in preparation for my weekend, here are a few of my favorite things.


Taken while lying in my yard.


We're seeing him live on Sunday.



I'd say this speaks for itself.


Ceili the Wonder Dog.


Flavor country.


Evil Cuteness incarnate.


mmm... sweet, glorious Irish whiskey.


Happy Labor Day!


I might drink more High Life than water. Is that bad for you?


The only way to eat during the summer.

I'd post a picture of Mrs. TK, but I don't think she'd approve. But she's at the top of the list, and she has the weekend off. Let's boogie!

Oh, and Tex? Yes, I totally stole your idea. But at least I'm crediting you for it. Have a good long weekend, folks.

Long live the weekend...

Well, that was a hell of a weekend. Sorry for the incommunicado, but from Saturday to Monday we were maxin' and relaxin' in beautiful Provincetown, MA. I spent three days on the beach during the day, then sitting outside, listening to music and drinking the night away.

For those of you who don't know, Provincetown is a gorgeous little town on the tip of Cape Cod. Cute, scenic, surrounded by beaches and bars and restaurants.

Oh, yeah... it's also the gayest town in America. I mean... seriously gay. That's part of it's charm, of course. But man... whoo! Real gay.

We (Mrs. TK and I) went down there with about 8-10 friends, and had a fucking ball. We sat in the sun, we swam, we barbecued, we ate at a couple of great restaurants (including the only South African restaurant I've ever seen), we went on walks, we rode our bikes, we drank (heavily), we smoked a pile of... um...

Anyway. My cell phone battery died on the first day. There's something very liberating about three days with no cell phone and no computer. Yes, it means I neglect you mangy beasts lovely readers, but it had to be done. Some highlights:

Mrs. TK and I going on a bike ride and being happy to discover we're not nearly as out of shape as we thought we were.

My friend and I heading into P-Town on Sunday night to buy more beers and (at least we're pretty sure) being mistaken for a very busted-looking gay couple, which led to some absolutely hilarious exchanges. My favorite was this:

We walk into a liquor store. It's got a million different kind of fancy beers, and at the bottom of the case, two 18-packs of Bud. Of course, since we were drinking for volume, we buy the two 18-packs. We get up to the register. The guy rings us up, I glance at Tim, he glances at me, shrugs and says "I got no money."

Me: Of course you don't.
Store Owner: Isn't that always the way?
Tim: Whatever.
Me: I guess it's on me.
SO (to Tim): Do you make him carry them too?
Me: Very funny.
Tim: Come on, mule. Bring the booze.

We get out of the store, I look at Tim and say:
You know he thinks I'm the daddy, right?

Ah, maybe you had to be there. But we ended up having one of those moments... you ever have one of those moments when you just. can't. stop. laughing? Like, tears-pouring-down-your-face laughter? Well, this was one of those. Except it went on for about 2 hours. To the point where I think we started annoying our friends. Every time we looked at each other, it resulted in gut-busting laughter.

We also learned that... well... there are a lot (a LOT) of unusual fetishes out there. We found a card in the house we stayed in that was for um... well, I guess color codes for fetishes, so that people would know what you were into. It basically looked like this on the back, with a picture of a large man in chaps on the front. See, this is the kind of service my blog provides. Come for the reading, stay for the fetish education. Thank me later.

Anyway. I'm back, with a bitchin' tan, and miserable about being back at work. That's all I got for now. Hope you all had lovely weekends.

These memories can't wait.

You ever have one of those days where you have a flood of random memories?

Here's one of those posts that just sort of created itself, based on what I was thinking about.

I'm not sure what prompted me to write this post... maybe I've gotten a little weary of attempting to amuse you greedy lot (I kid out of love. Out of love!). I suppose I started thinking about this over the weekend, when a friend came to visit. We were sitting in my backyard, drinking a couple of beers, and he asked how long I was planning on staying in my house. My immediate response? As long as possible. I love my house. But sometimes I wonder - do I love my house because it is an awesome house, or do I love my house because it's my house*? And then... well, then a whole cascade of thoughts and memories began to creep up on me. I thought about moving, and not only how much I hated it, but how often I've done it. I've moved probably more than anyone I know, in fact. And each time I've done it, there's been difficulty that followed shortly after (except for the last couple, probably because I was an adult and the situations were very different). But what I've really been thinking about is culture shock. And how it took Mrs. TK and I some time to adjust to the fact that we are, in fact, suburbanites. Moving to a place as different as the Mayberry-like little 'burb that we're in took a great deal of adjustment... though you'd think I'd be used to it. So here's my little tale about culture shock.

I was born 32 years ago in Cape Town, South Africa. As you hopefully know, that was when South Africa was in even more turmoil than it is now. Apartheid was moving along at a steady clip. My parents did their best to shelter us from it, but since my father was half black, half Indian, and my mother was also a murky mix of ethnicities, it was probably a challenge for them.

We moved to the U.S. when I was two years old. Obviously, I remember little about this. Hell, I barely remember yesterday. But we moved to Cambridge, MA, and I went to a cute little "Alternative Public School", run by hippies and liberal philosopher-poets. But it was great. My dad studied at MIT, and my mom worked as an accountant. We lived in an apartment above one of my teachers, and she bred butterflies, which was fun as well. We made it through the blizzard of '78 and had fun doing it.

And then, in around 1981-1982, INS discovered that our visas had expired, and booted us out of the country. My father packed us into his rusted green wood-paneled station wagon, and drove us off to the airport. He left the car in the lot with the keys in the ignition, took off the plates and threw them in a trash can. Oddly, this would become a trend in my family - abandoning cars when we moved.

The move back to South Africa was a strange one. I had been too young to remember anything about it from before we left. In fact, I barely remembered any of my relatives. And I had a lot of relatives. All of a sudden, I had grandparents, more than a dozen aunts and uncles, and more than 30 cousins. Most of which remembered me. And I felt like a total stranger among them, with my funny American accent and incessant need to match all my clothes. Shut up. I was an unusual child. We moved into my grandmother's house, and my family embraced me. Once I learned all their names, it felt like some crazy tribe of really fun drunks had adopted me.

And then I started going to school. You want to talk about culture shock? When I left the US, I had just finished either Kindergarten or first grade (I forget which). In my hippy alternative public school, with teachers who wore beards and braids and I think they were made out of hemp as well. We called them by their first names and listened to "Free To Be, You And Me" and held hands a lot.

In South Africa, I went to Catholic school, because the public schools were AWFUL. I mean... really awful. The kind of awful that doesn't exist here. Catholic school wasn't so hot either. We played soccer on sand. The classrooms were small and overcrowded and stuffy. We had sixth or seventh generation books, that we frequently had to share. I remember there being 52 kids in my math class. Try organizing 52 8 year olds into any semblance of a learning unit. But my biggest shock, of course, came the first time I did something bad... and got caned for it. Yes, I said caned. As in hit with a lang, bamboo cane. On the hand for minor offenses, on the butt for bigger ones. Some teachers had temper problems and would just go after kids, and the blows landed where they landed. That, my friends, is culture shock. God, I remember telling my mother about it, and her telling me to be grateful that they no longer soak the canes in salt water, like they did when she was a kid. No outrage, no anger, just a sad acceptance - and telling me it could be much worse.

And so, for two or three years, we lived there once again. And I grew to love it. I loved the giant network of family. I loved that my uncle would take us hiking on Table Mountain every weekend, or camping. I loved the giant, raucous family gatherings, full of drinking and guitar playing and dancing and laughing. We moved out of my grandma's house, and I loved our new house. It was small, but it had trees for climbing and my dad built a fishpond out of an old cast iron tub. Over the course of those two years we had dogs and cats and chickens and frogs and turtles and ducks. My dad got a good job as an urban planner, my mom did well as an accountant. We were decidedly middle class, maybe even upper middle class. For our race, of course.

Because there was always that dark side... the side I never thought about because I was too young to really fully realize the truth about this beautiful country that I lived in. And that truth was that it was rotting, and vile, and corrupt. The truth was that the reason we never went to the nice beaches was because of the color of our skin. And that my parents had to carry "ID Books" around, which said what our racial mix was. And my father's white friends would hide their friendship with us from their families. I didn't have any white friends, because we didn't live near any white people. You didn't make eye contact with whites. You moved out of their way when they were on the sidewalk. You used different bathrooms, different water fountains.

My dad still has a sign that he stole from a beach that says "Whites Only" on one side and "Non-Whites Only" on the other. It was a singularly strange existence for a child. I remember seeing a black man get hit by a car, a brown Mercedes, and the driver (a white man) sped away. The man died, and the police barely seemed to care. The crime and poverty rates were nothing short of staggering. Almost daily, homeless people would ring the doorbell and ask if we had any bread to spare, or if they could eat the peaches that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. My dad, being my dad, would give them leftovers, and tell them to pick the ripe ones. I remember him piling me and my cousin into the car to take us to the movies, only to have a man, covered in blood and naked and wrapped in a plastic sheet, come staggering out of the bushes. He worked at the shop up the street, and three men had come in with machetes to rob the place. They'd slashed him up, tortured him, and killed his co-worker. And I remember how long it took for the police to arrive.

Things were hard for my father, being that he was a radical activist with ties to both the Communist Party (illegal) and the African National Congress (also illegal). And eventually I think he just got tired of worrying about us so much. So...

We moved again. My mom got a company in Boston to sponsor us, and at 10 or 11 years old, we came back to the U.S. And lived in probably the whitest. suburb. in. America. Culture shock again. All of a sudden I had only white friends, and only white people around me. But more so, I was old enough to realize the difference this time. And I'll never forget the cunning smile that must have been on my face when I realized that the worst thing that would happen in school would be getting sent to the principals office. I thought "I'm going to get away with murder here", and proceeded to become an absolutely awful child. Of course, when things got to the point where the school called my parents... well... if you've read this post, you can probably figure out what happened. Let's just say my behavior improved.

We moved again, to a different house in the same city. I went to junior high and high school and blah blah blah. I went to Wisconsin for college, and thought "Jesus, could it get any fucking blonder around here?" Weird state, man. Fun school. Weird state. My parents moved back to Cape Town. I moved back to the town I grew up in, and lived in a friend's basement for a few months. Then I moved to Allston, then Cambridge, then Allston again. Then Philly, and two more apartments and a new set of friends. Then back to Mass., to another apartment. Then to this house.

So yeah. Culture shock. Cape Town. Boston. Cambridge. Madison. Philadelphia. I'll never say my life's been boring.

One final note on this rambling, pointless post - several years ago, we went to Cape Town to visit my parents. It was my first or second time being back since Apartheid had collapsed due to international pressure, economics, and from feeding on it's own bloated, rotted corpse. It was fascinating seeing what had changed (and, unfortunately still, what had not changed.). But my favorite moment was my entire gigantic, coloured family going to a formerly-white beach, getting nothing but dirty looks from the old-schoolers who hadn't caught up with the new era, and having the time of our lives. How's THAT for culture shock.


*the answer, I've concluded, is both.



----------------
Listening to: Moby - God Moving Over The Face Of The World

This reminds me of that time you tried to drill a hole in your head

I'm not sure how it happened, but I somehow got sucked into writing for another blog. Which is probably a terrible idea, since I barely write for this one. In fact, I don't even know if you can call it "writing". It's more like transcribing my verbal diarrhea. But whatever.

The site is called Burt Reynolds' Mustache. Hey, don't look at me, I didn't name the damn thing. But I've learned an important lesson since being drafted into service there, and that lesson is this:

Don't respond to emails from strangers when drunk.

Although, I suppose that there are worse things that can happen should one do so. Anyway, apparently a bunch of bloggers write there, and they are each responsible for a specific day of the month. I get the 21st. The 21st of EACH MONTH. What a terrible fucking idea this was. Who knew blogging would be so demanding. I mean, if I didn't crave the artificial attention and wasn't desperate for acknowledgment by a bunch of anonymous lunatics, I might just quit this gig. But alas, I need love and attention. The attention of lying strangers is all that gets me through my day.

Oh God. Oh, dear sweet God, please stop the hurting.

OK, that took a weird turn again. Ignore that last bit.

Anyway. How was everyone's weekend? Good? I don't particularly give a shit, but I'm trying to get you to keep coming back. My weekend was lovely. Friday was the Rebirth Brass Band cruise, which totally rocked and was highlighted by me teaching a sixty-something year old man how to light a joint in high wind on the deck of a boat. What can I say. I read a lot.

A friend from out of town came in Saturday, and we had a good time catching up, drinking and laughing about how insane the Midwest is (he's a college friend).

Today I'm sleepy and can't wait until lunch.

Anyway. Tomorrow is the 21st. You'll find me over here. It's a weird site. With a bunch of weirdos writing for it. Again, I don't know what I'm doing over there. I suppose I'm just lost in a desperate quest for love and affection, wandering through these empty electronic streets, wishing someone would just cuddle with me, or perhaps rub my back a bit.

OK, ignore that part too.

Peace out, playas.

P.S. - Shut it, Red.



----------------
Listening to: Tricky - My Evil Is Strong

Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory.

God, I couldn't be less inspired to do a blog posting if I tried. But it's been about a week, and a certain pain-in-the-ass is giving me shit (again), so what the hell. Let's slap a stamp on it and mail this fucker in. Before we get to the actual post (which relates to the post title), I figured we'd do a quick bit of catch-up.

Life has actually been pretty good (and maybe that's the problem). Of course, last week at work was the exception. My boss was on vacation, and whenever she goes on vacation, all hell breaks loose. Last week we had a kid overdose on heroin and die in one of the bathrooms of the developments we manage. Jesus. Talk about depressing. And now we're dealing with cops and family members and the whole mess is just sad.

Then we had the cops try to serve a warrant on one of our more unsavory residents. He ended up jumping out of a window with a gun and knife in hand, fleeing into a neighboring apartment, knocking the woman there around, and then holding a knife to his own throat to try to get the cops to back off. The cops, after he busted out the window, ended up calling in S.W.A.T., tore the place apart, and needless to say, did not back off. Cops don't like it when you run away, and they don't particularly like it when you beat up helpless women while doing so. Anyhoo, I suspect the official report is gonna say he fell both up and down the stairs, if you get my meaning. They ended up finding 120 grams of cocaine, a .380 pistol, a .45 pistol, several rounds of ammo, $20,000 in cash and a fully loaded, fully modified AK-47 in his apartment.

So yeah. How was your work week?

In more fun news, I'm going to see the Rebirth Brass Band on Friday, which should be awesome. Then Saturday one of my good friends from college is coming to visit, who I haven't seen in years. The the next weekend we're going to Provincetown with a bunch of friends, which should be a big, gay (it is P-Town, after all) blast. THEN my sister's coming for Labor Day weekend, which should be... well, we all know what happens when she and I get together.

Next month I'm doing a bachelor party/camping trip, a business trip to L.A., and then a wedding.

Jesus. I'm exhausted just writing all of that.

I figured that you all know me well enough, so it's worth noting that I haven't injured myself, nor embarrassed myself, in about 2 weeks. Except for Saturday night when I was drunk and tried to pick up the metal cover to our firepit and burned four out of five fingers. Oh, and last week I tripped on a blanket and went flying head first into my closet, ending up with a face full of shoes.

Crap.

Let's finish up with a completely random and ridiculous story. Monday night, I was at a friends house, watching baseball and drinking and getting high and eating Chinese food, because that's how I roll on a motherfuckin' Monday beeotch and shut up I don't have a problem and I don't need to talk to anyone and someone please hold me oh God I just need some attention oh please someone make the pain stop...

Whoa. That was strange. Who saw that coming?

Anyway. Monday I was at a friend's house... um... discussing French philosophy and eating salads before heading home for an early bedtime. And we ordered Chinese food, and two of us got the exact same fortune. I mean, exact same, front and back. Weird, no?

Well fuck a bunch of weird, because I can beat that shit. When I was in college at UW-Madison, my friend Phil and I used to go to the same Chinese place every Friday. We never used to pay attention to the fortune cookies, and just toss them. Then one week we decide to open them. Of course, this was 13 or 14 years ago, so I forget the specific language, but we open them, and Phil's says something to the tune of "You will receive great wealth and accolades in your life".

Mine? Mine is blank. Seriously. It's a blank piece of paper. So I freak out a little, but being a naturally cynical guy, it doesn't bother me too much.

The following week we go back, we eat, we have a good time, and then we sit there looking at the fortune cookies. Phil looks at me, and tells me to pick first. I pick mine, he takes his, we open them. Again, Phil's is a prediction of prosperity and wonderfulness.

Mine is fucking blank. Again. I shit you not. It's like I'm cursed.



Now I'm more than a little freaked out. I mean, two blank fortunes, two weeks in a row? What are the odds? I mean, who among you has EVER received a blank fortune in a cookie? And now I get two in a row?

The following week I tell Phil I'm done. I'm never eating there again. He begs, he pleads (it's worth noting that the food here was really fucking good). I cave, and off we go.

Eat our meals. And then it's time. I'm actually getting genuinely scared. I mean seriously worried. We do the same thing. Phil lets me pick. He opens his. Fortune and Glory, once again.

Fortune and glory. My turn. My hands are literally trembling. I smile a shaky smile, open the wrapper, crack open the cookie and...

Nothing. No, not blank again.

Nothing. The fucking thing is EMPTY. No fortune inside.

I never went back. Two months later the place closed down.

Have a good week.

----------------
Listening to: RJD2 - Fuck A Soundcheck

There's an old Italian saying: you fuck up once, you lose two teeth.

I'm going to the dentist soon, and of course, that reminds me of a story...

Embarrassment seems to be a running theme through the interwebs these last few days. Pajiba asked commenters to write down their secret shame albums. No, I won't write mine here, you can dig over there for it. And then of course, there is always Meg, who has become my sister-in-awkwardness.

Now, those who have been coming here for a while know that I have a rare gift for this stuff. In between numerous (and ridiculous) injuries and my inability to keep my mouth shut, I may hold some sort of regional record for embarrassment. So I figure, what the hell. Let's give the people what they want, and give you another tale of woe. And I must warn you, it's pretty graphic.

Shortly before I went to college, I went to the dentist. I suppose I should mention (while I'm embarrassing myself) that I am notoriously bad at going to the dentist, so I hadn't been in a while. Like years. The fact that I have a strange phobia about people prodding at my face (seriously - and don't get me started on how much the eye doctor freaks me out), and I've historically had bad experiences at the dentist, I'm a little nervous. But, my dad is making me, and when my dad says go, I go.

And it turns out that (surprise) I need a bunch of fillings. And since I'm leaving for college soon, the dentist suggests I do it all at once. Fine. I come back a couple of days later, and settle in for one of the single most uncomfortable experiences of my life. Fillings, repeated Novocaine shots (in the mouth - shudder), and dental drills. Awesometown. Population: Me.



Anyway, we're moving along. I'm dizzy with pain, getting my fillings, getting the shots, etc. It's brutal. My doc gets a phone call, so he breaks and tells me if I need to use the bathroom, I can use the one to the left of the door.

He very specifically points out which direction to go. I head over there, and it's locked. So I nonchalantly go through the waiting room to the waiting room bathroom. As I'm walking through, I see a number of crying children and scared looking parents.

Weird, I think. I wonder what that shit's all about?

*shrug*

I get into the bathroom, do my thing, and go to wash my hands. And then... I look in the mirror.

Oh.My.Fucking.God.

I look like someone's nightmare. I look... words can barely describe it. The Novocaine has made my lower jaw swell tremendously. I didn't realize it until that moment, but I can't actually close my mouth. My tongue is literally hanging out, also swollen. I am wearing a bib that is covered in bloody spittle. And, worst of all, I am drooling uncontrollably. I mean CONSTANTLY. A steady stream of blood and drool is pouring out of my mouth, running down the bib and onto my pants. I basically look like Rawhead Rex.



And I just strolled through a room full of already-nervous children and their parents.

And now I have to go back through the waiting room. I open the door, and everyone in the waiting room has been staring at the door while I was in there (probably hoping that they either hallucinated me, or that I'm an extra in a horror movie). I come out, and say "Oh, I am so sorry", except that I can't actually talk. So it's basically just me going

"awg, irmf ggorf blarshie"

and more drooling.

Not my finest moment, people. Not one bit.

----------------
Listening to: Uncle Tupelo - Moonshiner

Take it easy, Champ. Why don't you sit this next one out, stop talking for a while.

Well, I suppose there was enough interest in yesterday's awesome comment section to warrant an explanation as to how the word "gangbang" made it into my meeting yesterday...

It was a meeting about community-police relations. The city councilor was recommending that after a major crime (murder or rape), the Police Dept. hold a meeting in the affected neighborhood. I was opposed, seeing as it provides no value other than to reassure the neighborhood and give them an opportunity to bitch at the cops. It's time the cops could better spend, oh, solving crime. So I said...

Well, as long as we understand that a meeting like this serves no practical purpose other than to placate the neighborhood residents. My fear is that this will turn into a giant gangbang where everyone teams up on the police... what?

stunned silence, horrified stares

Oh. Did I just...? Uh... can we just pretend that last 30 seconds didn't happen?

However. I stand by my stance, if not the exact wording. It's a stupid idea. The city I work in is a relatively low-crime city, so when a "serious" crime is committed, some people completely freak out, and frequently blame the police department. Which is idiotic. If some guy shoots his wife, or some moron stabs a kid in an alley, it's not the fault of the police. And frequently, the cops have little to work with (no witnesses, little cooperation or communication from the neighbors). While I certainly agree that there are a number of lazy, useless cops out there, I hate to see people get on their case for circumstances beyond their control.

Now, had I said that, my argument may have had more validity to it. Instead, everyone stared at me like I had taken my dick out in the middle of a meeting.

Also, I have now used the words "murder", "rape", "gangbang"," fuck", "bitch", "cops", and "stabs" in the last two posts, in the last 36 hours. Not to mention the phrase "shoots his wife". Great. Now I'm really gonna draw some freaks. They're going to make the rest of you look like a church group.


PS - I finally broke up with Hotmail . If anyone wants to email me, send mail to
uncooked.meat [at] gmail.com.

Adios.

If I want you to speak, I'll wave a Snausage in front of your nose.

Um... here's a question...

Is it wise to, oh, say... use the word "gangbang"? Figuratively speaking, of course.

At work?

In a meeting?

With two members of the police department present?

And your boss?

And someone from the Department of Youth Services?

And a City Councilor?

No?

Really?



Oh, fuck.