Problems
Sorry I haven’t been posting that often. You see, I’m concerned because I think my wife might be dead.
The sex is the same, but the dishes are starting to pile up……
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Friday, April 08, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Part 3
My father got so drunk the next night that he spent a couple hours talking to my brother and I about our inheritance. Whenever we would tell him that we understood and he didn’t need to worry about us, he would say that we needed to know this because he could die at any time. Hell, he said, he could get syphilis tonight.
A new couple arrived at the fishing camp that evening, and they joined us for dinner. Dad spent the entire dinner hour trying to get his pasta salad from his plate to his mouth. Unsuccessfully. Finally, my brother lured him to bed with a half bottle of One Barrel Rum and he passed out. Once an hour, we left the bar to check on him and make sure he was still breathing. He usually was.
The next day, we went north to Mexico (an hour boat ride) to a place where there are underwater caves just chock-full-o-fishes. We caught myriad Red Snapper, as well as a bunch of yellow snapper, black snapper, rock snapper, and something that the guide, Luis, kept calling a "hamburger." On the way back south, Luis said "By the way, if we are stopped by any rangers, do not mention the live-well in the boat. Where we just caught those fish is a nature reserve."
Great.
That night, while Luis was cleaning our poached fish, my brother was walking around in the water beside the dock, picking up conch, moving them, and putting them down again for no apparent reason. The guide said, "Hey Todd, you might not want to be in there. There are Moray Eels living under the dock."
"Right." Todd said. "You can’t scare me, Luis."
Just then, a pair of eels sped out from beneath the dock, between Todd’s legs, and attacked the fish entrails Luis had thrown into the water. Todd pulled a Savior moment as he ran across the surface of the water back to the dock. We watched in horrid fascination as the two lime-green leviathan rolled and riled and tore at the bits of snapper. Each was about 4 feet long, and as big around as a soda can. Their ugly, dragon faces masticated fiercely, sending crimson billows out through the water with each bite.
"Those are the babies." Luis said, "The adults are over six feet long, and this big around." He held his hands together as if they were wrapped around a milk jug.
"Fuck" Todd and I said together.
The next day, we dressed back up in our suits and took the boat ride to San Pedro. We had about two hours to kill, so we wandered the town in search of souvenirs for our wives and a particular bar we had not had the chance to visit yet.
The bar was called "Hammock House." It was three stories high, on stilts. It was open air, overlooking the ferry I described earlier. Instead of chairs, there were hammocks and rope seats throughout the bar. You would get your cocktail and then go lie in a hammock while you drank. After a couple of "hangover helpers" I ordered a mango salsa lobster sandwich. Damn that was good.
The Hammock House has a calendar on the wall called "the golf cart drop." When I asked about it, I was informed that it was a betting pool. About once a month, a golf cart gets driven/knocked/dropped off of the ferry. For five bucks, you get to own a date on the calendar. If the golf cart goes in on your day, then you get the pot. I just love the fact that it happens often enough for there to be a betting pool.
We finally made it back to the airport, and who should be waiting to pilot the next flight to Belize City? Our Ass-Tastic Canadian Friend. She took one look at us, said "Gentlemen" and stormed out of the airport. Our flight was delayed a half hour while they tracked down a replacement pilot. Finally, we got on board, and again there was not enough room, so Todd sat in the copilot seat. At one point he convinced our pilot to fly straight into a storm cloud. The resulting pressure drop caused us to fall about 200 feet before the wings bit air again. Todd and the pilot laughed while every passenger buckled their seatbelts.
I found out that the airport in Belize City has a waving gallery for friends and family to come bid their loved ones adieu as they take off. Lord knows the people on the plane can’t see them and probably don’t care, as they’re busy going 300mph and taking off at the time, but it is a nice sentiment.
In my world, where people come and go every day, and where a plane ride is as common place as blondes in L.A., no one takes the time for a fond farewell. Gone are the crowds waving as the ocean-liners leave port. Gone are the beautiful women in polka dot dresses running down platforms beside trains. Gone is just a little bit of the romance, a little bit of the magic, and a little bit of the bravery that it takes to leave home behind.
They won’t remember my name, my face, or even my visit. They certainly don’t miss me now that I’m gone. But on that day, as I took to the skies, a small part of Belize waved goodbye and bent their thoughts toward my safe passage home.
My father got so drunk the next night that he spent a couple hours talking to my brother and I about our inheritance. Whenever we would tell him that we understood and he didn’t need to worry about us, he would say that we needed to know this because he could die at any time. Hell, he said, he could get syphilis tonight.
A new couple arrived at the fishing camp that evening, and they joined us for dinner. Dad spent the entire dinner hour trying to get his pasta salad from his plate to his mouth. Unsuccessfully. Finally, my brother lured him to bed with a half bottle of One Barrel Rum and he passed out. Once an hour, we left the bar to check on him and make sure he was still breathing. He usually was.
The next day, we went north to Mexico (an hour boat ride) to a place where there are underwater caves just chock-full-o-fishes. We caught myriad Red Snapper, as well as a bunch of yellow snapper, black snapper, rock snapper, and something that the guide, Luis, kept calling a "hamburger." On the way back south, Luis said "By the way, if we are stopped by any rangers, do not mention the live-well in the boat. Where we just caught those fish is a nature reserve."
Great.
That night, while Luis was cleaning our poached fish, my brother was walking around in the water beside the dock, picking up conch, moving them, and putting them down again for no apparent reason. The guide said, "Hey Todd, you might not want to be in there. There are Moray Eels living under the dock."
"Right." Todd said. "You can’t scare me, Luis."
Just then, a pair of eels sped out from beneath the dock, between Todd’s legs, and attacked the fish entrails Luis had thrown into the water. Todd pulled a Savior moment as he ran across the surface of the water back to the dock. We watched in horrid fascination as the two lime-green leviathan rolled and riled and tore at the bits of snapper. Each was about 4 feet long, and as big around as a soda can. Their ugly, dragon faces masticated fiercely, sending crimson billows out through the water with each bite.
"Those are the babies." Luis said, "The adults are over six feet long, and this big around." He held his hands together as if they were wrapped around a milk jug.
"Fuck" Todd and I said together.
The next day, we dressed back up in our suits and took the boat ride to San Pedro. We had about two hours to kill, so we wandered the town in search of souvenirs for our wives and a particular bar we had not had the chance to visit yet.
The bar was called "Hammock House." It was three stories high, on stilts. It was open air, overlooking the ferry I described earlier. Instead of chairs, there were hammocks and rope seats throughout the bar. You would get your cocktail and then go lie in a hammock while you drank. After a couple of "hangover helpers" I ordered a mango salsa lobster sandwich. Damn that was good.
The Hammock House has a calendar on the wall called "the golf cart drop." When I asked about it, I was informed that it was a betting pool. About once a month, a golf cart gets driven/knocked/dropped off of the ferry. For five bucks, you get to own a date on the calendar. If the golf cart goes in on your day, then you get the pot. I just love the fact that it happens often enough for there to be a betting pool.
We finally made it back to the airport, and who should be waiting to pilot the next flight to Belize City? Our Ass-Tastic Canadian Friend. She took one look at us, said "Gentlemen" and stormed out of the airport. Our flight was delayed a half hour while they tracked down a replacement pilot. Finally, we got on board, and again there was not enough room, so Todd sat in the copilot seat. At one point he convinced our pilot to fly straight into a storm cloud. The resulting pressure drop caused us to fall about 200 feet before the wings bit air again. Todd and the pilot laughed while every passenger buckled their seatbelts.
I found out that the airport in Belize City has a waving gallery for friends and family to come bid their loved ones adieu as they take off. Lord knows the people on the plane can’t see them and probably don’t care, as they’re busy going 300mph and taking off at the time, but it is a nice sentiment.
In my world, where people come and go every day, and where a plane ride is as common place as blondes in L.A., no one takes the time for a fond farewell. Gone are the crowds waving as the ocean-liners leave port. Gone are the beautiful women in polka dot dresses running down platforms beside trains. Gone is just a little bit of the romance, a little bit of the magic, and a little bit of the bravery that it takes to leave home behind.
They won’t remember my name, my face, or even my visit. They certainly don’t miss me now that I’m gone. But on that day, as I took to the skies, a small part of Belize waved goodbye and bent their thoughts toward my safe passage home.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Part 2
A van was waiting for us, so we climbed in with our luggage and asked that we please be taken to a liquor store. After spending forty Belize dollars (twenty US) we climbed back into the van carrying two bottles of rum and a bottle of vodka. The brief Island tour continued as we made our way to the dock where a boat was waiting.
San Pedro is a beautiful, touristy, third world town. There are three streets running through town, aptly named first, middle, and last. They are paved with sand. As far as I’m concerned, any place that is paved with sand is okay by me. There are any number of island shops selling trinkets, restaurants offering up fresh conch and lobster, and bars selling an endless supply of Belliken Beer and One Barrel Rum. We would learn more about San Pedro as the weekend wore on. Finally, the van pulled up by the beach, and we headed out to the waiting skiff. Our bags were loaded up, and we began our 20 minute boat ride to El Pescador, our fishing camp.
The boat ride was past the town, past myriad bars and resorts, and several miles up the island. We were inside the lagoon, and could see the waves breaking against the reef about a half mile away. Inside the reef, the water was calm, and the bottom teemed with exotic life eight feet below our hull. As we flew through the water, I soaked up the warm tropic sun and the light misting of saltwater from the occasional wave. I also opened up the bottle of one barrel and sampled some local culture.
Bob greeted us at the Dock of El Pescador and showed us to the bar, not our rooms. I liked this place already. It was a two story hotel, right on the beach, with an open air bar, a swimming pool, and hammocks strung up between palms. Eventually we found our rooms where we changed out of our suits and into something a bit more comfortable, then settled in to the laid back attitude of our surroundings. Our first night consisted of meeting some other guests, eating a delicious dinner, and falling asleep with the doors to our rooms open. We were miles from town in a tropic paradise, sleeping in clean pressed sheets with a cool breeze blowing in from the water and shaking the palms outside.
6:00am came and we ate Heuvos Rancheros for breakfast. This is fresh flour tortilla, spicy refried black beans, eggs over easy, cheese, and salsa all together on a plate. Hot damn was it good. Then our guide took us out onto the salt flats where we waded and fished for bone fish. We caught some bones, and we caught some barracuda. We also saw some neat bars we wanted to check out that night.
After the fishing, we ate dinner, then convinced Antonio, the bartender at the hotel, to close early and go to town with us. We hailed a taxi by turning the light on at the end of the dock and waiting for a boat to stop, then headed towards the city.
Our initial visit to the city had been a little disorienting because of the errands that our van driver ran with us and our unscheduled liquor store stop. The entire town is actually only about a mile long, and three blocks wide. It is divided at one point by a man-made canal, which is crossed at one point only by a ferry, powered by a strong man and a rope. All day and night, a man pulls the ferry back and forth across the stream using his rope, and charges one dollar per person, or four dollars per golf cart for the privilege. The dock at which we met our boat originally is actually about twenty-five feet from the airport.
There are not enough people on the island to keep all the nightspots hopping all the time, so you end up with a sort of moveable feast. The entire town keeps to a schedule that makes each place completely packed and completely hopping for about two hours per night. We were at Fido’s from 10:00 to midnight, at Jaguars from midnight to 2:00 and Big Daddy’s from 2:00 to 4:00 when the town finally goes to sleep. Fido’s had a live band and a girl that insisted on stroking my leg until I said that I thought I saw my wife at the other end of the bar. Big Daddy’s had a couple of gargantuan zubba-dubbas that Antonio was infatuated with. But Jaguars was an interesting experience indeed.
Jaguars sits on middle street, in the busiest part of town. The entrance is a giant wildcat head with glowing red eyes and smoking nostrils. You walk in through the gaping mouth, and find yourself in a dance club with a jungle motif, drunk college students, and enough laser lights flashing randomly around the room to pose a serious risk to people’s eyesight. It was there, just after they finished playing the Grease Mega Mix (along with projected video) and had gone back to techno music, that we saw Lieutenant Lesbo and her non-pilot life partner. She approached us and said, "Gentlemen! I just want to thank you. I understand that after you got off my plane yesterday, you told everyone I was a lesbian."
Needless to say, this caught us as a bit of a shock. Who would we have told? Why would we have done so? Who was this bitch? "We didn’t say that" I responded in my best bewildered voice.
"Right. Whatever."
"We didn’t say that."
"Sure. I’m supposed to believe that?"
"Yes you are. We didn’t say it. We thought it, but we didn’t say."
That might have been one step too far. You should never insult the person that has power over whether or not you get off of an island in a third world country.
Tune in tomorrow for Part 3: Escape from Ambergris Caye (Abridged)
A van was waiting for us, so we climbed in with our luggage and asked that we please be taken to a liquor store. After spending forty Belize dollars (twenty US) we climbed back into the van carrying two bottles of rum and a bottle of vodka. The brief Island tour continued as we made our way to the dock where a boat was waiting.
San Pedro is a beautiful, touristy, third world town. There are three streets running through town, aptly named first, middle, and last. They are paved with sand. As far as I’m concerned, any place that is paved with sand is okay by me. There are any number of island shops selling trinkets, restaurants offering up fresh conch and lobster, and bars selling an endless supply of Belliken Beer and One Barrel Rum. We would learn more about San Pedro as the weekend wore on. Finally, the van pulled up by the beach, and we headed out to the waiting skiff. Our bags were loaded up, and we began our 20 minute boat ride to El Pescador, our fishing camp.
The boat ride was past the town, past myriad bars and resorts, and several miles up the island. We were inside the lagoon, and could see the waves breaking against the reef about a half mile away. Inside the reef, the water was calm, and the bottom teemed with exotic life eight feet below our hull. As we flew through the water, I soaked up the warm tropic sun and the light misting of saltwater from the occasional wave. I also opened up the bottle of one barrel and sampled some local culture.
Bob greeted us at the Dock of El Pescador and showed us to the bar, not our rooms. I liked this place already. It was a two story hotel, right on the beach, with an open air bar, a swimming pool, and hammocks strung up between palms. Eventually we found our rooms where we changed out of our suits and into something a bit more comfortable, then settled in to the laid back attitude of our surroundings. Our first night consisted of meeting some other guests, eating a delicious dinner, and falling asleep with the doors to our rooms open. We were miles from town in a tropic paradise, sleeping in clean pressed sheets with a cool breeze blowing in from the water and shaking the palms outside.
6:00am came and we ate Heuvos Rancheros for breakfast. This is fresh flour tortilla, spicy refried black beans, eggs over easy, cheese, and salsa all together on a plate. Hot damn was it good. Then our guide took us out onto the salt flats where we waded and fished for bone fish. We caught some bones, and we caught some barracuda. We also saw some neat bars we wanted to check out that night.
After the fishing, we ate dinner, then convinced Antonio, the bartender at the hotel, to close early and go to town with us. We hailed a taxi by turning the light on at the end of the dock and waiting for a boat to stop, then headed towards the city.
Our initial visit to the city had been a little disorienting because of the errands that our van driver ran with us and our unscheduled liquor store stop. The entire town is actually only about a mile long, and three blocks wide. It is divided at one point by a man-made canal, which is crossed at one point only by a ferry, powered by a strong man and a rope. All day and night, a man pulls the ferry back and forth across the stream using his rope, and charges one dollar per person, or four dollars per golf cart for the privilege. The dock at which we met our boat originally is actually about twenty-five feet from the airport.
There are not enough people on the island to keep all the nightspots hopping all the time, so you end up with a sort of moveable feast. The entire town keeps to a schedule that makes each place completely packed and completely hopping for about two hours per night. We were at Fido’s from 10:00 to midnight, at Jaguars from midnight to 2:00 and Big Daddy’s from 2:00 to 4:00 when the town finally goes to sleep. Fido’s had a live band and a girl that insisted on stroking my leg until I said that I thought I saw my wife at the other end of the bar. Big Daddy’s had a couple of gargantuan zubba-dubbas that Antonio was infatuated with. But Jaguars was an interesting experience indeed.
Jaguars sits on middle street, in the busiest part of town. The entrance is a giant wildcat head with glowing red eyes and smoking nostrils. You walk in through the gaping mouth, and find yourself in a dance club with a jungle motif, drunk college students, and enough laser lights flashing randomly around the room to pose a serious risk to people’s eyesight. It was there, just after they finished playing the Grease Mega Mix (along with projected video) and had gone back to techno music, that we saw Lieutenant Lesbo and her non-pilot life partner. She approached us and said, "Gentlemen! I just want to thank you. I understand that after you got off my plane yesterday, you told everyone I was a lesbian."
Needless to say, this caught us as a bit of a shock. Who would we have told? Why would we have done so? Who was this bitch? "We didn’t say that" I responded in my best bewildered voice.
"Right. Whatever."
"We didn’t say that."
"Sure. I’m supposed to believe that?"
"Yes you are. We didn’t say it. We thought it, but we didn’t say."
That might have been one step too far. You should never insult the person that has power over whether or not you get off of an island in a third world country.
Tune in tomorrow for Part 3: Escape from Ambergris Caye (Abridged)
Friday, March 25, 2005
Part 1
We started drinking before we left the hotel. Nothing unusual there. It was after five….am.
There we were, three weary travelers, surrounded by blackness, making our way to the airport with our luggage over our shoulders and bottles of Black Seal Rum held tight within our grasp. We had a long day ahead of us, and we needed to be fortified against it. We each took another swig.
At the airport, we checked our bags all the way through to Belize City, and carried our meager supply of booze and books aboard. The waitress came over shortly after takeoff and asked what I wanted to drink. I suggested that I might like to have several bottles of gin, at which point she smiled her “I hope there’s an air-marshal on this flight” smile and backed away toward the gin storage place. I poured myself into Heinlein’s Expanded Universe and drank rum while I waited on my cocktails. After sometime between 2 minutes and an eternity later, my gin arrived, and I was able to overcome my fear of flying sober. Several cocktails, a complete and total failure to sleep on the plane, and a layover in Houston later, we landed in Belize city. When I stepped out of the plane wearing my winter clothing, into the tropic heat, two things happened. My clothes immediately absorbed all of the moisture in the air and began sticking to my body, and my story really began.
There she was. A vision in uniform. 6’2” of blonde-haired, blue-eyed Canadian. A hot little Tropic Air pilot all wrapped up in a big ball of butch. And boy did she hate us. Maybe it was our coarse humor. Maybe it was the way we each get more chicks than she does. Maybe it was our penises. But there was something about us that rubbed her the wrong way. And she had no problem making sure we knew that she was boss on the airplane, and we had to straighten up and fly right. Which we did not do.
Tropic Air flies little commuter flights all over Central America, servicing the ports of call that just don’t quite have room for 747s to land between croc’ infested swamps and poisonous snake infested jungles. They don’t really adhere to the FAA rules and regulations when it comes to, well, anything. Our particular plane was overbooked, so a girl had to sit on a guy’s lap, and seatbelts were not a requirement. The little plane began accelerating from a standstill, and took the final turn onto the runway at about 40 mph, on two wheels. A few hopping false-starts, and we were airborne, with Captain Bulldyke winging us toward the Island Paradise of Ambergris Caye. (Yes, I said Ambergris Key in an earlier update. I’m too fucking lazy to change it now, and I was drunk while I was there, so, fuck off. Besides, I’ve seen it spelled both ways, and so I am going to alternate my spelling as much as I fucking like. Fuck).
Fifteen minutes later, we began our descent towards the Island. Ambergris Caye is an Island formed from coral. The sand is very coarse and sharp, there is nowhere on the island higher than about 15 feet above sea level, and it is completely surrounded by the second largest barrier reef in the world and a 10 foot deep lagoon filled with sharks, barracuda, rays, tarpon, permit, bonefish, and moray eels. More on this later. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and produces nothing of use. Oscar Wilde would have loved it for it’s pure aestheticism, not marred in the least with purpose. It’s only export is tourism, and it somehow imports enough rum to keep me in my cups, and enough gorgeous examples of T&A to make your eyes continually do that “AWOOOOGA” cartoon thing. The fishing is divine, the scenery is beautiful, and the company I was keeping knew how to get in trouble.
We stepped out of the airport (read: Big field with a chain link fence around it) and into part 2 of the story.
We started drinking before we left the hotel. Nothing unusual there. It was after five….am.
There we were, three weary travelers, surrounded by blackness, making our way to the airport with our luggage over our shoulders and bottles of Black Seal Rum held tight within our grasp. We had a long day ahead of us, and we needed to be fortified against it. We each took another swig.
At the airport, we checked our bags all the way through to Belize City, and carried our meager supply of booze and books aboard. The waitress came over shortly after takeoff and asked what I wanted to drink. I suggested that I might like to have several bottles of gin, at which point she smiled her “I hope there’s an air-marshal on this flight” smile and backed away toward the gin storage place. I poured myself into Heinlein’s Expanded Universe and drank rum while I waited on my cocktails. After sometime between 2 minutes and an eternity later, my gin arrived, and I was able to overcome my fear of flying sober. Several cocktails, a complete and total failure to sleep on the plane, and a layover in Houston later, we landed in Belize city. When I stepped out of the plane wearing my winter clothing, into the tropic heat, two things happened. My clothes immediately absorbed all of the moisture in the air and began sticking to my body, and my story really began.
There she was. A vision in uniform. 6’2” of blonde-haired, blue-eyed Canadian. A hot little Tropic Air pilot all wrapped up in a big ball of butch. And boy did she hate us. Maybe it was our coarse humor. Maybe it was the way we each get more chicks than she does. Maybe it was our penises. But there was something about us that rubbed her the wrong way. And she had no problem making sure we knew that she was boss on the airplane, and we had to straighten up and fly right. Which we did not do.
Tropic Air flies little commuter flights all over Central America, servicing the ports of call that just don’t quite have room for 747s to land between croc’ infested swamps and poisonous snake infested jungles. They don’t really adhere to the FAA rules and regulations when it comes to, well, anything. Our particular plane was overbooked, so a girl had to sit on a guy’s lap, and seatbelts were not a requirement. The little plane began accelerating from a standstill, and took the final turn onto the runway at about 40 mph, on two wheels. A few hopping false-starts, and we were airborne, with Captain Bulldyke winging us toward the Island Paradise of Ambergris Caye. (Yes, I said Ambergris Key in an earlier update. I’m too fucking lazy to change it now, and I was drunk while I was there, so, fuck off. Besides, I’ve seen it spelled both ways, and so I am going to alternate my spelling as much as I fucking like. Fuck).
Fifteen minutes later, we began our descent towards the Island. Ambergris Caye is an Island formed from coral. The sand is very coarse and sharp, there is nowhere on the island higher than about 15 feet above sea level, and it is completely surrounded by the second largest barrier reef in the world and a 10 foot deep lagoon filled with sharks, barracuda, rays, tarpon, permit, bonefish, and moray eels. More on this later. It is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and produces nothing of use. Oscar Wilde would have loved it for it’s pure aestheticism, not marred in the least with purpose. It’s only export is tourism, and it somehow imports enough rum to keep me in my cups, and enough gorgeous examples of T&A to make your eyes continually do that “AWOOOOGA” cartoon thing. The fishing is divine, the scenery is beautiful, and the company I was keeping knew how to get in trouble.
We stepped out of the airport (read: Big field with a chain link fence around it) and into part 2 of the story.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Trouble in Paradise
Blondage and I (oh yeah, during the hiatus she went through a rainbow of different colors, and ended up dipping her hair in the pot of gold at the end) have been trying to figure out where to go on vacation. One of the requirements of marrying me is that I have to show her the world. So far, I’ve shown her Lubeck.
Not a good start.
So we have decided that we should go somewhere in May/June for a few days. Originally, I wanted to take her to Paris, but the whole "buying a house" thing really fucks with your finances.
Instead, we are looking at domestic travel. She loves the beach, whereas I loath sand, saltwater, and sun. Really, the only good thing about the beach is sitting one of those tiki huts, drinking boat drinks, watching bikinis bounce in the surf.
She prefers a vacation where you get some much needed R&R, and are refreshed when you get back home. I prefer to not risk missing anything, and get up earlier and go to bed later when I’m on vacation. There’s a whole world full of bikinis bouncing in the surf, and I don’t want to miss one of them. Also, there’s art, culture, history, and more gin and scotch than I could ever hope to drink. I can’t afford to miss a second. Hell, I don’t think you need a hotel when on vacation, just grab a nap in the cab between stops.
She prefers four stars. And room service.
Anyway, we’re trying to find a nice compromise between a hot-sandy-salty hell and curling up under a set of stairs at the dodgy end of Fifth Avenue. Blondage was looking into Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, but I’m thinking that maybe Paris would be cheaper and easier to get to. So now we’re talking about driving to Niagara.
I think that sounds nice:
Romance. Awesome scenery. Canadians. Everything a boy could want.
Blondage and I (oh yeah, during the hiatus she went through a rainbow of different colors, and ended up dipping her hair in the pot of gold at the end) have been trying to figure out where to go on vacation. One of the requirements of marrying me is that I have to show her the world. So far, I’ve shown her Lubeck.
Not a good start.
So we have decided that we should go somewhere in May/June for a few days. Originally, I wanted to take her to Paris, but the whole "buying a house" thing really fucks with your finances.
Instead, we are looking at domestic travel. She loves the beach, whereas I loath sand, saltwater, and sun. Really, the only good thing about the beach is sitting one of those tiki huts, drinking boat drinks, watching bikinis bounce in the surf.
She prefers a vacation where you get some much needed R&R, and are refreshed when you get back home. I prefer to not risk missing anything, and get up earlier and go to bed later when I’m on vacation. There’s a whole world full of bikinis bouncing in the surf, and I don’t want to miss one of them. Also, there’s art, culture, history, and more gin and scotch than I could ever hope to drink. I can’t afford to miss a second. Hell, I don’t think you need a hotel when on vacation, just grab a nap in the cab between stops.
She prefers four stars. And room service.
Anyway, we’re trying to find a nice compromise between a hot-sandy-salty hell and curling up under a set of stairs at the dodgy end of Fifth Avenue. Blondage was looking into Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard, but I’m thinking that maybe Paris would be cheaper and easier to get to. So now we’re talking about driving to Niagara.
I think that sounds nice:
Romance. Awesome scenery. Canadians. Everything a boy could want.
Friday, March 18, 2005
What’s the Plural of Hiatus?
Hiatuses? Hiati? Hyatts?
Whatever.
That’s where I’ve been. On Hiatians. I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching over the last five months, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have one.
More details will come along later, but for those of you still reading (crickets chirp here…..) I’ll give you the cliff’s notes of the KOTWF’s dealings, in random chronological order:
October: Get married. Spend 7 days cruising through the Caribbean, stopping at such places as Jamaica and Cozymel. Run up a $1,500.00 bar tab on the boat, and sunburn the shit out of myself. Recuperate by spending 3 days and 3 thousand dollars in New Orleans, land of oysters, crawfish, gin-and-tonics, and strip clubs. Ingest far too many of each (except the strip clubs. I didn’t ingest anything in the strip clubs that didn’t come with a lid).
December: Christmas. Spend time with family. Drink lots of champagne. Take Red out for her birthday on New Year’s Eve. Have an all around ducky time.
February: Valentine’s day. Drink several forty dollar bottles of champagne. Get whisky-dick. Ruin marriage. On a lighter note, have former landlord threaten with lawsuit for numerous reasons. My lawyer has asked me to not use the phrase "dickhead" here.
January: Take brief fishing trip with Father and Brother to Ambergris Key in Belize. Actually run entire island out of rum. Also buy a house. I finally have something worth putting a lien on!
November: Thanksgiving. Eat turkey with in-laws. Start strict midwinter weight gain regiment. Celebrate one-month wedding anniversary. Don’t have to remember another anniversary until next year on October, ummmm, shit.
March: Present day. Wonder "where has the time gone." Blow dust off of blog and write this post.
Update: Write this post twice because fucking blogger lost it the first time I tried to publish. Man! I’m jumping back into this blogging thing with both feet, ain’t I?
Hiatuses? Hiati? Hyatts?
Whatever.
That’s where I’ve been. On Hiatians. I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching over the last five months, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t have one.
More details will come along later, but for those of you still reading (crickets chirp here…..) I’ll give you the cliff’s notes of the KOTWF’s dealings, in random chronological order:
October: Get married. Spend 7 days cruising through the Caribbean, stopping at such places as Jamaica and Cozymel. Run up a $1,500.00 bar tab on the boat, and sunburn the shit out of myself. Recuperate by spending 3 days and 3 thousand dollars in New Orleans, land of oysters, crawfish, gin-and-tonics, and strip clubs. Ingest far too many of each (except the strip clubs. I didn’t ingest anything in the strip clubs that didn’t come with a lid).
December: Christmas. Spend time with family. Drink lots of champagne. Take Red out for her birthday on New Year’s Eve. Have an all around ducky time.
February: Valentine’s day. Drink several forty dollar bottles of champagne. Get whisky-dick. Ruin marriage. On a lighter note, have former landlord threaten with lawsuit for numerous reasons. My lawyer has asked me to not use the phrase "dickhead" here.
January: Take brief fishing trip with Father and Brother to Ambergris Key in Belize. Actually run entire island out of rum. Also buy a house. I finally have something worth putting a lien on!
November: Thanksgiving. Eat turkey with in-laws. Start strict midwinter weight gain regiment. Celebrate one-month wedding anniversary. Don’t have to remember another anniversary until next year on October, ummmm, shit.
March: Present day. Wonder "where has the time gone." Blow dust off of blog and write this post.
Update: Write this post twice because fucking blogger lost it the first time I tried to publish. Man! I’m jumping back into this blogging thing with both feet, ain’t I?
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Honeymoon is OVER!
I'm back from the Islands, with my new bride. I just got home, and don't feel like writing much now. Once I'm back in the swing of things, I'll tell you all about the trip. But, until then, I did promise to share my wedding night toast with all of you, so here it is:
Ladies and Gentlemen, fill your glasses. This is going to be a long toast.
Tonight, I am the luckiest person here. Many of you would argue that the Bride is just as lucky. But many of you don’t know me very well. I married well. She could have done better. Be that as it may, I’ll have a few remarks for her in a moment.
First, allow me to address the Bridesmaids. Each and every one of them is the fourth most beautiful woman here, immediately behind the Bride, my Mother-in-law, and my mother, and way ahead of my ex-girlfriend, whom I saw in the shadows at the back, slipping hors d’oevres into her purse. I want to thank you for being here for Jenny. We couldn’t have done it without you. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bridesmaids!
I want to come back to Jenny for a second folks. Here’s to the bride!
Many of you may have noticed the gentlemen standing next to me throughout the service. Over the past few days, these guys have put an awful lot of effort, understanding, and time into helping make today as special as it was. More importantly than that, however, they’ve spent years putting up with me. I chose the groomsmen I did, because they’ve all been an important part of my life, and each of them has played a part in making me who I am today. And each of them will answer for that at the final judgement. I also chose them because they will be important parts of my life, no, Our life, in the years to come. Today could not have been as special as it was if it weren’t for them. My groomsmen!
Speaking of my groomsmen, I’d like to mention a couple of guys in particular. You can see the family resemblance in the ego, because they both think they’re the best man. I suppose, to avoid confusion, we could make Todd Best Man and Tanner Best Boy, but that would make Eric and John Key Grip and Gaffer. No, I think we’d best stick with Best Man 1 and Best Man 2, or Best Men, if you will. All the same, I think I have the best Best Men this side of the Mason Dixon. Todd has always been there for me whenever I needed him, where-ever I needed him, no questions asked. There’s an old joke: “A good friend will bail you out of jail, but a great friend will be sitting next to you saying ‘Damn that was fun’.” Todd would always say, “No officer, I acted alone, he kept telling me to stop.” Tanner, on the other hand, has never once been arrested. He doesn’t smoke cigars or drink whisky. And I’ve never once had to lie for him, or help him bury a body. Don’t worry buddy, you’ve got time. Here’s to my best men.
And while were drinking, let’s have another toast to my wife.
Now’s the part of the speech that I’ve had the most trouble with, except of course finding words that are even close to what I feel for Jenny. What to say about my family that hasn’t been said already at least a half-dozen times in the pages of the police report. I guess what I need to say is that, for better or worse, they’ve made me who I am. And they’ve been tremendous in their support of Jenny and I. Thank you for being here, thank you for everything you’ve done leading up to tonight, and thank you in advance for baby-sitting anytime we ask, for free. My parents!
And, The Love of My Life!
I’d like to address just a couple of words towards a group of people that have made today so special for Jenny and I in so many different ways. All of you. Whether you’ve traveled a thousand feet or a thousand miles, we really appreciate you coming to show us your love and support. I’m trying to see everybody tonight, at least long enough to say “thanks,” so if I don’t make it around to you, please make it around to me and let me shake your hand. You’ve all been an important part of our lives to date, and you will be important parts of our lives for years to come. May you be half-an-hour in Heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.
We’re on the home stretch here folks. Anybody need a refill? If you don’t, then join me in a toast to Jenny. Now how needs a refill? I know I do. I’ll wait…
Of course no groom’s toast would be complete without calling some attention to the folks who have made this evening possible, my new family. Bob, Jerri, Sam, and Rachel have been wonderful, not only through these past, harrowing days, but throughout the last two and a half years. They were probably wonderful before that, but I wouldn’t know. In any event, not a moment has gone by in which I did not feel welcome, appreciated, and even loved. Today I gained a new family, but I haven’t earned a new family. I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing that in the only way I know how: Loving and caring for Jenny. Of all the things you have given me, she is the most wonderful, the most precious, and the most appreciated. And unlike the other things you’ve given me, you won’t find her for sale at Rink’s next weekend. Folks, if there is anybody here tonight that deserves a “Thank You” and a hearty “Here’s to your health” from each and every one of us, it’s the Dahler’s, and specifically Bob and Jerri. Ready guys? “Thank You” on the count of 3. One….Two….Three! THANK YOU!
Finally, I suppose I should say a few words about Jenny. I’ve put it off as long as I can, and I still don’t know what to say. I’ve tried for two and a half years, and still I can’t find the words. Either they don’t begin to say what I want them to, or they are repeated on the radio every fifteen minutes. I guess all I can say is that, every day, from now to eternity, I’m going to try to tell you how I feel, and how much you mean to me. And one day, maybe fifty, or even a hundred years from now, I’ll finally get it right. And you’ll finally know. Until then, I need you to be patient, and understand that for all my faults, I’m trying to be the best husband I can be. Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask that each of you drain your glasses in honor of my bride, because if God made anything better, he kept it for himself!
I'm back from the Islands, with my new bride. I just got home, and don't feel like writing much now. Once I'm back in the swing of things, I'll tell you all about the trip. But, until then, I did promise to share my wedding night toast with all of you, so here it is:
Ladies and Gentlemen, fill your glasses. This is going to be a long toast.
Tonight, I am the luckiest person here. Many of you would argue that the Bride is just as lucky. But many of you don’t know me very well. I married well. She could have done better. Be that as it may, I’ll have a few remarks for her in a moment.
First, allow me to address the Bridesmaids. Each and every one of them is the fourth most beautiful woman here, immediately behind the Bride, my Mother-in-law, and my mother, and way ahead of my ex-girlfriend, whom I saw in the shadows at the back, slipping hors d’oevres into her purse. I want to thank you for being here for Jenny. We couldn’t have done it without you. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bridesmaids!
I want to come back to Jenny for a second folks. Here’s to the bride!
Many of you may have noticed the gentlemen standing next to me throughout the service. Over the past few days, these guys have put an awful lot of effort, understanding, and time into helping make today as special as it was. More importantly than that, however, they’ve spent years putting up with me. I chose the groomsmen I did, because they’ve all been an important part of my life, and each of them has played a part in making me who I am today. And each of them will answer for that at the final judgement. I also chose them because they will be important parts of my life, no, Our life, in the years to come. Today could not have been as special as it was if it weren’t for them. My groomsmen!
Speaking of my groomsmen, I’d like to mention a couple of guys in particular. You can see the family resemblance in the ego, because they both think they’re the best man. I suppose, to avoid confusion, we could make Todd Best Man and Tanner Best Boy, but that would make Eric and John Key Grip and Gaffer. No, I think we’d best stick with Best Man 1 and Best Man 2, or Best Men, if you will. All the same, I think I have the best Best Men this side of the Mason Dixon. Todd has always been there for me whenever I needed him, where-ever I needed him, no questions asked. There’s an old joke: “A good friend will bail you out of jail, but a great friend will be sitting next to you saying ‘Damn that was fun’.” Todd would always say, “No officer, I acted alone, he kept telling me to stop.” Tanner, on the other hand, has never once been arrested. He doesn’t smoke cigars or drink whisky. And I’ve never once had to lie for him, or help him bury a body. Don’t worry buddy, you’ve got time. Here’s to my best men.
And while were drinking, let’s have another toast to my wife.
Now’s the part of the speech that I’ve had the most trouble with, except of course finding words that are even close to what I feel for Jenny. What to say about my family that hasn’t been said already at least a half-dozen times in the pages of the police report. I guess what I need to say is that, for better or worse, they’ve made me who I am. And they’ve been tremendous in their support of Jenny and I. Thank you for being here, thank you for everything you’ve done leading up to tonight, and thank you in advance for baby-sitting anytime we ask, for free. My parents!
And, The Love of My Life!
I’d like to address just a couple of words towards a group of people that have made today so special for Jenny and I in so many different ways. All of you. Whether you’ve traveled a thousand feet or a thousand miles, we really appreciate you coming to show us your love and support. I’m trying to see everybody tonight, at least long enough to say “thanks,” so if I don’t make it around to you, please make it around to me and let me shake your hand. You’ve all been an important part of our lives to date, and you will be important parts of our lives for years to come. May you be half-an-hour in Heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.
We’re on the home stretch here folks. Anybody need a refill? If you don’t, then join me in a toast to Jenny. Now how needs a refill? I know I do. I’ll wait…
Of course no groom’s toast would be complete without calling some attention to the folks who have made this evening possible, my new family. Bob, Jerri, Sam, and Rachel have been wonderful, not only through these past, harrowing days, but throughout the last two and a half years. They were probably wonderful before that, but I wouldn’t know. In any event, not a moment has gone by in which I did not feel welcome, appreciated, and even loved. Today I gained a new family, but I haven’t earned a new family. I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing that in the only way I know how: Loving and caring for Jenny. Of all the things you have given me, she is the most wonderful, the most precious, and the most appreciated. And unlike the other things you’ve given me, you won’t find her for sale at Rink’s next weekend. Folks, if there is anybody here tonight that deserves a “Thank You” and a hearty “Here’s to your health” from each and every one of us, it’s the Dahler’s, and specifically Bob and Jerri. Ready guys? “Thank You” on the count of 3. One….Two….Three! THANK YOU!
Finally, I suppose I should say a few words about Jenny. I’ve put it off as long as I can, and I still don’t know what to say. I’ve tried for two and a half years, and still I can’t find the words. Either they don’t begin to say what I want them to, or they are repeated on the radio every fifteen minutes. I guess all I can say is that, every day, from now to eternity, I’m going to try to tell you how I feel, and how much you mean to me. And one day, maybe fifty, or even a hundred years from now, I’ll finally get it right. And you’ll finally know. Until then, I need you to be patient, and understand that for all my faults, I’m trying to be the best husband I can be. Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask that each of you drain your glasses in honor of my bride, because if God made anything better, he kept it for himself!
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Big Day!
Today I marry the woman of my dreams. Today, Red and I tie the knot, get hitched, walk the plank into shark infested waters with a cannonball attached to our feet. Pick your metaphor.
Anyway, I thought I'd treat you to the text from my toast at the rehearsal dinner last night. When I get back from the honeymoon, I'll tell you all about it, and show you groom's toast from the wedding.
Bon Voyage!
Rehearsal Dinner Toast:
Good evening, and thank you all for coming. Of course, my big toast isn’t until tomorrow night, so I guess that makes this my little toast, or Melba Toast, if you will (stolen directly and shamelessly from Friends).
Out of my last 25 years on this planet, this day, this moment, is the best so far. The people who have been most important to me, my closest friends, are all here. I’m taking the next step toward a complete and happy life. You could even argue that I’m growing up, but you’d be wrong. And tomorrow I marry the woman of my dreams, the most beautiful girl in the world, and the love of my life.
Mom, Dad, Mike, Amy: Thank you for tonight. This has all the accoutrements necessary for a perfect party: the food has been wonderful, the atmosphere is phenomenal, and there is still more wine. I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I appreciate this gesture of support of our marriage. Thank you. Folks, here’s to my parents.
This toast won’t be complete without mentioning Bob and Jerri. Without them, there would be no bride. So, I guess, without them, my life wouldn’t be complete. Tomorrow is the day that Bob and Jerri have really put their effort into, but I want to say thanks today, too. I want to say thanks, because one of your finest achievements, is now the most valuable thing I have. Thank you.
Speaking of which, Jenny, what can I say? Tomorrow, you become my bride, my wife, my life. Tomorrow, we embark on the grandest of adventures. Jen, tomorrow I’m going to toast you, my wife, so tonight I’d like to toast the journey, the experience, the adventure. I’d like to toast those moments I’m looking forward to: Our son’s first steps, our daughter’s junior prom, our week in Paris, our fiftieth anniversary, our first million dollars, and thousands upon thousands of other things that I’m not even expecting, and don’t know to expect. To life, Jenny. To our life.
Today I marry the woman of my dreams. Today, Red and I tie the knot, get hitched, walk the plank into shark infested waters with a cannonball attached to our feet. Pick your metaphor.
Anyway, I thought I'd treat you to the text from my toast at the rehearsal dinner last night. When I get back from the honeymoon, I'll tell you all about it, and show you groom's toast from the wedding.
Bon Voyage!
Rehearsal Dinner Toast:
Good evening, and thank you all for coming. Of course, my big toast isn’t until tomorrow night, so I guess that makes this my little toast, or Melba Toast, if you will (stolen directly and shamelessly from Friends).
Out of my last 25 years on this planet, this day, this moment, is the best so far. The people who have been most important to me, my closest friends, are all here. I’m taking the next step toward a complete and happy life. You could even argue that I’m growing up, but you’d be wrong. And tomorrow I marry the woman of my dreams, the most beautiful girl in the world, and the love of my life.
Mom, Dad, Mike, Amy: Thank you for tonight. This has all the accoutrements necessary for a perfect party: the food has been wonderful, the atmosphere is phenomenal, and there is still more wine. I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I appreciate this gesture of support of our marriage. Thank you. Folks, here’s to my parents.
This toast won’t be complete without mentioning Bob and Jerri. Without them, there would be no bride. So, I guess, without them, my life wouldn’t be complete. Tomorrow is the day that Bob and Jerri have really put their effort into, but I want to say thanks today, too. I want to say thanks, because one of your finest achievements, is now the most valuable thing I have. Thank you.
Speaking of which, Jenny, what can I say? Tomorrow, you become my bride, my wife, my life. Tomorrow, we embark on the grandest of adventures. Jen, tomorrow I’m going to toast you, my wife, so tonight I’d like to toast the journey, the experience, the adventure. I’d like to toast those moments I’m looking forward to: Our son’s first steps, our daughter’s junior prom, our week in Paris, our fiftieth anniversary, our first million dollars, and thousands upon thousands of other things that I’m not even expecting, and don’t know to expect. To life, Jenny. To our life.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Flood Watch
We made the national news.
Ivan the Terrible sent us 20 inches of rain in 20 hours, and gave us the worst flood in 50 years.
I woke up Saturday morning and sat in the front room drinking coffee. After a while, I started to wonder why there was so much goddamn traffic on my road.
That was when it hit me that my road had become a detour because of flooding.
It wasn’t until about an hour later, when traffic suddenly stopped, that I realized just how bad the flooding really was. There was water at the end of my street, and there were boats rowing around in the Movie Gallery parking lot. This was amazing!
Red and I went out on the town, to inspect the damage. I found one store open, and loaded up on used books to see me through the next few days of being flooded in. Then we began looking for a bar.
The only place open was across the river, and about a block from the banks. I parked out front, where it was dry. As I finished my beer, I noticed that all four tires of my car were in water. This shit was rising fast!
That’s when it hit me. Work! We’ve never been flooded before, but we’ve come close a time or two. If this was the worst flood in 50 years, then we were in for it. I paid my tab, and Red and I went for a little spin around the properties.
I was too fucking late. Six warehouses full of material were already filled with muddy river water, and there was no way to get a truck to them in time to get anything out. All I could do was wait until the water went down, and assess the damage.
Which is what I’ve been doing today. Walking around facilities with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, adding up the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of carnage, and slopping through bacteria laden river sludge that the flood and God’s wrath left behind.
Next time God decides to wash away my sins, I wish he’d use Dial.
We made the national news.
Ivan the Terrible sent us 20 inches of rain in 20 hours, and gave us the worst flood in 50 years.
I woke up Saturday morning and sat in the front room drinking coffee. After a while, I started to wonder why there was so much goddamn traffic on my road.
That was when it hit me that my road had become a detour because of flooding.
It wasn’t until about an hour later, when traffic suddenly stopped, that I realized just how bad the flooding really was. There was water at the end of my street, and there were boats rowing around in the Movie Gallery parking lot. This was amazing!
Red and I went out on the town, to inspect the damage. I found one store open, and loaded up on used books to see me through the next few days of being flooded in. Then we began looking for a bar.
The only place open was across the river, and about a block from the banks. I parked out front, where it was dry. As I finished my beer, I noticed that all four tires of my car were in water. This shit was rising fast!
That’s when it hit me. Work! We’ve never been flooded before, but we’ve come close a time or two. If this was the worst flood in 50 years, then we were in for it. I paid my tab, and Red and I went for a little spin around the properties.
I was too fucking late. Six warehouses full of material were already filled with muddy river water, and there was no way to get a truck to them in time to get anything out. All I could do was wait until the water went down, and assess the damage.
Which is what I’ve been doing today. Walking around facilities with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, adding up the hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of carnage, and slopping through bacteria laden river sludge that the flood and God’s wrath left behind.
Next time God decides to wash away my sins, I wish he’d use Dial.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Excuses
It’s like this. You wake up one morning, and realize that you’re not happy with your life. It’s the same thing, day in and day out. Wake up, take aspirin, swear off booze, brush teeth, brush hair, go to work, beat head against wall for 8 hours, blog, go home, eat dinner, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, lie in bed, get the spins, vomit, lie in bed again, sleep, wake up, take aspirin, swear off booze, brush teeth…….
Fuck that shit.
Have you ever had an epiphany, and suddenly the whole world is turned on its ear? I have. One day, I’m sitting at my desk, not accomplishing anything, and I suddenly realized that if I was ever going to get anything done, I had to take matters into my own hands. I had to quit taking excuses as to why something couldn't be done, and as to why we couldn’t change something, and as to why everything always stays the same. So I lit a fire under my own ass, and started making things happen. Not much has changed yet, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I know that I can drag this company there, kicking and screaming if need be.
So, I have spent the last three months working my ass off, getting things going in the right direction, and today I have finally got top management on my side and we are having a meeting about designing and implementing a company wide change in culture. This place is going to start being a fun place to work again!
It’s been a busy three months, but I finally feel like I have enough breathing room to start writing again.
A lot has happened in the last three months, so stay tuned: I’ve got an awful lot to tell you about.
And if any employees are reading this: THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES!
It’s like this. You wake up one morning, and realize that you’re not happy with your life. It’s the same thing, day in and day out. Wake up, take aspirin, swear off booze, brush teeth, brush hair, go to work, beat head against wall for 8 hours, blog, go home, eat dinner, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, drink gin, watch Law and Order, lie in bed, get the spins, vomit, lie in bed again, sleep, wake up, take aspirin, swear off booze, brush teeth…….
Fuck that shit.
Have you ever had an epiphany, and suddenly the whole world is turned on its ear? I have. One day, I’m sitting at my desk, not accomplishing anything, and I suddenly realized that if I was ever going to get anything done, I had to take matters into my own hands. I had to quit taking excuses as to why something couldn't be done, and as to why we couldn’t change something, and as to why everything always stays the same. So I lit a fire under my own ass, and started making things happen. Not much has changed yet, but I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I know that I can drag this company there, kicking and screaming if need be.
So, I have spent the last three months working my ass off, getting things going in the right direction, and today I have finally got top management on my side and we are having a meeting about designing and implementing a company wide change in culture. This place is going to start being a fun place to work again!
It’s been a busy three months, but I finally feel like I have enough breathing room to start writing again.
A lot has happened in the last three months, so stay tuned: I’ve got an awful lot to tell you about.
And if any employees are reading this: THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL MORALE IMPROVES!
Friday, July 16, 2004
Bugs, Man! BUGS!
I think I have some issues.
Last night, I dreamed that I was in my bedroom. But it wasn’t my bedroom. But it was, you know? And I was moving a big dresser around, the kind with a mirror at the back, when I disturbed a nest. Out from behind this dresser come a shitload of insects. There were wasps, and there were hornets, and they were all walking along the ground. Not a single one was flying.
And as I slowly backed up into the corner, they formed ranks on the bedroom floor. All the wasps were on one side of the bedroom, shiny and black. And all the hornets were on the other side of the bedroom, flashing stripes of gold at me.
I remember distinctly seeing sunlight reflected off of a stinger here, and a wing there as they began to march, in unison, across the floor.
Brother, you have not lived until you’ve heard the sound of a thousand wasp and hornet feet hitting the ground simultaneously. It’ll make your blood run cold I’m here to tell you.
Then, suddenly, I had a beekeeper’s smoker in my hand, and I began to advance on the marching horde. As I swung the smoke back and forth across the battlefield/bedroom, they began to retreat. I finally drove every last one of them back behind the dresser, and I heard them angrily buzzing, doing their bee-dance of defiance, plotting their revenge.
That’s when I left the room, closing the door after me. I decided that I would never go into that bedroom again, nor would I ever feel bad for the “giant brain bug” when I watched Star Ship Troopers.
And that’s when I woke up.
Analysis: Like all my dreams, this dream shows that I need to get laid.
I think I have some issues.
Last night, I dreamed that I was in my bedroom. But it wasn’t my bedroom. But it was, you know? And I was moving a big dresser around, the kind with a mirror at the back, when I disturbed a nest. Out from behind this dresser come a shitload of insects. There were wasps, and there were hornets, and they were all walking along the ground. Not a single one was flying.
And as I slowly backed up into the corner, they formed ranks on the bedroom floor. All the wasps were on one side of the bedroom, shiny and black. And all the hornets were on the other side of the bedroom, flashing stripes of gold at me.
I remember distinctly seeing sunlight reflected off of a stinger here, and a wing there as they began to march, in unison, across the floor.
Brother, you have not lived until you’ve heard the sound of a thousand wasp and hornet feet hitting the ground simultaneously. It’ll make your blood run cold I’m here to tell you.
Then, suddenly, I had a beekeeper’s smoker in my hand, and I began to advance on the marching horde. As I swung the smoke back and forth across the battlefield/bedroom, they began to retreat. I finally drove every last one of them back behind the dresser, and I heard them angrily buzzing, doing their bee-dance of defiance, plotting their revenge.
That’s when I left the room, closing the door after me. I decided that I would never go into that bedroom again, nor would I ever feel bad for the “giant brain bug” when I watched Star Ship Troopers.
And that’s when I woke up.
Analysis: Like all my dreams, this dream shows that I need to get laid.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Soon
With the Honeymoon fast approaching, I'm beginning to feel a hankering for the open sea. Almost every night now, I dream about sitting on the balcony, looking out over the Gulf, drinking a Margarita, or, if I drink out of my left hand, a gin and tonic.
Then I wake up in Ohio. And it is raining, because, well, that's what it does here.
And I have to go to work, where I am filling in for 3 people who are all gone at the same time. And I don't have any time to do anything but run from desk to desk, putting out fires and screaming at computers with incoherent threats that sound like a strange mix of the Eskimo word for a "crisp fresh snow that fell overnight but will be a nasty black slush after the Iditarod today" and the Gaelic word for "ouch I just caught my dick in my zipper."
With that in mind, please excuse me for copping out on today's post and leaving you with the lyrics to a song that sums up what I wish I were doing.
Biloxi
Jimmy Buffett
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are dancin' in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off towards New Orleans
Sun shines on Biloxi
Air is filled with vapors from the sea
Boy will dig a pool beside the ocean
He sees creatures from his dream underwater
And the sun will set from off towards New Orleans
Stars can see Biloxi
Stars can find their faces in the sea
We are walking down beside the ocean
We are splashing naked in the water
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are swimming in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off toward New Orleans
With the Honeymoon fast approaching, I'm beginning to feel a hankering for the open sea. Almost every night now, I dream about sitting on the balcony, looking out over the Gulf, drinking a Margarita, or, if I drink out of my left hand, a gin and tonic.
Then I wake up in Ohio. And it is raining, because, well, that's what it does here.
And I have to go to work, where I am filling in for 3 people who are all gone at the same time. And I don't have any time to do anything but run from desk to desk, putting out fires and screaming at computers with incoherent threats that sound like a strange mix of the Eskimo word for a "crisp fresh snow that fell overnight but will be a nasty black slush after the Iditarod today" and the Gaelic word for "ouch I just caught my dick in my zipper."
With that in mind, please excuse me for copping out on today's post and leaving you with the lyrics to a song that sums up what I wish I were doing.
Biloxi
Jimmy Buffett
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are dancin' in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off towards New Orleans
Sun shines on Biloxi
Air is filled with vapors from the sea
Boy will dig a pool beside the ocean
He sees creatures from his dream underwater
And the sun will set from off towards New Orleans
Stars can see Biloxi
Stars can find their faces in the sea
We are walking down beside the ocean
We are splashing naked in the water
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are swimming in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off toward New Orleans
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Date Night
Red and I have an interesting relationship. “Interesting,” I say because of the unavoidable fact that I am nothing but an egregious asshole, parading as corpulent man-flesh. To overcome my lesser qualities, which include such nefarious items as “never being there,” “drinking everything in the house including all the aftershave,” and “being a cold, cold robot of a man with a stone for a heart and a featureless, emotionless mask for a face,” Red has taken to devising new and interesting, relationship building, activities.
Some of these activities are:
1. Getting Married. Like that ever works.
2. Spending More Time at Home. Which just means I don’t have to worry about driving.
3. Having Sex in Positions that don’t necessarily allow us both to watch the latest episode of Law & Order.
4. Talking about Stuff.
5. Date Night.
Most of those are self explanatory. But “what,” you ask, “is date night?”
I’ll tell you.
Date night is one night a week when I quit working, put down my fifth cocktail (and I don’t mean after I’ve had four. I mean the cocktails I drink straight out of the bottle), and spend some QT with my cutie. (God I’m funny).
We’ve been having “date night” for a couple of months now, and I think that it is going incredibly well. I have carefully planned and executed each and every date to create the maximum amount of quality time, all the while being a romantic devil, and a good husband-to-be. I am, after all, the drinking man’s Don Juan. For your enjoyment, and maybe to help you put a little spice in your own love life, here is the rundown of date nights so far.
Week 1: Had to get off to a good start. I cancelled.
Week 2: Called at the last minute to change the day because I had important customers in town. Cancelled the next day.
Week 3: Couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Faked my own death.
Week 4: First actual date night. I misunderstood the concept, and spent the evening boning her best friend.
Week 5: Finally got it. Candlelight, champagne, a chick-flick, and a home-made, tableside Caesar salad. Nothing says love like fire, booze, lesbo-porn, and ground up anchovies and raw egg over lettuce.
Week 6: Last night, I got home about 5:30, and I took Red out to a local microbrew. We split a pitcher of dark beer, and ate some rather good meals. The evening was going well, and we were having fun. We were really enjoying each other’s company, and I was convinced that maybe we’d get to play a quick game of “hide the sausage” before Letterman came on.
Then the Ukrainians showed up.
How am I going to top this next week?
Red and I have an interesting relationship. “Interesting,” I say because of the unavoidable fact that I am nothing but an egregious asshole, parading as corpulent man-flesh. To overcome my lesser qualities, which include such nefarious items as “never being there,” “drinking everything in the house including all the aftershave,” and “being a cold, cold robot of a man with a stone for a heart and a featureless, emotionless mask for a face,” Red has taken to devising new and interesting, relationship building, activities.
Some of these activities are:
1. Getting Married. Like that ever works.
2. Spending More Time at Home. Which just means I don’t have to worry about driving.
3. Having Sex in Positions that don’t necessarily allow us both to watch the latest episode of Law & Order.
4. Talking about Stuff.
5. Date Night.
Most of those are self explanatory. But “what,” you ask, “is date night?”
I’ll tell you.
Date night is one night a week when I quit working, put down my fifth cocktail (and I don’t mean after I’ve had four. I mean the cocktails I drink straight out of the bottle), and spend some QT with my cutie. (God I’m funny).
We’ve been having “date night” for a couple of months now, and I think that it is going incredibly well. I have carefully planned and executed each and every date to create the maximum amount of quality time, all the while being a romantic devil, and a good husband-to-be. I am, after all, the drinking man’s Don Juan. For your enjoyment, and maybe to help you put a little spice in your own love life, here is the rundown of date nights so far.
Week 1: Had to get off to a good start. I cancelled.
Week 2: Called at the last minute to change the day because I had important customers in town. Cancelled the next day.
Week 3: Couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Faked my own death.
Week 4: First actual date night. I misunderstood the concept, and spent the evening boning her best friend.
Week 5: Finally got it. Candlelight, champagne, a chick-flick, and a home-made, tableside Caesar salad. Nothing says love like fire, booze, lesbo-porn, and ground up anchovies and raw egg over lettuce.
Week 6: Last night, I got home about 5:30, and I took Red out to a local microbrew. We split a pitcher of dark beer, and ate some rather good meals. The evening was going well, and we were having fun. We were really enjoying each other’s company, and I was convinced that maybe we’d get to play a quick game of “hide the sausage” before Letterman came on.
Then the Ukrainians showed up.
How am I going to top this next week?
Friday, June 25, 2004
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Relationships
I just read this post over at Jez’s blog, and it got me thinking about Red and I. Red and I have lived together for a year and a half, and I would have trouble calling a place home if she weren't in it.
But it wasn't always that way.
At first, we lived in a smaller place and neither of us ever had our own space. In fact, the place we lived in was so small, that when you closed the front door, the doorknob got in bed with you. And I liked it. It was in those first six months that I realized that living together is TOTALLY different from sleeping over. Even sleeping over every night.
It took quite a while, and two new places, for us to finally get into a good rhythm. A rhythm where we didn’t keep the neighbors awake all night with our yelling. A rhythm where I realized that she’s not just my girlfriend, she’s a person. A rhythm where she realized that I’m a total asshole, and that’s one of the reasons she loves me. A rhythm nation.
We’ve had our ups and downs, our trials and tribulations, our victories and defeats, our hits and misses, our smiles and frowns, our Dean Martins and our Jerry Lewises. Hell, I’ve broken my share of plates, and she’s, well, she’s watched me break my share of plates. And we came through it in the end.
And now she’s wearing a ring that I bought on sale. And we’re getting married in less than four months. And my life is going to be as wonderful as Wonder-Boy wondering if he can carve a statue of Wonder-Woman out of Wonder-Bread.
I guess what I'm saying is that living together has, at different times, been the best and the worst thing to happen to our relationship. I can't blame anyone for not being sure about taking that step, no matter how committed you are to each other.
It’s a big fucking step.
But don't read too much into it if your significant other isn’t sure about sharing an address: Sometimes talking about marriage is easier than sharing a TV remote.
I just read this post over at Jez’s blog, and it got me thinking about Red and I. Red and I have lived together for a year and a half, and I would have trouble calling a place home if she weren't in it.
But it wasn't always that way.
At first, we lived in a smaller place and neither of us ever had our own space. In fact, the place we lived in was so small, that when you closed the front door, the doorknob got in bed with you. And I liked it. It was in those first six months that I realized that living together is TOTALLY different from sleeping over. Even sleeping over every night.
It took quite a while, and two new places, for us to finally get into a good rhythm. A rhythm where we didn’t keep the neighbors awake all night with our yelling. A rhythm where I realized that she’s not just my girlfriend, she’s a person. A rhythm where she realized that I’m a total asshole, and that’s one of the reasons she loves me. A rhythm nation.
We’ve had our ups and downs, our trials and tribulations, our victories and defeats, our hits and misses, our smiles and frowns, our Dean Martins and our Jerry Lewises. Hell, I’ve broken my share of plates, and she’s, well, she’s watched me break my share of plates. And we came through it in the end.
And now she’s wearing a ring that I bought on sale. And we’re getting married in less than four months. And my life is going to be as wonderful as Wonder-Boy wondering if he can carve a statue of Wonder-Woman out of Wonder-Bread.
I guess what I'm saying is that living together has, at different times, been the best and the worst thing to happen to our relationship. I can't blame anyone for not being sure about taking that step, no matter how committed you are to each other.
It’s a big fucking step.
But don't read too much into it if your significant other isn’t sure about sharing an address: Sometimes talking about marriage is easier than sharing a TV remote.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Make Me Stop!
She said she wanted a mink, so I bought her a mink. She said she wanted a silver fox, so I bought her a silver fox. She said she wanted a beaver, so I bought her a beaver. It was ridiculous: the house was full of animals.
She wanted a silver fox, I wanted a new car. We compromised. We bought the fur, but we keep it in the garage.
Red and I are going to have a great marriage. We laid some ground rules, and we’re sticking to them. For example: “Three nights out with the boys every week.” She wants to go out with the boys more, but I won’t let her.
A friend of mine asked, “KOTWF, should I talk to my wife during sex?” I said, “If there’s a phone handy.”
She didn’t like doing the dishes, so I bought her an electric dishwasher. She didn’t like doing laundry, so I bought her an electric washing machine. She complained that now the house is so full of gadgets there’s no place to sit...so I bought her an electric chair.
She has the most beautiful red hair growing halfway down her back. I just wish there were some on her head.
“KOTWF,” she asked, “were there many women before me?” After a pause she said, “Well! I’m still waiting!” I replied, “And I’m still counting.”
As a traveling salesman, I find myself in a lot of strange situations. Once, I broke down on a back country road, and I went to the closest farmhouse to seek accommodations. “Well,” said the farmer, “you’ll have to share a bed with my son.” “Shit,” I replied, “I’m in the wrong joke.”
Take my wife, please!
She said she wanted a mink, so I bought her a mink. She said she wanted a silver fox, so I bought her a silver fox. She said she wanted a beaver, so I bought her a beaver. It was ridiculous: the house was full of animals.
She wanted a silver fox, I wanted a new car. We compromised. We bought the fur, but we keep it in the garage.
Red and I are going to have a great marriage. We laid some ground rules, and we’re sticking to them. For example: “Three nights out with the boys every week.” She wants to go out with the boys more, but I won’t let her.
A friend of mine asked, “KOTWF, should I talk to my wife during sex?” I said, “If there’s a phone handy.”
She didn’t like doing the dishes, so I bought her an electric dishwasher. She didn’t like doing laundry, so I bought her an electric washing machine. She complained that now the house is so full of gadgets there’s no place to sit...so I bought her an electric chair.
She has the most beautiful red hair growing halfway down her back. I just wish there were some on her head.
“KOTWF,” she asked, “were there many women before me?” After a pause she said, “Well! I’m still waiting!” I replied, “And I’m still counting.”
As a traveling salesman, I find myself in a lot of strange situations. Once, I broke down on a back country road, and I went to the closest farmhouse to seek accommodations. “Well,” said the farmer, “you’ll have to share a bed with my son.” “Shit,” I replied, “I’m in the wrong joke.”
Take my wife, please!
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