Do you ever sit around trying to analyze your dreams?
Well, not me.
Not because Iím not into self-analysis, because, come on, I wouldnít be here if I werenít the Sigmund Freud of self-analysis. No, the only reason I donít analyze my dreams is because I donít remember my dreams. Itís sort of a weird thing considering what a vivid imagination Iíve got otherwise.
I spend most of the day daydreaming. Some former roommates used to call their daydreams ďScenarios.Ē And it wasnít daydreaming so much as actively creating entire situations, or scenarios, loosely based on reality. This scenario making is something sort of displayed on Ally McBeal (back when the show was really hitting its stride).
When sheíd go into her little dream states, with dancing babies and giant tongues, she was creating what weíd independently developed and dubbed ďa scenario.Ē Take the beginnings of an actual event, and spin it out the way we wished it had gone.
It is sort of a sad thing, these scenarios, because I know Iíd fall into them so hard-core that I did very actual real living at that point in my life. Iíd pass someone on the street, want to say something to them, not say anything to them, and then spend the next twenty minutes imagining all the wonderful things that would have happened if Iíd used that snappy opening line I was only able to come up with two blocks too late.
Sometimes my roommates would act out these scenarios with each other, something not really on par with analysis, but very much in the vein of group therapy. At any rate, I donít experience those sorts of waking dreams anymore. Iíve found it entirely more healthful to act out those scenarios with the actual people involved, rather than creating the whole drama in my head later on. Sure, sometimes I still donít have the guts to say what I mean to the person I mean it for, and in those cases a little scenario scripting isnít such a bad thing.
But still, the point is that I donít remember my sleeping dreams, except for the rare occasion, like this morning. It was so cold out that I woke up on my alarmís first ring, instead of my usual 40 minutes of snooze hitting.
If a dream is a movie, I came into this one about 20 minutes late, because the first thing I remember is standing in the desert with a good friend, someone who will remain nameless, because, well, in the dream they were. I donít know how I know, considering this person was entirely imaginary, but they were one of my oldest and closest friends.
We were out on a deserted stretch of highway, in the middle of the desert, standing outside our car, which was obviously all broke down. Why were we in the desert? Well, within the dream, I have no idea, but realistically I can say it had something to do with the fact Iíd just watched Bottle Rocket last night, and they have that whole scene with Anthony and Dignan in the desert next to their broke down car. Why I choose that scene to relive in my unconscious state rather than the one where Luke Wilson has sex with the housekeeper, I will never understand and never forgive myself for.
So, my friend and I were standing outside our car, on the side of the road. I look down at something, and when I look up again, all I see is a pair of blue-sleeved arms swinging down at my head. Iím getting hit over and over by something very hard and heavy. I wake up in my dream and it is several months later. I am certain that my friend tried to kill me, but no one, not my family, friends or the police believe me. All that anyone will admit is that someone did try to kill me, which is obvious because here I am, lying the hospital still bruised and battered. The ďwhoĒ who tried to kill me is still a mystery, to everyone but me.
More time passes, I begin to recover. I see my friend, who I still believe tried to kill me, around in all the usual places. There are all these uncomfortable moments, not made uncomfortable by the fact my friend tried to kill me, but because no one believes my friend tried to kill me. It is very strange, and I begin to feel like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight.
ďMaybe my friend didnít try to kill me after all,Ē I think.
For some reason, I work in a sporting goods store (probably because Iíd spent the afternoon walking around Manhattan, the real Manhattan, stopping in sporting goods stores looking for a new backpack). It is my first day back after my injury. My real life friend Brion works there too. And so does my dream friend/attempted-murderer, who weíll call Jim, for the sake of clarity. Brion tries to convince me that no one tried to kill me, that if I was ever to get on with my life, I need to forget about this, and forgive Jim, even though he didnít do anything.
I contemplate this. As I am thinking, I notice I am wearing a red polo shirt with the name of the sporting good store stitched onto the breast. Brion is wearing a green shirt, also stitched with the name. I scan across the store, and every employee is wearing a different color shirt. I see Jim, and his shirt is blue. Suddenly, I am sure that he did indeed try to kill me. I run across the store, grabbing an aluminum bat as I do. I reach Jim and begin hitting him, each swing of the bat inter-cut with a flashback to Jimís brutal beating of me. My red-shirted swing down, and in my memory Jimís blue-shirted swing down too. It is all so suddenly clear to me.
That was when I woke up, for real. And when I did wake up, the knuckles of both hands were scraped and bleeding.
These are five supposedly meaningful things about where my head is at:
1) I am happy.
After nearly a year of alternately feeling ambivalent and displeased about my life, Iím happy. Now, I canít say everything is going exactly the way I hoped it would be right about now, but since Iíve had a tough time getting what I want, I think Iíve finally learned to be happy with what Iíve got. And I am. Happy.
2) Iím poor.
Since Iíve been out on my own, Iíve been relatively well-to-do. When I was living in Iowa, I never made a ton of money, but the cost of living is so low out there, and I was almost always working at least two jobs (sometimes as many as four). I could pay my rent and utilities, plus keep myself in beer and cigarettes, without ever really struggling. In fact, I left school with nearly $10,000 in the bank, averaged out with my students loans, I was still in the hole, but whatever. When I graduated, I was already making more than nearly every member of my family. I had money to burn (and I did). But, when I hit the real tough patches of unemployment, there was zero income, but still all the old bills to pay. It got so bad that I hadnít even bothered to balance my checkbook since January. Now, Iím actually making money again, and finally getting around to look at my accounts, I realize Iím not really making enough money to cover the sort of lifestyle Iím accustomed to.
3) I donít want a girlfriend.
That probably isnít exactly true. I want someone that I can call up on a Saturday afternoon to make plans for that night and maybe even sleep over occasionally. But, I donít necessarily want one person to fill that role. Iíve never ever dated. Iíve always met someone, add water, stir liberally, and walla - instant relationship!
Iím so very not in that place right now.
Maybe itís a lot to ask, someone to snuggle with, but also the freedom to see a girl out at a bar and know that if I wanted to I could talk to her and get her number and not have to feel guilty about it.
4) I need to do something.
Iím having all this sort of creative impulses that last couple months, and I feel like Iím wasting them. Everyone things they are going to do something big in their life, itís a totally sort of clichť thing, and in reality not everyone is going to do something grand. But I know I will, and I keep feeling that this is my time. I just need to stop being so damn lazy and do it. Whatever it is.
5) I shaved my head.
And I like it.
More on all this at a later date.
The nature of my current job means I get lots of catalogues, some relevant, some mind bogglingly un-so.
Today I got something from a lab safety supply company (creatively named ďLab Safety Supply, Inc.Ē) about chemical storage and handling equipment. Before, Iíd have thrown it in the trash quicker than you can say ďHey, shouldnít you recycle that?Ē But after finding that gem of a picture last week (which, to elucidate yaíll a little more, came from a catalogue for air filtration systems), Iíve been mining these catalogues for office tomfoolery.
And now you, yes you, get to join in on the fun, in what may become a regular Bad Samaritan feature. Iíve not quite been able to come up with a clever, snarky title for this yet. Right now Iím calling it ďFun with Catalogs of the Non-Sex Toy Variety,Ē which is probably is a little long, and doesnít quite roll of the tongue (as opposed to fun with catalogs of the sex toy variety, which almost always involves something rolling off the tongue).
At any rate, here is todayís picture, caption your little heartís out, and remember, please phase your answers in the form of fortune cookie fortune. Or not, it doesnít really matter.
Langenberg (the most useful site I've found in ages, go there now)
I'll be heading out west in a week to a convention in the heartland of America that is Collinsville, Illinois. This rental car is going to need therapy once we're finished with this ride. 1000 miles and 20 hours in a minivan. I need help with tips on staying awake. I can barely stay awake at my desk, let alone hurtling down the interstate at 55 mph.
Does anyone know anything that I should specifically NOT do while I'm down there? Granted, I will be in one of the safest locations in the world due to the company I'll be in, but it's never good to piss off the locals. Like just the other day, when two nice gentlemen (idiots) and their child (ill mannered future inmate/present day monkey) sitting in their SUV decided to talk to me like I was a famous Chinese martial arts action hero. Well, two of them, because we all seem to look alike. I'm pretty sure I'm taller than Jet Li. And I'm also pretty sure that Jackie Chan has better things to do than walk to the transit station to go home after a hard day of coding. Oh well. I get that all the time. Really. And I decided to pretend, as I often do, that I do not understand English. Remember. Don't piss off the locals. They just might shrink your head.
Wowzers. Believe it or not, it is another MG, super drunk post.
The glorious Snaggle is in town this week, unexpectedly, but happily so. Snaggle drove down to Missouri to hang with me on my drive cross country last month, so the least that could be expected of me is to hang out with him, no matter how late Iíll end up being to work tomorrow. If I even make it in at all.
Iíve got nothing productive to say about the evening other than that I had lots of fun. I wish there was more events to relay to you, but Iím so tired, and so drunk, that I havenít quite parsed everything.
But I do know this: Nikki will be heading home from American Idol tomorrow. Gay guys love Justin, also from American Idol. When you hang out with lots of gay guys, straight women will throw themselves at you. One girl forcibly entered her phone number into my cell phone. Another made a point of making sure that our mutual friend had my number.
Seriously though. Thatís all I can really remember. I drank a lot, and had lots of fun. I seriously love when Snaggle is in town. I wish he lived near by.
I need to go to bed now. Then end.
The last time Snaggle was in town and we hung out I ended up 3 hours late to work the next morning. That day ended with me, and my then boss, getting into a screaming argument while standing in the menís room of our office.
That night out with Snaggle was an indirect precursor to me quitting that job, which left me without full-time employment for nearly a year.
Before I met up with him last night I said, ďThings will be different this time.Ē And they were. Sure, I was late to work (only about an hour). And if my boss were in the bathroom room with me, itíd be uncomfortable in and of itself, just because itís one of those one-person bathrooms and I havenít needed someone to help me wipe in years (okay, months).
Besides, this job is much more casual, in every respect. Iím happy here. Itís the kind of place where I can go out and have a great time with a dear friend and come in the next morning late and oozing booze from every pore without anyone giving me shit for it. And really, thatís all Iíve ever wanted from life.
Bad Samaritan is on the verge of a momentous occasion. Since this site first began on October 3rd, 2000 there have been 499,770 unique visits. If the law of averages remains in effect, weíll break 500,000 sometime late Sunday/early Monday.
Of course, those stats are from Site Meter, which is anything but accurate. According to Webtrends Live, the other counter I use, weíve had about 520,000 unique visits since the May before last. But, a milestone is a milestone, and I wont let anything, least of all basic math, tarnish my unabashed joy.
I always say I donít do this for attention, but in lieu of actually winning awards, hits will do. Itíd be nice to be Stanley Kubrick, but Iíll settle for being Steven Spielberg. Of course, itíd be nice to be both, though Iíd hate to have my readers walking out on me like people were doing during the finale of A.I.
I could never have imagined, nearly two years ago, that Iíd get even 100 people visiting this site, much less a half a million. Okay, sure, there probably havenít been 500,000 different people with badsamaritan.com in their location bars; most of the visits have probably come from the same 10 people who regularly comment. There are some crazy stalkers who check the site in excess of 20 times a day, and for that, I love them.
However, there is no way to prove how many unique visitors there have bee, just unique visits. Besides, Iím much happier thinking there are 500,000 people from all over the world (more than 130 different countries) chuckling at our witty writing (not just Mariah Carey Nudie Pictures) on a daily basis, and 499,760 of them are just too shy to comment or send me an email.
In honor of this truly momentous occasion (on par with only the moon landing and the day Pamela Anderson hit puberty), Iíll do something for all of you. If the Site Meter counter () says you are the fabled 500,000 visit take a screenshot (to prove it was you) and let me know. Whoever it is gets a fantastic prize, which will most likely be a bag of hair (I'll explain later). However, I will take suggestions from everyone, and especially the eventual winner, about just what that prize should be.
I probably should begin putting a little more thought into these little contests. Anyway, the next milestone will be two years. See you then.
I had dinner with my Mom last night.
She called up at about 8:30, and fine yes I was home, alone on a Friday night, thanks for pointing it out. Iím not too cool to admit it. But, seriously, even though itís okay, I need to preface the rest of the story by saying I had just gotten home. Iíd spent the early evening at the birthday party of a work bud, and drank four beers and a shot of Jack in about two hours.
I realized when I got up to the bar that last time, looked in my wallet and found nothing but a couple of ATM receipts and my lucky thousand lire note, that I had dropped a lot of cash this week. If I kept drinking at that pace, I knew Iíd be dropping a lot more cash before the night was through. So, I packed it up and when home.
When my mom called me and asked me if I wanted to have dinner, I was still sloshed enough to agree to just about anything. Itís a lucky thing that first call was from my mom, and not Verizon, asking me to switch long distance service, because I get such a sweet deal from Sprint. Yay Sprint!
My motherís invitation was actually to go have dinner with my moms, Aunt and Uncle. I canít recall when the last time I spent an evening with my Moms, Aunt and Uncle without my cousins being there. The last time must have been around twenty-two years ago, right before the first one of the little brats was born and stole the attention that had previously been showered on me and me alone for the past four years. But, hey, Iím over that now.
The thought of having dinner, alone, with the older generation, made me feel like Iíd finally arrived. Let me tell ya, this is one fella who wonít be sitting at the kiddie table come this Thanksgiving! Forget pubic hair, getting my driverís license, or having paid my own way for the past eight years, today I am finally a man.
In a tizzy of maturity, I turned off Sabrina the Teenage Witch and bounced over there.
Does this kid look happy or sad to you? Some other emotion? What is happening in this picture? Please remember to phrase your answers in the form of a fortune cookie.
I saw something yesterday that really got me thinking about this whole blogging thing again. I’ve been at this for coming near on two years now. Isn’t it strange, but as much as I complain about it, it feels like I only started yesterday. And, come to think of it, two years is a short time, practically.
But in Internet Time (which surpasses even New York Hot Spot Time in it’s ratio of actual time to perceived time) two years is practically a geological epoch.
Yep, it’ll be two years come October, which seems like an awful long way off now, is less than two months away, and I’ve already been back at work for that long now. It seems like I’ve been back to work forever (I think everyone feels that way about their jobs), but the calendar and my bank account would disagree. Two months is a very short time, and if I’d been planning on throwing a party to celebrate the event, I’d need to be on the ball with that already. But I’m not going to throw a party; in fact, I probably wont even commemorate the date at all.
Why won’t I? Well, September 11th is just a few short weeks before, and even though a year has passed, I feel very uncertain about celebrating anything, much less something so trivial as a weblog.
Not to mention there have been plenty weblogs around even longer than venerable old Bad Samaritan. I met several of them at Blog Party last week, and I’d link them (not to mention all the other cool people I met) if I weren’t so darn tired.
Plus, really, who wants all the hassle of planning a party?
What I may commemorate, however, or at least mention now, is that sometime this week Bad Samaritan will be receiving it’s 500,000 unique visit (according to Site Meter, which is, undoubtedly, off a bit). It took 16 months to get the first 250K, but only another 6 to get the net 250K. I suppose I should be proud of that, and, damnit, I am. Some of you bastards may have more comments, or have been around longer, or have gotten interviewed by Wired, but I get thousands of people coming here every week looking for priests spanking boys, amongst other things.
Anyway, the whole reason I wanted to talk about blogging is because I saw a dude at the free Sonic Youth concert in Central Park yesterday wearing a Blogger T-shirt. I didn't end up talking about that at all. But, I will tell you this: I didn’t know whether to walk up to him and hug him, slap him, or ask for his URL and politely walk away. I did none of the above.
Just in time for the holiday season, y'all....
So, I'm driving home from work the other day, listening to Andrei Codrescu on National Public Radio. He was realting a story about how someone had put their soul up for auction on Ebay. Apparently, the bidding had risen to $400 before Ebay officials put the kibosh on the auction. Why not, I thought? Someone tried to auction off their virginity a couple years ago. Last year, a female German radio personality ran an online contest, which required contestants to describe in detail the sexual acts they would perform on her. The winner got to spend the night with her AND also won two tickets to a Madonna concert in Stuttgart. Apparently, the winner was quite talented, in both the literary and the sexual context. But, I digress....
I was really quite intrigued by the idea of putting one's soul up for auction. It struck me that there are so many variables involved in the marketing of one's soul. For instance, does a soul depreciate? Or is the soul a timeless vessel containing the essence of a person? It would seem to me that a soul that does not depreciate would be much more valuable than the alternative.
Of course, there is the question of how one would transfer ownership of his or her soul. It's not like an automobile, where you simply sign over the title. How does one take possession of an invisible metaphysical concept? A related question would be: How does one prove ownership of a soul? There are no legal documents, no title that defines ownership.
Then there is the matter of packaging and shipping. A soul has no weight or volume, so you can't very well ship it via UPS overnight. Is a soul digital or analog? Could it be downloaded (or uploaded) via the Internet?
Since it has no weight or volume, and is also invisible, how would you know when you have actually taken delivery of a soul? And even if you could determine that you had received a soul, how would you know that it was the RIGHT one? Souls don't come with labels or identifying marks- they're invisible, after all.
Of course, you'd definitely want to make sure that you purchased your soul from a reputable source. You probably wouldn't want to buy a soul from Enron, WorldCom, or Adelphia, would you??
You'd also want to make sure that you purchased a high-quality soul. Would a soul from Hammacher Schlemmer be of better quality than a soul from Toys R Us or WalMart? Is there a third-party watchdog group that monitors and certifies the quality of souls?
It might also be wise to check to see if you could get a better deal on a soul by waiting until the end of the model year. That's when dealers will normally discount current inventory to clear their shelves for the next model year. You might get a better deal if you can wait until the last minute to purchase your soul.
I'm not so sure that I'd want to purchase a soul on Ebay, though. Too many unanswered questions, really. Is the soul new? Used? What condition is it in? How many miles? Is it still under warranty? IS there a warranty? Will the color go with the decor of my living room? What if the soul is defective, or merely tainted with evil? Is their any sort of return or exchange policy?
As you can see, there is a lot more to buying a soul than one might think. In an effort to help, the US Government Publishing House in Pueblo, CO, has published a pamphlet: "What To Look For When Shopping For A Soul". It's the companion to "Federal Regulations Governing The Interstate Sale And Transportation Of A Soul".
When buying a soul, be careful. Shop around, and ALWAYS remember: Caveat emptor!!
Fame, as you may have heard but not known first-hand, is a strange and mystifying beast. They donít teach you anything about dealing with fame in school, in much the same way they tiptoe around the mechanics of cortius, or whatever the Latin word for sex is.
As I have mentioned many times, I am an electronic musician, and I work pretty darn hard to promote myself. Admittedly, a lot of people put in a good word for me to those that count in the music world, but then again, they probably wouldnít be doing so if they thought it would be a waste of their time.
Anyway, all this publicity and hype is turning into recognition. So far, Iím getting enough recognition to make myself feel pretty good, but not enough for me to feel hassled. Sure, fame does have itís costs, but considering I have taken precautions to ensure that I can still walk down the street without having people try to rip patches of my clothes to treasure as mementos of our crossing of paths, I figure Iíll gain more than I lose.
Combined with the fact that I am no longer driving myself crazy thinking about certain members of the opposite sex, I am now free to impress people at parties by talking about how talented I am, and clapping with one hand.
While it is usually the fame bit that grabs the fishís attention, it is the one hand clapping that gets them to take the bait. In fact, I managed to get the phone number of somebody I didnít know at a party last weekend, all by clapping with one hand.
Let me clarify this a little: I started clapping with one hand, and this chick said, ďhey, youíre an interesting guyÖ want my phone number?Ē Of course, a few moments later she mentioned that she would be leaving for Japan within the week, but if had been sober enough to think straight, I would probably have started clapping with one hand again to get her to stay.
While this newfound skill (the picking up using the one-handed clapping, not the one handed clapping itself) has yet to result in bunky, it made great conversation material for my radio interview yesterday. Yes, I was on radio. Because Iím famous. People want to hear about famous peopleís love lives. Iím just giving the public what they want. Arenít I nice?
I wanted to warn you now that you are all in for a world of shit. The next couple weeks around here are going to be painful to read.
No, its not some existential crisis Iím trying to work out in front of you all. I donít think Iím slowly turning into a giant bug and as a result the writing here will swiftly shift from my normal elegant prose into a series of ďkmjkjnĒ and ďdfxsl,kdxvcĒ and ďiower4sexd ns9Ēas I slump my body, now covered in a chitinous exoskeleton, against the keyboard in vain attempts to express myself.
No, itís definitely not that.
But itís damn close.
The real reason I say you are in a world of shit is that I am in the middle of reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. Infinite Jest, from my short time with the novel, can best be described as what would happen to Salingerís Glass Family, if the rest of the story was told by William S. Burroughs.
But, seriously, that isnít what I wanted to talk about. The actual story of the story is of no concern to this story. What is of concern, and believe me, you should all be stunningly concerned, is Wallaceís writing style.
If youíve never noticed (but I hope you have), Iíve got kind of a unique writing style. It is this weird combination of formal and informal that seems really indicative of the type of personality who got a degree in technical writing but uses the things he learned to mostly write boob and scatological jokes. Which sort of makes sense considering I got a degree in Technical writing and do make quite a few boob and scatological jokes.
I donít really know Wallaceís biography, but Iím guessing from his prose that he has a degree in Technical writing (or something worse, like Rhetoric), and makes a lot of boob and scatological jokes. He just has this way about his words that make it pretty obvious that he knows the rules, god damnit, and thatís why heís breaking them. You know?
Any way, as much as I am the way I am with my prose, Foster is ten times more so. Perhaps it only seems that way because, though I am 160 pages into Infinite Jest I am still got 900+ pages to go, including nearly 100 pages of footnotes. To a novel. Footnotes.
Foster has a style that isnít for everyone. Iíd venture to say it isnít for most people. As much as even Iím digging on David Foster Wallace right now, I imagine even I might get sick of him somewhere around page 753, especially if I find myself constantly flipping back and forth between narrative and sometimes painfully parenthetical footnotes and errata.
To tell the truth, my writing style annoys me often. I wish I could be formally formal, or informally formal. But Iím stuck being formally informal. Or is it informally formal? Regardless, I annoy myself sometimes and I imagine I annoy others sometimes.
So, Fosterís got a similar writing style, itíll take me about a month more to get all the way through the novel (which has 100 pages of footnotes. Did I mention the footnotes?), and Iíve got this habit of falling into the same vocal patterns as those around me. Take all those facts together, stir them together on this here website, and Iíve set the stage for some potentially irritating prose.
And I just wanted to warn you.
Iíve this awful habit of coming up with these ridiculous and inane questions. Normally, Iíll go around posing them to everyone about me until one of them come up with a suitable answer or I can synthesize enough of the unsuitable ones to come up with something that sounds like it holds water, scientifically (as opposed to just going on Google and looking it up and getting the real answer).
But, Iím still relatively new here at work and I donít want to damage peopleís already fragile opinions of me any further. How was I supposed to know when they said there was a ďno shortsĒ policy that while it did mean I wasnít allowed to wear shorts to work, I was still supposed to wear pants?
At any rate, just one such absurd question occurred to me this afternoon, and since I canít ask it of those around me physically, Iíll ask those around me virtually Ė you poor bastards.
Okay, so here it is: When someone (certainly not me) saves money in preparation of having children, buying a station wagon, putting a down payment on a home, and all those other oh-so-very adult things, they say they are adding to their ďnest egg.Ē
Wouldnít they actually mean they were adding to your ďegg nestĒ?
You know, how birds and stuff will grab up twigs, Marlboro butts, and candy wraps in their cute little beaks and add them and other biomaterials to make a nest for their eggs. We add 15% of our pre-tax income to a hedge fund in order to send our kids to college. Itís the same thing, right?
I mean, if you canít afford to send your kids to college without saving up for thirty years prior, much less send them to one of New Englandís finest boarding schools, you really shouldnít be adding any more eggs to your nest, no matter how fun it is to get fertilized, if you know what I mean. Itís one thing if you were a bird, all you have to do is find a couple worms a day, sure the chewing and regurgitating thing would get a little tired, and might be cause for bulimic concern amongst a human population, but once your chicks are our of the nest and flying, you really never have to worry about them again.
So, how come, etymologically, when birds do it they are making a nest for their eggs and when humans do it we are making more eggs for our nest?
Please phrase your answer in the form of a question, use no more than 300 words, and hand your blue books to me at the end of class.
Here we are, nearing 3 am on a Sunday night (or is it Monday morning?) and Iím so tired and full of left-over drunkenness (because Iím surely not still drunk?), that Iím actually going to sit down and write something for you all.
Is that what its come to?
I have to be so tired and/or drunk that I canít see straight, much less think straight, that I can actually sit down and feel comfortable enough to share this new piece of myself with you all? If that is really what this has come to, maybe it is really time to shut down, for good, no jokes, no tricks, just the end.
ButÖ I guess that is a conversation to have with myself at some A.M. hour when the sun has actually lifted itís lazy ass above the eastern horizon. For now, youíve got me, vulnerable, tired, drunk and ready to spill the beans.
Iíd never intended this site to be, but it has become a place for me to excise those little demons not polite to showcase in front of a polite dinner crowd. But now, many of those very same people Iíve always considered part of my polite dinner crowd are also among you Bad Samaritan readers, and Iím starting to feel a might bit self conscious about what I say here.
Even though Iím uncomfortable saying this, havenít even revealed it to some of my closest friends, I feel safe saying that Iíve fallen in love. The unfortunate irony of the situation, and, in my life there is always an unfortunate irony, is that I didnít realize I loved this woman until I was helping her move half way across the country.
The other unfortunate irony of the situation is that Iíve also realized Iím a charming and attractive man capable of chatting up an anonymous skirt while celebrating the birth of a friend at the Bohemian Hall and Garden.
My friend B., one of the best, had a birthday today, and we celebrated by having dinner and drinks at the Bohemian Hall and Garden, this wonderful establishment Iím sure Iíve mentioned previously. We arrived around 5:30, and I arrived home just a short while ago. All in all, I drank lord knows how much, lets just say ďa lot.Ē I was also there for about 9 hours, most of which were spent chatting up a friend of a friend whoíd crashed the party.
Do you see what Iím dealing with now? In love with someone I canít have, and charming the pants of someone I donít love (seriously, Iím pants-removing charming). Itís like a Greek tragedy. Or maybe more like an episode of a badly written sitcom. Only, I hope no one dies at the end of this story, and we donít have to break in the middle to hawk Depends Adult Undergarments.
Iím not sure what I want of all of you. But I just wanted you to know what was happening. And maybe I was feeling a little guilty, and wanted to get this all in the open, though, lord knows what Iím feeling guilty about since Iíve done nothing wrong. I think. Iím really just confused. And tired. And also a little left over drunk, since I canít still be really drunk.
Keith Olbermann is reporting in Salon that as many as three teams may have voted NOT to authorize a strike by the Player's Union. While this fact, if true, will not prevent a strike, it does put the lie to the unified front that Donald Fehr would want. In a strike situation, the trite adage "United we stand, divided we fall" is generally a true statement.
I keep hoping against hope that the owners and players will come to their senses. Of course, you might also think that I believe in the tooth fairy. I don't, but I really do not want to have to deal with the fallout of another strike. There have been nine work stoppages since 1972, and baseball has survived in spite of itself. I don't know that it would be able to weather another strike.
Many people that I know have said unequivocally that if there is a baseball strike, they're done. No ifs, ands, or buts. They will not go to another game, though a few may watch games on television. Generally speaking, they see no reason to subsidize a gaggle of multimillionaires who are concerned only with themselves. Me? I wish I could be so unequivocal.
Last Saturday night, I sat in the right field stands at the Ballpark at Arlington and watched the Texas Rangers beat Oakland 10-6. Two weeks prior to that, I sat in the right field stands at Jacobs Field and watched my beloved Minnesota Twins beat Cleveland 8-5. Next week, I'm going to Minute Maid Park to watch Houston play Florida. Two weeks later, I'll be at the BOB in Phoenix to watch Arizona play Cincinnati. My point is not to brag, just to point out that I LOVE baseball. No matter how angry I would be if there is a strike, I just can't bring myself to swear the game off.
In a perfect world, the owners and players would recognize the breadth and scope of what they are jeopardizing and do the right thing. Given the depth of mistrust and hostility between the two sides, perfection is likely not in the cards. We all may have to find another summertime diversion...perhaps the XFL was a year too early....
Dick Cheney IS still Vice-President, isn't he?? Has anyone seen him in the past few weeks? This is beginning to feel like the old "aging Soviet leader death watch" from the Cold War. Actually, Cheney does sort of resemble Yuri Andropov....
Al-Qaeda is reportedly forming new cells. This makes me wish I hadn't slept through 10th-grade Biology. Cell division always baffled me....
New research is out that links cancer in cats to second-hand smoke. Damn; now I have to figure out a way to convince my dog to stop smoking....
OK, so he's 52 years old. Who cares?? Bruce Springsteen is still The Boss. I just bought his new album, and, lest I date myself, if I listen to it with my eyes closed, I'm back in college again. I would highly recommend it.
The first anniversary of 9.11 is just a few weeks away. Will the media pull out all stops in an effort to gain ratings points? They would never be so crass...would they? Really??
Weblogs are beginning to play a role in keeping mainstream media honest. The current whipping boy seems to be the New York Times. Hey, it wouldn't hurt if it weren't true....
A suggestion for all the women in the studio audience: if you're going to use your Mercedes to murder your husband, don't leave it parked on top of him. That could be considered bad form....
By the end of this season, I will have been to four Major League parks (it would have been five, if the Twins had been in town while I was in Minneapolis). I'm wondering, though; will be there be a season to celebrate come October?
From the "Some People Just Deserve Each Other" Department: a couple in Houston ended up in the hospital last night after they stabbed one another during an argument. Thank God these two are inflicting themselves on each other....