February 2017 Archives

sick priorities

John's prescription for rage:

  1. Shake hands with a 9 year old.
  2. Immediately eat tacos.
  3. Wake up with the flu.

Now I'm not saying there's causation. But there's causation.

When I feel the flu coming on, my first and only priority is assigning blame. Fuck you, Max, you mustard-stained little petri dish, you filthy maxi-pad of a person. My second thought: "Hey! I don't have to do the treadmill today!"

new oscar prediction

Whenever the newly martyred La La Land team's next movie comes out, they better have plenty of mantle space.

three coins

Some phrasing has struck me as odd this week. First, a relative told me "You're so smart" unironically, which is a first.

The next day, I said "I'm texting my ex's kid" to gathered friends, realizing only after I saw their confusion just how strange that sentence sounds to most people. It would soon be trumped.

The kid and I ended up talking on the phone a bit later, and I gave her permission to eat candy before bed. She handed the phone to Allie, and a minute later I overheard the following conversation:

"Hey! What are you doing? I told you to put the candy away!"

"John said I could."

"What John says doesn't count," Allie said, and for a moment I thought I'd traveled back in time to when we were dating.

"John's a responsible adult."

"WHAT. I MEAN. DUR. WHAT. OH GOOD GOD." Allie sputtered and laughed in that exasperated, punch-drunk way people laugh after they have heard an argument so preposterous, it actually nuked their synapses. She gathered herself. "Your sentence has never been said before in the history of the English language."

decriptude

My normal workout is the dreaded treadmill, but I've been struggling with shin splints for a couple months now. This is an injury that I think about not at all until I'm on the treadmill, and then I think of nothing else. The pain is significant. Rather than keep skipping workouts, I bought an exercise bike.

I have not been on a bike of any kind in 20 years. I well remember my childhood springtime ritual of ass-pain, so I thought, "Let's break in the ol' butt slowly. I'll just do 20 leisurely minutes."

That was yesterday. Today, I cannot imagine sitting on a bike seat again until, oh, let's say 2037.

drinking my way out

Ever since I decided to dump this dump and move again in 2017, I have refused to buy alcohol. Oh, I haven't stopped drinking—see "dump," above—I've just been reducing the weight of my moving truck, one bottle at a time.

First to go were the bourbons. Slurp! Then whiskey and rye and scotch. Next to go was gin. I barely remember Gin Month. Rum was a delightful couple of weeks, but all I have left now is Malibu, which scarcely qualifies. Next up is vodka. After that, things get dire.

Logically, tequila is next, that most nasty of staples. I don't know if I can do it. But the alternative is all the random crap I've accumulated over the past 20 years. The peach schnapps for Allie. The drambuie for Phil. The kahlua for Dorkass back when she was fun, so you know it's old indeed. The creme de menthe for Chandra. The Jaeger for Mark. The butterscotch schnapps for that 19 year old girl back in 1998. [Googles her. Yep, still hot. Sigh.]

It's a memorial in liquid form. I've put time in a bottle.

a little light treason

I know I'm sick of politics, especially as discussed in social media, so I've generally avoided discussing it here. You're welcome.

I am, however, inclined to resurrect the Arrested Development joke in the title.

reretarding

It's time to bring back the word "retarded." I am not insensitive to why it fell out of fashion; I am arguing that the needs of the future trump the sensitivities of the present. Here is my proposal: "retarded" is never to be used to describe those with diagnosed disorders. It's reserved only for the undiagnosed.

Here is our quandry, wrapped up in a tweet inside of petulance immersed in vomitous stupidity:

Capture.PNG

I ask you, gentle reader: how does one not use the word "retarded" when describing someone who:

  1. conflates fictitious consensual sex with an actual President actually boasting about actually committing actual sexual assault, and then
  2. proudly presents this trumped up, straining bullshit as some sort of mic-dropping observation of hypocrisy?
One cannot. There is no other word for it. It's time to take back "retarded." We're obviously going to need it.

schmillennial

I've been ducking Darcy for over a year. No calls, no texts, no contact. It turns out I have an aversion to feeling like a complete failure. I'm weird that way.

13 months of silence were broken last night when she called. Fortunately, it was only minimally depressing. Or maybe I'm just numb to her embrace of mediocrity now. She's still reading career books, wants to work at Microsoft, and her status as Cheating Fuckup's Subjugated Second Choice is further cemented by their new engagement. For the most part, she didn't say the incredibly vacuous things that have pained me. For the most part.

"I'm looking for a different job because of age discrimination here," she said. She just turned 31.

"Yeah, you're old now. And the young folks come relentlessly."

"Ha ha."

"Hey, female 31 is the male 61."

"Anyway, everyone at work is like 15 years older than me, and I just feel like I'll never advance."

Is there anything more quintessentially millennial than arguing that promoting people with 15 more years' experience than you is "age discrimination?"

2020 prediction

Let's get this prediction on the record. The 2020 slogan of the Democratic Presidential candidate TBD:

"Make America America Again."

In technology, an “attack surface” is an avenue for someone nefarious to attack your computer. We strive to reduce the total number of attack surfaces. That’s what all those security patches are.

For me, this thinking has bled into real life. I approach professional and social situations in terms of reducing attack surfaces—limiting the number of ways people can hurt my interests. On the heels of the colossal fuck-up that is my Pittsburgh misadventure, I have zero appetite for more risk. My gestating plan is extraordinarily conservative and is littered with escape hatches.

I described my newfound risk-aversion to Andy and referred to it as “reducing my attack surfaces.” He was confused.

“Attacks from whom?”

“Attacks from God, I suppose.”

“But you don't believe in God.”

“I do for the bad stuff. Hey, did you see my 2016?!”

we begin bombing in five minutes

Anyone who's spent five minutes on reddit considers a dash-cam a necessity on the order of food and water. The world is seemingly filled with brawling Russian drunks, and that must be immortalized.

My new dash-cam has an audio-recording feature. I left it turned on, figuring that it might be useful someday for a court to hear me honking my horn or a cop being a douche. I was driving for about five minutes before I realized that turning off audio recording was imperative. My language is incendiary. I am not a sympathetic subject. I could go to court to fight a parking ticket and end up on death row.

Plus I sing the wrong lyrics a lot, and who needs to hear that?

the porny bartender

Three years ago, I was reading a book in a bar in WA state. When I glimpsed the bartender, I rolled my eyes. She was a robo-babe: fake blonde hair, fake huge boobs, makeup applied with a putty knife, and clothes appropriate only if you're grinding on potential date-rapists in a club. I said nothing to her other than my drink order. Not my kind of people.

About a year later, I was back. She was there again. After neglecting me for a time, she walked over and uncertainly said "Basil Manhattan, up, right?"

It's amazing how all my prejudices melt away if you remember my drink order. My kind of people.

Her name is Katie. Her personality was not remotely what I would have guessed from outward appearances. She's ditzy, kind, weird, and funny. If you took Phoebe from Friends and squeezed her into the body of a coke-addled porn star, you would have Katie. She is, in fact, a former Hooters calendar girl. I cringed when she started to tell me that, and she immediately stopped. "Well now I feel stupid," she said sadly. I felt bad. For all the whorish artifice, she's inwardly dorky and lovable, a devoted girlfriend and stepmom. I like her despite myself.

When I was leaving WA last year, her barstool was one of my last stops. She gave me free drinks, then grabbed my phone. She texted "I owe you $100" to herself, then added herself to my contacts so we could stay in touch. It was a sweet gesture. Not sweet, I didn't stay in touch.

The other night, I went to sleep with earbuds in. Around 3am, Katie texted me. That's when I discovered that she'd assigned herself the "train whistle" text tone. It blared directly into my ears. My subconscious incorporated this into my dream, where I was promptly massacred by a train in my mother's living room.

Being awakened by a porn star is not quite what I imagined.

life in the clouds

My dog, Fredo, has had a couple of seizures in the last month. He'll barf and lose all motor control of his legs, toppling over awkwardly. A minute later, he's fine. The vet ran a battery of tests and found that he's got hypothyroidism. There's no apparent link to the seizures, but I'm hopeful that treating one will treat the other. Regardless, he'll now take two pills a day for the rest of his life. It's been a week, and there hasn't been an episode yet. A seizure episode, anyway.

The pills make him otherworldly gassy. I don't think it's healthy for an organism to emit this smell. And if you're new around here, you should know that he shadows me 24/7. There is no escape. His gas is my gas. His emissions are my inhalations. I'd like to say I'm building up an immunity, but if anything, they're only smelling worse.

God, whatever I did, I'm sorry.

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