Words of wisdom from a black intelligentleman. Come for the humor, stay for the diatribes.
Just read the article, and imagine me sitting here, grinning and hugging my knees like a 5 year old who just got every Transformer ever made, ever (including the damn Constructicons, which were impossible to find) on his birthday, with Christmas being the very next day. Take that image, hold it in your mind, attach my brown face to it, and then you’ll slowly approach the feeling I have when I think of sweet, delicious bacony goodness.
I’ll blog more later, I promise. PEACE!
Some things shouldn’t have to be spelled out explicitly. Some things, like realizing the sun is hot and that Tang is the greatest drink in our galaxy, should be known inherently, without anyone having to be told or educated or enlightened. Particularly when you’re in a work environment, this list of things should be so blatantly obvious that no signs should be required, no clues needed, and no hints dispensed like Pez candy. And yet, it’s still amazing when I come across people who are either oblivious or just plain ballsy (read: stupid) enough to say “You know what? Social and/or office etiquette applies to pretty much everyone else except me, because I am full of win.” This is the story of such an encounter.
I don’t talk about work much here (hell, I don’t talk about much of ANYTHING here lately, right?), and the reason for that is pure self-preservation. Talking about work typically leads to no good, but some stories are too rich not to share. Because my team is spread out over 3 (or more) geographical areas, most of our meetings occur via teleconference. If we all have to view a presentation or see a document (or some other thing where everyone needs to be looking at the same thing simultaneously), we use either Netmeeting or an application called WebEx to share our desktops so that we can impress the other meeting participants with our brilliance. In this particular meeting, most of the participants were in my office, with two others on the phone. I volunteered to be the host (the person whose computer we’ll use to view the online portion of the meeting), while one of the people on the phone agreed to be the presenter (the person who shares his desktop so that everyone on the meeting can see what he’s seeing, working on, etc.). So to paint the picture, I had my laptop connected to a big-ass monitor in a conference room, and the Phone Person and I got connected so that he could show us what he was working on. Follow me so far? Good.
Now, the people in this meeting were an interesting combination of personalities. We are all veterans of the job, and pretty knowledgeable, but there are some very strong opinions that often get expressed in less-than-productive ways, depending on the subject of the meeting. These folks are often not afraid to express their feelings verbally, knowing that it’s all for the betterment of our products and our customers’ experience, not because we take things personally. OK, I couldn’t even type that with a straight face. Sometimes it IS personal, especially when people put a lot of themselves into the work they do, only to listen to someone else tear it down. I’m not saying it’s right, only that it’s human nature. This meeting was no different.
As Phone Guy began showing the team what he was working on (from his laptop, while we viewed that on MY laptop – keep up, people), one of the people in my office began peppering him with questions. I know them all fairly well, and I could tell by his tone that Phone Guy was getting a little annoyed at what he perceived as an assault on his work. Did he stay calm and weather the storm? No. Did he totally lose his shit and start yelling like Clint Eastwood in “Gran Torino”? Negative. He did something even better.
He sent an instant message to the other phone person, saying “This guy’s really pissing me off!”
While he was still sharing his laptop screen.
Meaning we could see everything… he… wrote.
And his boss was sitting right next to me.
I tried to help him out, people. I tried to minimize his screen from my side, but there was nothing I could do. We all saw that nonsense. His boss (who is also my boss’ boss) told him “Uh, we can still see your screen, Phone Guy. We saw everything you wrote.” Phone Guy then did two things that amazed me even more than the supremely stupid shit he just executed before our very eyes. First, when confronted (by his boss) about what he wrote, instead of stuttering, stammering, or backtracking, he replied “Good! He was pissing me off!” Second, at a time when most people would be profusely apologizing and trying to remember their boss’ favorite food/restaurant/sport to try to prevent a rapid firing, Phone Guy didn’t even so much as apologize or be even a little embarrassed. He kept right on rolling along as though our boss had said “Nice presentation”, completely unaffected by the sound of 6 jaws hitting the floor in our conference room. I just hung my head, completely dumfounded. The one bright spot? The person he wrote to was smart enough NOT to reply, because she knew he was still sharing his desktop to all of us. That meeting was a lot of things, but “boring” wasn’t one of them.
Peace.
It’s been a week since the traumatic event touched down like swine flu at Miss Piggy’s family reunion in Puerto Vallarta, but the wounds are still fresh, so it’s taken me a while to be able to write about it. What tragedy has befallen me, you ask? What cruel twist of fate wound its way into my personal domain, and made my happy heart a barren wasteland of…barrenicity (What? It’s a word. It’s a word because I SAY it’s a word.)? The reason for my single Native American litter-gazing tear is because…
…Lil’ Kim got kicked off “Dancing With The Stars”.
Lil' Kim and her partner, Booty. I mean, Derrick.
The fact that I watch DWTS is not relevant to this tale – it’s common knowledge, especially if you’re my friend on Facebook. I talk about it frequently. So if you got jokes, bring ‘em out now. I’ll wait.
(Nice one. I haven’t heard that one before. Huzzah.)
All done? Good. Let’s continue.
Sure, she came into the show as a controversial figure with rap albums and a rap sheet. She’s an ex-con with a bit too much (OK, a lot too much) plastic surgery and a penchant for saying words that would make Italian Merchant Marine blush. In short (and she’s very short), she didn’t stand a chance against the more clean-cut and relatively unknown stars also on the program, because the simple truth is that viewer voting is what keeps dancers on week to week, and who could imagine throngs (not thongs, dirty birds) of people purposely voting for the woman who is best known for her explicit lyrics about her sexual prowess? But then a funny thing happened on her way to a Week 3 exit: she could really dance. Well.
No doubt the fact that she dances in her videos and live performances gives her a boost, but shaking your ass to “How Many Licks” isn’t quite the same as performing an Argentine Tango in front of professional ballroom dancers and a live studio audience. But instead of just mailing it in, happy that her manager and publicist were able to get her on national television for a couple of weeks (see P, Master and Mayne, Kenny), she dedicated herself to really trying, to putting in the work and the long hours and the frustration to master an art form that was as foreign to her as Foreigner is to crackheads in the Bronx. She wasn’t just serviceable; she was really good. And not only in the sambas and salsas and all the booty-shaking dances – she was good in the waltzes and the quick step and pretty much all the other styles, too. She was good. Top-tier talent on the show, capable of winning the whole shebang. And as she performed, people voted. She shed her image like a blinged-out snakeskin, displaying the dancing butterfly beneath. (And yes, I just mixed snakes and butterflies. Roll with me here, people.)
I'm a snake butterfly! A snakerfly!
She made it through the Steve-O’s and the Belinda Carlisles and the Lawrence Taylors, and becaome one of the elite few, once of the Final Five. These five were all great dancers – well, almost all. Gilles, Lil’ Kim, Melissa, and Shawn the Fireplug Gymnast are phenomenal. However, Number Five (who incidentally dances like Number Five from the movie “Short Circuit”) is Ty, a.k.a Mr. Jewel the Bullrider. And he is not good. He’s not bad, but if the other four are, say, in the 11th grade, then Ty is a 6th grader on academic probation. He’s just not nearly as good as the others, even though he tries very, very hard every week. That quality is admirable, but shouldn’t be grounds for him continuing to take up space and oxygen where he doesn’t belong. And last week, despite dancing like a man with no knees walking on crutches on ball bearings, and despite that the judges gave him 7’s and gave Kim 9’s, when the voting was tallied, he was standing there wearing an O mouth, and Kim was saying her goodbyes to the audience. Even his partner looked like “Um, what the eff just happened here?” when they made the announcement. And Kim was graceful in defeat, all smiles and thank-yous and everything. I, on the other hand, expressed my outrage in a socially acceptable and very adult manner – by screaming at the TV and calling for the utter destruction of the entire enterprise, its producers, ABC, and television as a concept. I wanted flames.
Instead, I have 3 really good dancers and one garden gnome with the moves of a popcicle stick still remaining. And this lovely creature is sitting at home now.
Doesn't she look bored and sad? DOESN'T SHE?
Farewell, Lil’ Kim. You were a bright blacklight on the black, lint-infested shirt called Dancing With The Stars. The show is lesser without you, and I hope the people who didn’t vote for you mistake a cactus for toilet paper.
I can't believe you voted AGAINST this.
Peace.
Afraid with all the news about the dangerous and maladjusted Swine Flu?
Was Regular Ol’ Flu already too much to handle, making this bacon-flavored influenza even more scary?
Do you usually think you catch everything the media says you’ll likely die of, even if you don’t live in Paraguay?
Click this link, people. It’s freakishly accurate in analyzing your symptoms and diagnosing whether you have contracted the insidious and unusually ugly Swine Flu.
Do it for the children.
You’ll thank me.
Peace.
My son, 9YO, has decided that hip-hop is his future. He is consumed by it, lives and breathes it, and if it came in Pop-Tart form, he’d eat it too. As a fan of hip-hop from back when Adidas and fat shoe laces were in style, I have a certain level of appreciation for his new-found interest in that particular art form. And make no mistake, it’s an art form. However, while I’m cool with him showing an interest, today’s hip-hop isn’t exactly a shining example of music at its purest form. Today’s music, by and large, is utter pig swill surrounded by a steaming pile of bat guano.
I realize that I come off as an old-school fuddy-duddy trapped in the past, but seriously, today’s artists aren’t even trying anymore. Back in the 80s (and to a lesser extent, the 90s), rappers usually had a point to their songs, some type of greater message to convey. Even people like Salt ‘N’ Pepa or NWA had SOMETHING they were trying to say in their music, even if it didn’t seem that way on the surface. But I want someone to listen to the stuff that’s on the radio today (and don’t be diggin’ through track 12 on Flo’Rida’s CD to show me some song that’s about his momma or about the sad state or welfare, that doesn’t count) and tell me if there’s any message there other than “Hey girl, shake whatever body part is closest to me and count the diamonds on my rented headband”. Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em (yes, that’s his stage name) has a song called “Booty Meat”, which evidently is about his deep appreciation of the musculature of a female’s gluteous maximus, and how much he’d enjoy it if the female in question would offer a small portion to him as a gesture of goodwill. It’s a long walk from “The Message” by Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five. And I know that times change and people’s taste in music shifts from one generation to the next, but it’s truly disheartening to hear some of the stuff out there now and how popular it is, while the same kids listening have absolutely no idea who KRS-ONE is, or Whodini, or Digital Underground, Public Enemy, or Brand Nubian, or countless other rap artists who had something to say. It wasn’t that you had to agree with them; but you at least had to recognize that they had a point. I’m having a very hard time hearing the point behind a lot of today’s stuff.
Now, I ALSO get that most of the music isn’t for deep reflection – it’s for dancing, pure and simple. I get that, and that’s why I’m not cropdusting the entire lot of rappers out there today. If you make a song just to the sake of dancing, and you don’t take yourself too seriously, I’m good with that. That’s all that “It Takes Two” by Robb Base and E.Z. Rock is, after all. But all the “I’ve got all this money and I’m buying platinum-plated rhesus monkeys and medallions the size of banjos while I shoot at my enemies, or the chick who screwed up my order at Burger King, and bitch you better put on your thong and dance in my champagne-filled pool” crap is utter nonsense. And that’s the stuff that I catch 9YO secretly listening to, way too often.
I’m trying to educate the lad. I have Sirius satellite radio, and whenever the old-school rap station isn’t playing Ice Cube songs, I’ll flip over and let him hear some Eric B. & Rakim or some 3rd Bass or even Hammer, depending on my ability to stand it long enough. And sometimes it sinks in, like the day he heard a DJ scratching on a record and didn’t know what it was (’cause today’s artists don’t really do that anymore), but he’s entrenched in his generation’s version of music, and nothing I say will pull him out.
Just like me, when I was his age, listening to the music that my mom called “junk”. The wheel keeps on turnin’.
Anywho, 9YO was slated to perform at a PTA function at school about Earth Day which involved some dancing. Before this event came about, his dancing style could be best described as…well, there aren’t many words that could describe it. It was a hot mess marinaded in a confusing mass of arms and legs and The Worm. Yes, the one piece of old school that he picked to cultivate was The Worm. But once he told us about this, he seemed dedicated to honing his craft. He practiced in secret, not letting us see his ill skills. He had me take him to school 20 minutes early so he could work with the music teacher. He was focused – which, for him, is utterly amazing. We didn’t know what to expect when we went to the school that night to see the performance.
But this is what we saw.
He’s the one in the middle, in the blue cap.
Stick with it all the way through – it’s so very worth it. Trust. If the video won’t play, just click on it to go to YouTube directly.
Lawd have mercy. The boy was throwing down like an extra from “Step Up”. I couldn’t help but be impressed.
And proud.
But I’m still not letting him listen to Soulja Boy. I have to draw the line somewhere.
Peace.
Ordinarily, this would be the sentence where I apologize for not updating more often, not posting funny stories or weird observations, and generally throwing myself onto the mercy of you, merciful readers, and pray you continue reading my erratic missives.
Well, screw that.
It’s not that I don’t love you all. I do. But honestly…I don’t really have too much to say anymore. I don’t think I’m going to completely retire this blog, but some changes in my life have led to a dramatic slowdown in drama, and let’s face it – drama is the midgrade unleaded fuel that makes this verbal SUV go. No drama, no funny, and no funny, no writey. I’m not even sad about it…it just is what it is. Now, you may be asking yourself what could possibly be going on that would make a prolific writer got from posting 2 or 3 times a week at his peak to posting once every summer Olympics. You may also be asking yourself if you even care enough to know, because seriously – you have your own issues, and if you can’t come here to escape them, then you’ll happily teleport over to someone else’s writing and leave mine to rot like bananas on my counter top. Well, I’ll tell you why.
No more band: My old band Nonetheless was a neverending source of weird happenings, exciting news, crazy situations, and drama to choke a llama, but since I’ve stepped away from that, those aspects have also gone away. I’m in another group now, but it’s a totally different dynamic, and there just aren’t nearly as many happennings now as there used to be. About the most riveting thing about our nameless gathering of musicians is that we have a white female singer/guitarist, a Hispanic female drummer, and my black ass on bass. Whenever we practice, it’s like calling the U.N. to session. We have fun, it’s very laid-back, and I like it. That’s it. Oh, and we have a performance tomorrow night, Dallas folk.
Repetitive kid drama: Look, I could write a post every day about the unbelievable stuff my two minions say and do, but I won’t. It’s not that kind of blog. I WILL mention, however, that 6YO got accepted into our school district’s Gifted and Talented program for next school year, which is very exciting. The kid’s been bored in kindergarten all year. He hasn’t learned anything yet that he didn’t already know, so it’s time to step it up a notch. He follows a rich tradition, since both DWW and I were a part of our respective G&T programs in grade school (though I think my school was just trying to fill a quota, because truthfully, I suck at math tremendously. I once got a -12 on a test. Not 12 points deducted from the final grade; I mean my final grade WAS -12. As in 12 points below a zero. I am not kidding, and if my man Duke is reading this, he knows I’m not lying. He bore witness to the carnage that was that test from Mrs. Hull. A negative 12. I rock.) 9YO is still nutty as ever, but improving in both his behavior and his grades, so that’s something to also be proud of. See, things are status quo.
Work: I never, ever talk about work, and I certainly won’t start now. I don’t need content bad enough to potentially get fired over it. No way.
Anime addiction: Look, many of you already knew that I was hopelessly addicted to Naruto, but I’m now also addicted to Bleach and Full Metal Alchemist, and when I DO have time to blog, I generally want to watch episodes of these anime titles instead. Street cred? Gone. Peace out.
My stand-up routine: I’ve begun writing material for a possible attempt at stand-up comedy sometime in the future, so honestly, writing super-witty shit here siphons material away from my routine there, and I can’t have that. I’ll tell you this much – writing comedy, REAL comedy, is really hard. We’ll see what happens with that.
Facebook and Twitter: I admit it – if I DO have something funny to say and it’s not really stand-up material, nowadays I’d rather just put them out on Facebook. I love me some Facebook, and I don’t care who knows. Facebook is the complete awesome. Feel free to (attempt to) add me, if you like. Maybe I’ll accept you, maybe I’ll let you twist in the wind. (I’m lying. I’ll accept you. I need more people to play Mafia Wars with.)
So, that’s my tale. This does not mean I’m shutting down the blog. I know I will have things to say in the future, and I reserve the right to broadcast that. But it does mean that my posting will be erratic at best, and just plain absent for weeks at a time until inspiration strikes me. I’m not worried about it. It’ll come. It always does. In the meantime, go look at the people I’ve linked to in the sidebar. They have some really interesting updates, so give ‘em some traffic. I love you all. Don’t lose my number.
Peace.
What up, pimps and pimpettes? The Ides of March are upon us! (Google it if you don’t know. I ain’t your damn Wikinegropedia.) I finally got off the schnide and decided to crank out a ‘tribe, just to see if I still have it. I’m gonna so my best to at least write more frequently than once per month, because I DO have some cool things going on. For example, even though I quit the band a few months ago, I’m still playing music, now with my friends Sarah and Dru. It’s a lot of fun, very relaxed and low-key, and perfect for me. We don’t have a name, but we do have a good time when we perform. Also, DWW and I saw “Gran Torino” last night – that’s right, a real movie, in the movie theater! And not even a matinee! “Gran Torino” is great, people. Go see it if you haven’t. And take a notepad, ’cause you’re gonna hear racial slurs that you ain’t never heard in your natural life, and hundreds of ‘em coming at rapid fire. It was impressive in its ingenuity and vulgarity. I recommend you go see it. But before you do…
..let’s diatribe. Yeah.
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(Asheville Citizen-Times) ARDEN – A man who arrived home Friday after a flight got quite a surprise when he opened his suitcase. Firefighters responded about 10:15 p.m. to a residence on Rocky Mountain Way in Arden. The man arrived home after landing in Charlotte, opened his baggage and saw a snake, Skyland Fire Department Capt. Kevin Bartlett said. “He stepped back and called us. We went in and determined it was a rubber snake,” Barlett said. “We handed it to him and left.” Bartlett said the man did not know where the snake came from or who could have put it there.
The Citizen-Times writes this story as though homeboy did something wrong by calling the fire department upon finding an unbeknownst reptile amongst his boxer briefs and poorly-wrapped snow globe from Dayton, Ohio. In fact, if that was me, several things would’ve happened in quick succession:
And if the captain of the fire department had even THOUGHT TO THINK ABOUT handing me the fake snake, I would have beaten him about the head and face with it, ’cause Homie don’t play that. I don’t like snakes, man. My actions would totally be justified. As for this guy…I think he needs to stick to carry-ons from here on out.
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(Orlando News) OCALA, Fla. – Authorities are trying to figure out who dropped four 55-gallon trash bags filled with marijuana by the side of an Ocala road. The Marion County Sheriff’s Office reports that inmates working with the county’s solid waste department found the bags on Thursday. Drug agents say the bags weighed a total of nearly 65 pounds. Officials are investigating where the bags came from.
Ok, does anyone see the latent irony in that inmates found these bags of weed? I think the story is incomplete, ’cause I’m pretty sure the original number of bags was slightly higher (heh – I said “higher”) than 4. I’m thinking it was more like 10, and right now there’s 6 55-gallon bags of Mary Jane chillin’ in the back of someone’s Tahoe. That, or Snoop Dogg stopped by to use it as a day’s supply. I don’t know much about the value of maryjawanna, but I’m thinking that it’s valuable enough that there’s someone REALLY missing their income generator/medicine/relaxation medium. Also, it speaks to the overall level of responsibility of the nimrods in charge of the pot, that they let 4 full-ass bags go missing. I’d like to think that, in this economy, 220 gallons of weed would be sorely missed by whoever paid for that shit, so I’m guessing there’s a couple of Cheech and Chong wannabes who had a whole lot of explaining to do to their boss.
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(Kitsap Sun) SILVERDALE — A 55-year-old Silverdale man was booked into Kitsap County jail on suspicion of assaulting his wife of 28 years after she contacted an old boyfriend on Facebook. The woman reported to Kitsap County sheriff’s deputies that she had connected over the Internet with a man she had dated 32 years ago. The woman had told her husband about it and “he appeared OK” with it, the sheriff’s report said. On Friday, she told deputies that her husband had become upset with the Facebook contact and demanded to know her password. Later that day, he called her 18 times at work, even though she told him to stop. Her told her to “tell everyone at work goodbye,” which she took as a death threat. The woman was scared, so she went to her mother’s house. The woman also reported that on March 7, her husband had assaulted her at their home on the 10000 block of Marigold Drive NW, causing bruises and a bloody nose. The deputy’s report noted that the woman has bruises on her body. When the suspect arrived, deputies questioned him about his wife’s allegations of telephone harassment and assault, and his only response was to repeatedly say how much he loved her. The report states the suspect appeared intoxicated. He was taken to Harrison Medical Center in Bremerton until his condition stabilized. He was then taken to the jail and booked on suspicion of telephone harassment and fourth-degree assault. His bail was set at $40,000.
Um…wow. Talk about insecure. Honestly, if it’s been 32 years since your woman dated some guy, and she’s been with you for 28 of those years, It’s most likely that you’ve got her, man. She’s yours. Some guy she dated from when “The Empire Strikes Back” was in theaters the FIRST time shouldn’t be much of an imminent threat. In fact, I’m guessing he’s about as far removed from the guy she dated as…you are from the guy she married. Do you think she’d jump ship for some paunchy, balding, Cheeto-eating, recliner-sitting, shorts with black socks-wearing, pickup truck-driving dude who is more or less a carbon copy (which you’re old enough to remember) of you? Well shit – on second thought, given that you have the additional benefit of talking with your hands (and not in the cool Helen Keller way, either) when you’re expressing your inner thoughts and feelings, maybe going back in time like that would be a step up for your poor spouse, man. And really, if anyone should be getting jealous, it should be her. After all, you’re about to go into one of the oldest social networking organizations around, where you’ll be meeting all kinds of new people, many of whom will be very interested in pursuing a “more than friends” relationship with you. And to make matters worse, it’s one of those 3-D, full-immersion type deals that you’ll be completely consumed by, day and night, 24 hours a day. It’s called “Prison”. How can she expect to compete with THAT? You’re gonna learn a new meaning of the term “super poke”.
Peace.
On the way to the gym this morning, 9YO and 6YO got into a conversation about wealth. After a bit of discussion, I got called in to consult on the topic.
9YO: “Hey Dad, what if you were, like, king of the world? And Mommy was the queen and we were princes?”
Me: ”You wanna be a princess?”
9YO: “You know what I mean. We would be like super rich and live in a big mansion!”
Me: “If we were the world monarchs, we’d live in a castle.”
9YO: “YEAH! A big castle. Or a big castle for you and Mommy, and a mansion for me and 6YO. A big mansion, with butlers!”
6YO (confused): “What’s a butler? A person who likes butts?”
We nearly hurt ourselves laughing, including 6YO. Unintentional comedy is often the best kind.
Peace.
In case you didn’t notice (and if you didn’t, you seriously need to lay off the Tylenol Cold & Flu), I made a few changes around here. I’d been rocking the black background for a couple of years, and figured it was time for a change. I’m like that sometimes – I just have to switch shit up for my own amusement. For as infrequently as I post these days, the changes may well go unnoticed anyway. But who cares – I like it. Until I don’t.
Actually, there’s another reason for the change. I’m taking (read: auditing for free) a class called Human Computer Interactions, which is a course that outlines the principles of designing – designing software interfaces, designing airplanes, designing whatever people use. It’s an effort to improve my career, and to learn something new. Plus it’s pretty damn interesting. But when you learn about design principles, you quickly learn to spot things that are not designed well, such as doors that don’t clearly indicate whether you should push or pull them, or websites that make your eyes wish they carried firearms just so they could pop a cap in the ass of the person who made them. So after learning a little bit, I came to realize that my blog’s design was…well, it was bad, people. White text on black background is bad business, no matter how cool it may look. I welcome your feedback on the new look – I’m willing to make changes where I can, folks. I give and I give.
As a part of taking this class, we have to do homework and other assignments, which you would expect. One of those projects was a brief paper describing a bad user interface. There were no stipulations on what the interface was; it just had to be one that would make you dry-heave at the mere sight of it. At first, I thought about all the bad software design I’ve seen in my day, but that was way too mundane. What follows is what I submitted for my example of bad user interface design.
Enjoy.
Poor User Design in Recreational Refreshment
Good or effective user interface design encompasses several different elements: usability, aesthetics, safety, and social awareness, among others. The example above (it’s actually below, but don’t skip ahead, dammit) fails in all areas.
From a usability perspective, the water fountain suffers from poor design planning. The fountain’s height does not make it easy for adults or taller children to easily use it. Additionally, the water fountain is so short that it cannot be easily seen from beyond the fence behind it, meaning that it would be difficult to see and identify from a distance. The mechanism for dispensing the water is not clearly visible, which could cause confusion for anyone approaching the fountain, because it is not immediately nor instinctively clear how to operate it. In the photograph, it actually appears as though the two girls are reaching down inside the fountain to operate it. The spigot is recessed inside the “mouth” of the device, which also detracts from the device’s intuitive nature. The reclining, semicircular shape of the upper basin could potentially flow water from the spigot, directly onto the clothing of the user, if the water stream extends beyond the edge of the lip.
The safety of the fountain is another concern. The stone ring around the base, while moderately helpful for small children, also poses a risk to taller users because a taller user could easily stub his or her toes while attempting to use the fountain. The fact that the fountain is made of stone (rather than a hardened, burnished steel or equivalent material) means that the fountain is much rougher to the touch, and also possibly much more slippery when wet, which could cause a placed hand to inadvertently slide when any weight or pressure is applied to it. The curved bottom of the upper basin invites accidental knee strikes.
Aesthetically, it appears that very little thought was put into designing this fountain. It lacks vivid colors (or any color at all) that would enhance its overall appeal. The flat untinted stone coloring tends to make the fountain blend into its surroundings, particularly the ground below it and the fence railing behind it. Its unusual shape does not enhance the fountain’s functionality or visual appeal, nor does it provide a level of uniqueness that would make it more noticeable. The fact that the dispenser is recessed into the mouth gives the impression that the fountain is somewhat unsanitary, and that users must insert their hands inside the basin. It is unclear why the fountain is comprised of two separate pieces – the upper basin and the lower stand – or what function that construction serves.
The lack of social awareness in this fountain’s design is clear: the fountain resembles a phallic symbol. In certain cultures, this design implementation may not have severe ramifications, but in the United States, it would be considered unacceptable. Standard drinking fountain designs usually take on more traditional shapes and appearances, including exterior fountains, and although this design is definitely avant garde, it is at best in poor taste, and at worst, offensive.
This drinking fountain’s design encapsulates many bad usability decisions. Its functional drawbacks and aesthetic missteps combine to create a product that very few would want to use.
Now for the picture of the aforementioned water fountain.
Um...no. I'm not that thirsty.
I haven’t gotten my grade back yet, but I can hear my professor’s laughter all the way from here.
Peace.
Viva la gente! Viva la raza! Viva la white girl! (That’s a reference to a Gym Class Heroes song, in case you didn’t know. And I know you didn’t know, so don’t act like you did, punk.) It’s good to be here, writing again, spilling forth of my addled brain the over ripened fruits of knowledge that I possess, so that you may sip of its juices and say “This shit’s past its expiration, Holmes.” Yeah, I roll like this, people.
It’s been a busy month or so, so much so that I didn’t even realize how long it’s been since I’ve posted anything. That’s mostly because of my high level of suck, but also because of a residual yet potent low level of supplemental suck that picks up where the main sucknicity leaves off. But also, I’ve been running around, trying to get all my affairs in order in regards to that damn accident, getting a vehicle (or “whip”, for you hoodrats like Elle and Scottsdale Princess), advancing my career, and other amazing things like eating and sleeping and watching “Leverage” on TNT. But first and foremost, let’s get it on about my wreck/car situation.
Firstly, the state of South Carolina can orally cleanse the region between heaven and oblivion in my general taint area. It is utterly ridiculous that it takes THIS LONG to get a vehicle title, especially when we asked so nicely. In SC state government, the word “expedite” is Latin for “I bet this filled-out form would make a great coaster, or maybe even a sweet paper airplane. With landing gear!” Entire scientific studies were thought up, developed, proven, and completed in the amount of time it takes someone in the SC Department of Motor Vehicles to push a much-needed request from the corner of their crumb-infested desk to the inbox of someone who really wanted to be a dancer on Broadway, until they found out that “Fame” was just a good movie and a bad TV show, and all her dreams were dashed like Stacy. After Broken Dreamgirl finally processed our request (for the second time, may I add) and sent us the title, I had almost forgotten that I previously owned a vehicle. Until I remembered that we needed it to get the money from the insurance company. Then it all came back to me like lost dog on a boomerang. (Look, I don’t know where these analogies come from, either. Even I’m looking at the screen like “Really? Dogs on boomerangs? Lay off the Arizona Iced Tea, son. And the Barq’s.”)
With a pocket full of cold hard cash, we set out last weekend to get the vehicle of our dreams: a Dodge Grand Caravan or a Chrysler Town & Country, whichever one would bend us over the gentlest when it comes to making payments on it. I know…I’m pimpin’ beyond words now, and your loins burn for me when thinking of me rockin’ a fly minivan. It’s ok, don’t hold back now. Here’s where I have a major beef with car dealerships: if I call you to set up an appointment to see and test drive a specific “pre-owned” vehicle, do me the supreme favor of CALLING ME if you should so happen to SELL THAT AFOREMENTIONED VEHICLE before my pre-arranged appointment, especially if I’m driving CLEAN ACROSS THE DAMN METROPLEX to come see it! This happened multiple times on Saturday, and it was enough to make me wanna not buy a ride at all, until I remembered I’m exactly one step up from Bill Bixby at the end of every “The Incredible Hulk” episode in the 80s. All I was missing was that sad-ass piano music and a pair of pants that stretch and shrink every time I Hulk out, so as to cover my now-enormous and incredibly green penis. Anyway, we finally found a lower cost van that fit our needs, and this is my new baby:
My love for white women is confirmed.
Ignore the mismatch fence slats in the background. Do you KNOW how much it costs to replace a 6 foot privacy fence? If you do, you’re just nodding your head right now in pure understanding, and for that I thank you. Tangent.
It’s a 2002 Dodge Caravan, minus the Grand. Actually, minus about 4 grand off of what we would’ve paid just to have the word “Grand” appear on the trunk. I’m good with that. Grand or not, this is my new baby, in all her roomy glory. I even have a name for her. Are you ready for this? Are you?
No, you most certainly are not.
Her name…her glorious nomenclature…is…
Vantastic Voyage. I’ll pause while that absorbs in like aloe vera on a curling iron burn.
“Hey, come on, come along, take a ride / There’s a party over here and it ain’t no jive / It’s live, live, all the way live / Don’t even have to walk, you don’t even have to glide / Just slide, slide, slippity slide / And forget about your troubles and your 9 to 5 / And just saaaaaaaaaaaaaaail along (that’s whatcha do, ya just ) saaaaaaaaaaaaaail along!”
And for an extra little kick in the pants, I added some flavor to my new white girl. Check it:
All hail.
This is Elle’s birfday present to me, prominently and proudly displayed on my rear, so that the whole world knows what I’m down with. I’m down with bacon, people. Bacon is my cause. I am pro-bacon, and I want you to know this. And if you look closely, you can even see a sparkle above the bacon ribbon, as though an angel is saying “Yes…yes, this is glorious and good.” Or it could be the flash from my camera, but either way, it’s significant to me. Ah, my sweet new van; she’s a wooty. I know you can see that she’s an “SE” model, but what you can’t see are the “X” and the “Y” that come right after those letters. Recognize.
Now, I realize that it’s hard to be “cool” or “hip” or “with it” while profilin’ at a stop light in a white late-model minivan with “Support Bacon” on the back, but I gotta say…I pull it off. If you saw me at the corner of Preston Road and Plano Parkway, arm slung across the steering wheel, head tipped back, with some EPMD or Big Daddy Kane pumping out of my system (hey, I love old school rap. Sue me.), you would say to yourself “Now THERE’S a man who radiates confidence and oozes self-assuredness!”
Or you’d say “Damn, he’s not even close to Cool. If Cool was a map of the Earth, he’d be the pin holding the top left corner up.” Either way, I’m rollin’. And that’s all that matters.
Peace.
Hello my people! I’d apologize for not posting as much, but honestly….that’s just how it is these days. Brothaman still doesn’t have a car, so I’m busy arranging transportation to and from every single place I want to go. Dallas is simply not set up for public transportation, and I’ve been relying on the kindness of truckers and strangers to get me to work and to my other various and sundry places to be. OK, that’s a lie – DWW and I have just been sharing the one car we have left, and though it’s kind of a pain in the rear, it beats walking. Plus I get to work on time now.
Aside from recovering from my concussion and wrangling with the State of South Carolina (ask me if I’ve gotten my settlement money yet. Ask me if I’ve gotten the damn TITLE to my Jeep yet. Just ask me.), I’ve been avoiding doing the one thing I promised myself and my pants that I’d do this year: work out. Even though I have a standing bet with Elle regarding reaching our individual goals, I’ve gotten off to a slow start. Part of the reason, I think, is that I’ve been kinda down since the accident – partly due to my favorite ride now being null and void, and also due to some work-related nonsense that I’m not getting into on here. Suffice it to say that there’s been some uncertainty, and that uncertainty has certainly made me a little edgy and wary. Or waredgy. Yeah, I like “waredgy”. Whatever the reason, I’ve been fooling around, not working out, or even worse, half-assed working out by doing good on one day, but then pigging out and doing nothing for 3 straight days. That ain’t gonna cut it. Enter Jillian Micheals.
Don’t know who she is? She’s the task-mastering, mean-talking, slave-driving member of “The Biggest Loser”’s training team. You know, THIS lady:
Let's get physical. Please.
Yeah. You can plainly see why she’s a trainer: she’s insanely hot, and she’s faintly reminiscent of Linda Hamilton from “Terminator 2″.
I will make a fist-shaped hole in your chest.
Anyway, in addition to making morbidly obese people cry and run until they vomit, she has her own workout routine that you (yes, you) can do at home. None of it is unique, and she doesn’t sell any special equipment (I’m still pissed off with Body By Jake, incidentally).
Thanks for the nice clothes rack, Jake. Ass.
But what she did do was organize a group of common exercises in a manner that would make a triathlete quiver in fear. DWW has been a member of the Jillian Army for several weeks, and I’ve basically scoffed at the idea of doing a workout routine from a lady on TV who yells at fat people. Then I realized something: I AM fat people! Sure, I’m not at the “eating Breyers ice cream with a table spoon” level that the people on TV are, but facts are facts: I’m fat, and I need to lose weight. Period. And since there’s no diet consisting entirely of bacon, nor is there a workout regimen that involves clicking the buttons on my mouse, it’s obviously time to do something about it. Today was the first day I started working on the Jillian workout, and DWW had to train me up a bit. Every day has a different set of exercises, and here’s what today had in store:
5 minutes of warm-up
Circuit 1 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 2 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 3 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 4 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 5 (2 sets of each):
5 minutes of cool down
Now, here’s what actually happened for me.
5 minutes of jacking around and doing half-assed yoga on Wii Fit
Circuit 1 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 2 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 3 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 4 (2 sets of each):
Circuit 5 (2 sets of each):
5 minutes of dying on the carpet, breathing like a catfish on a muddy riverbank
And that’s pretty close to being accurate. The workout lasted just under 30 minutes, and I felt like I had just run 2 marathons and from the cops. Since DWW’s been doing this for a few weeks, she was just kinda standing there, looking at me as though to say “You big baby.” She was barely even breathing hard, the hussy! Meanwhile, every muscle in my torso quivered right at the brink of total and complete crampular lockdown, and the only thing that stopped them was their pity on my out of shape ass, plus the promise of ice cream. I HAD TO DO SOMETHING, PEOPLE! Have you ever had a ribcage cramp? Have you? I have. They suck more than “Cop Rock”. I’ll do whatever it takes to fend them off. To top matters off, the kids wanted to go swimming at the gym, so that came immediately after my near-death experience at the hands of Killingyou – I mean Jillian – Micheals. And even though I had a chance to soak in the jacuzzi at the gym, I still swam on top of the heinous workout, meaning that right now as I type this, even my eyelids hurt. My arm hair hurts. I bet my mom has a couple minor aches and pains from this.
But even though I have a mind full of venom toward the exercise chick, she did put together a regimen that works every muscle group (at the same time, it feels like), and that can be completed in 30 minutes or less, so I’ll keep doing it.
Except for those crunches. Those can kiss my ass.
Peace.
Firstly, I want to thank everyone for your kind thoughts and wishes. Seriously, that means a lot to me. I know y’all are my friends, from the heart. No, I am NOT crying! I got some grit in my eye, that’s all. Moving on.
This whole accident thing I had on Monday? It still sucks. Hard. Allow me to fill you in on the most recent version of the aftermath.
– My Jeep is a total loss. State Farm says the estimated damages exceed the value of the Jeep by nearly $3000, so they’re washing their hands of it, and it’s hard to blame them. But DWW and I LOVED that Jeep, and it’s hard to see it go down like this. I know, it’s just a material thing, but it’s been ours for 10 years. It’s like the child that never gets kicked out of daycare, but yet also carries me to work in its belly. OK, that was weird. I have to go clean it out sometime, remove all our possessions. I’ll post pics of the carnage. Heh. Carnage. Puntastic.
-Now, I mentioned that the Jeep is totaled. That means State Farm will give us some money for it so that we can go buy another ride. It’s paid for, so the money we get is just gravy, really. I’m not gonna tell you ALL my financial business, but suffice it to say that the money isn’t enough to run out and buy a Lexus, so we’re looking for affordable “pre-owned” cars. (I hate that term. They’re USED cars. There’s nothing wrong with that word. People used them; ergo, they are used.)
The problem is this: while we’ve registered the Jeep in the state of Texas, we never TITLED it here. It never occurred to us to do that, and it wasn’t required. Hell, I didn’t even KNOW. So when the insurance company told me that I need to give them the title in order to receive the dinero, I called the Texas Dept. of Transportation, who informed me that the Jeep is titled in SC. So I called the South Carolina Dept. of Motor Vehicles, who said I’d have to pay to have it sent to me – but wait! Turns out that they don’t have any record of the payoff! They show that we don’t owe money and that it’s ours, but there’s no explicit statement from the lending company that says “Yeah, it’s theirs, they paid the bitch off in 2003.” And upon calling THAT company, they informed us that they can’t find the actual records of the payoff. They show that it HAPPENED, but can’t locate the details of it. Score. In the meantime, I’m driving a rental that State Farm will stop paying for in one week, and based on how slow state agencies are, combined with the holidays, I probably won’t have a new car to drive until the year 2012.
- And to add injury to insult, I noticed that I had a headache that just wouldn’t go away, no matter what I took for it. When that turned into light sensitivity, I made a doctor’s appointment. I’m not one to mess around with my health – if something’s wrong, I’m ready to pay my copay, baby. His diagnosis? Concussion. Not a bad one, but still. So I’m on anti-inflammatories until Monday, after which if I’m not any better, I’ll have a nice, friendly CAT scan. Good times.
However, I’m not too blind to see how lucky I truly am. It could’ve been much worse, and I’m very thankful to walk away with just a concussion, or just to walk away, period. And even though we now have to troll the want ads looking for a quality “pre-owned” vehicle that won’t put us on Top Ramen and wish sandwiches (that’s where you WISH you had a sandwich to eat) for the next 60 months, at least the new-old ride will have air conditioning and an automatic transmission. Maybe even a CD player that doesn’t spit the CD back at you like a baby eating strained spinach. And if they determine that the accident liability wasn’t mine (and it wasn’t), I’ll get the money back for the deductible, plus my medical expenses. Hmm, maybe my neck hurts too. And my spleen. And my uvula. I better get that checked out.
So although I’m Mr. Doom and Gloom now, I’ll get over it.
Just as soon as I get my damn money. Believe that.
Peace.
Honest to God, when it rains…it sleets. And people lose their damn minds when they drive. I was driving home tonight, minding my own business and listening to CNN on the satellite radio (look, I’m a nerd. I’ve accepted it. You should, too). Because the weather here in Texas changes by the minute, the 70 degree day from yesterday turned magically into a 27 degree day today, and brought with it some mild precipitation. Now, anyone with a passing knowledge of science or The Weather Channel on their favorites list knows that:
freezing temperatures + precipitation = some sort of frozen slop from the sky
That slop can be snow, sleet, freezing rain, hail, or maybe even Popcicles, but no matter WHAT it is, it spells trouble, because the following formula is also true:
Frozen slop from the sky + Texas drivers = FAIL
And sure enough, this last formula played out as usual. As I drove across a small bridge, I noticed – much to my chagrin – that a pickup truck had crossed the median, and was playing high-speed bumper cars with the vehicle in front of me. I had absolutely no time to react, beyond thinking “What the fu…?” and then “Ohgodohgodpleasedon’tgooverthebridgeohmy sweetbabyjesus!” I slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right enough to avoid hitting the car full-on, and just got them with the driver’s side of the hood and bumper, but that took me toward the edge of the bridge. Then the car behind me barreled into me, knocking me even closer to the edge, so much so that the truck went up on the sidewalk, allowing me the unique opportunity to look down into the ravine below and wonder how in the hell I would ever survive the fall. But I pulled the wheel hard to the left and hit the gas, and that seemed to be enough to get me off the sidewalk again and back onto the pavement.
I sat there, breathing hard, for a couple of minutes, because I just couldn’t understand what had happened. I noticed three things right away, though:
1. I was alive, and relatively unscathed
2. My truck was non-functional, including the heat
3. People are inherently stupid.
This last thing I noticed as people, oblivious to the fact that no less than FIVE CARS had just crashed into each other like a scene from “The Transporter”, were zooming around us on this very same bridge where we had just ruined our Monday evening. They whipped around us, sliding and skidding, and looking at us with those “Aw, you poor suckers!” eyes. I wished sickle cell upon each and every one of them, except for the hot Asian chick in the Camry. To top it off, the sleet was still coming down, and I now had to get out of the truck so that I wouldn’t get hit AGAIN. Joy.
The cops took our statements, the tow trucks came, and we we all swept away so that others could slip and slide across the bridge. Once the adrenaline wore off, I realized that I was pretty damn close to death, and that scared the hell outta me. I also realized that my airbag didn’t deploy. I think my truck is out to get me.
All in all, I’m ok, and hopefully the insurance companies will work it out so that I get a brand new Expedition. With spinning rims.
Peace.
Happy birthday to me…
Happy birthday to me!
Happy birthday, Dark Damiaaaaaaaaaan…
Happy birthday to me!
(Incidentally, this is the song that greeted me via voicemail this morning from none other than Elle the Pirate. Scurvy knave.)
That’s right, it’s a national holiday – the date of my arrival unto this world. And even though I’ve sucked quite a bit lately at posting with regularity, I figured I’d at least offer something to chew on for today, this 37th year of my living. And since I’m clean out of material (that’s not true – I’ve got a post I’m writing about meeting and hanging with Jali last Saturday night, but I’m lazy and haven’t completed it), I’ll give you something out of the Way Back Machine to read and remember. Enjoy this nugget until I’ve gotten off my ass long enough to tell you about playing music again (no band, just me and my good friend Sarah) and 9YO getting kicked out of daycare…again. Yeah, it’s busy times in the Damian household. Trust.
Here’s one of my all-time favorite posts, from July of 2005. It involves a very good friend of mine who will now be able to fully appreciate the writing. She’s divorced now.
[Warning: This is a LONG post. I have no intention of splitting or shortening it, so either settle in or go read something else. Maybe get some work done. Either way, you've been warned.]
A friend of mine (we’ll call her Cage) got married a few weeks ago. Ordinarily, this type of event is a wonderful thing. Weddings are blessed events; they are times of joy and jubilation, and a celebration of the union of two souls. This was not one of those types of weddings.
The Setup
You see, there were issues about this wedding, well before the actual event took place. The bride met the groom very shortly after her divorce was finalized from her previous marriage. This was the epitome of a rebound relationship, by normal standards, but Cage seemed pretty into him, and as her friend, I was supportive. At first. Things began proceeding faster than normal, and within two months they were discussing marriage. I protested; she had just gotten out of a really rocky marriage, and the last thing she needed was another marriage to a man she barely knew. But she was in love; no amount of advice would change her mind.
They began planning an elaborate wedding with an interesting, unusual theme: eastern Indian/medieval. To this day, I’m not sure how these two disparate ideas go together. It’s like chicken and ice cream, you know? This theme was not restricted to the decorations – the bride and groom were designing custom-made costumes to wear at the ceremony. My friend was wearing an Elizabethan gown, with all the accessories and trimmings. Her fiance was wearing an authentic medieval man-dress (I’m sure it has a real name, but “man-dress” is far funnier to say). But it didn’t end there: the guests were also required to be dressed in authentic period costumes. At this point, I laughed my ass off while saying “Ain’t no way in hell I’m wearing a costume to a wedding.” (I did go, and I did wear a borrowed costume from a man apparently the size of a small trash truck. I looked like Shrek’s second cousin. Shut up. )
By now I was thinking that this wedding was a result of a fevered dream or some really good weed, but nevertheless, it proceeded with all the strength and fury of a runaway subway. The grand event was to take place at the First Monday Canton Trade Days site in Canton, TX, about an hour’s drive from Dallas (where I am). The significance of this place, you ask? It’s also the location of this area’s SCA events. The SCA is the Society for Creative Anachronisms, an organization that is “dedicated to researching and re-creating the arts and skills of pre-17th-century Europe.” In other words, it’s a bunch of people who dress up in costumes and armor and pretend to be in the Middle Ages. Her fiance is a high-ranking member of this area’s SCA group, hence the location and dress code. And the SCA was scheduled to have an event that very day. Hoo, boy. Oh, and there was supposed to be an elephant on site. An elephant. Not a pretend-elephant, not an artist’s rendition of an elephant, but a live, breathing-and-shitting elephant. So here’s a quick summary, before I launch into the particulars of the wedding itself: Cage was marrying a guy she barely knew, and fresh off her divorce. The wedding was taking place an hour away at an SCA event where the participants and guests were expected to be in full costume. Oh yeah, and the elephant. Genius.
The Pre-Wedding Pomp
I was told by my friend to arrive at the site at 7:30pm on the day of the wedding. I was told this even though the wedding wasn’t really due to start until 8, because I’m chronically late. It’s a character trait. Or flaw. True to form, I showed up around 7:45, and immediately ran into a problem: the site was HUGE. The ceremony was supposed to take place in a tent – and there were dozens of tents. And forget just looking for people in crazy costumes, because there was an actual SCA event taking place that day, meaning that everyone there was in a crazy costume. I drove around and around, looking for anyone who even faintly resembled a person I knew, failing miserably. By now I was pissed; I had driven an hour away, to a wedding I protested, dressed in a borrowed, four-sizes-too-big medieval costume, and now I couldn’t find anyone even approaching normal to ask about this cockamamie thing! I didn’t even see the elephant, which I had planned to use as a visual marker for the location of the ceremony. After making a few passes around the place, I finally parked at the largest structure I could find, and started walking in a randomly-chosen direction. Well, the Atypical Wedding Gods must’ve taken pity on me, because within 3 minutes I spotted the groom, making his way toward me. We linked up, and he explained that the wedding had been relocated to the large structure where I had parked, due to excessive rain.
When we entered the building, he left me to go get ready, and I was left to my own devices. In the area where the wedding was to take place, there was…no one I knew. At the same time, directly in front of me, court was in session. As in royal court. Up on a stage sat the king and queen (I learned later that they were actually a baron and a baroness, a fact that mattered to me about as much as Whitney Houston’s shoe size), a princess, several other people in charge, and no elephant. The audience consisted completely of people in different period garb, carrying weapons and flasks and whatnot. One guy looked EXACTLY like Peter Pan, except for the 5 foot long bow and the quiver full of arrows on his back, and the fact that he was no younger than 45. The women were all dressed like wenches or courtesans or some other female-appropriate role from the Middle Ages. Even the children present were costumed up. I felt sad for them all, and then that passed, and I laughed. I wandered over to the wedding area, lacking anything better to do at the moment, and I spotted one of Cage’s children, who I did recognize. She was with a woman who looked sorta like Cage, and when she spotted me, she walked over and said “You must be Damian.” Seeing as I was Cage’s token black friend, I’m sure it wasn’t too terribly hard to figure me out. She was Cage’s sister, and she did NOT want to be there. Our exchange:
CageSis: “What do you think about all this?”
Me: “It’s not my cup of tea, but hey, whatever finds your lost remote. I’m still looking for the elephant.”
CageSis: “The what?”
Me: “Nevermind.”
CageSis: “Yeah, this is stupid. So, is Cage’s fiance an asshole, or what?”
Me: [stunned silence, looking for the angle]
Me: “Uh, why do you say that?”
I was looking for the angle because, although I had heard he was an asshole, he’d never been anything but nice to me, and I wasn’t about to throw him under the bus to someone I didn’t know. She goes on to tell me about all the assholish things he did since she arrived, which I won’t even bother detailing here. The guy is an asshole, something he’ll tell you himself. Eventually she wandered off, leaving me alone again. As I stood around, Cage’s cousin from out west approached me. I had met him before on a previous visit, and I was happy to see him again. Our exchange:
Me: “Fran! So good to see you again!
Fran: “Damian, glad you made it out! So, what do you think?”
Me: “I’m reserving judgment until I’ve seen all of it. This will be in my blog, no doubt.”
Fran: “Yeah, I’ve already got several pages written. Wow, Cage’s fiance is an asshole, isn’t he?”
Me: [not-so-stunned silence, wondering what the hell happened]
Me: “Uh, yeah, he’s an interesting guy. Why do you say that?”
Fran launched into a monologue about all the assholian things perpetrated by the fiance of the past few days leading up to the wedding. Again, not worthy of description. Fran found something more interesting to do, and thus left me to my own devices. About five minutes later, Cage’s best friend and maid of honor Retro came over, and brightened noticeably when she saw me. Our exchange:
Me: “Retro! You look great in your costume.”
Retro: “Ugh. Thanks, Damian. It’s so good to see you. Is this not a clusterfuck?”
Me: “If it’s not, it’s in Clusterfuck Academy, awaiting graduation. How’s Cage?”
Retro: “On the verge of a nervous breakdown. My God, is Fiance an asshole or what?”
Me: [completely un-stunned silence, trying not to laugh]
Me: “That seems to be the consensus. Why do you say that?”
Retro begins a tirade about all the assholery committed by our antagonist, El Fiance . Suffice it to say, he wasn’t a popular character. After she left, I decided to be proactive and meet the others there. Of note were Fiance’s mother and grandmother, both of whom were very Texas and very nice. By now it was 9pm, and the wedding still hadn’t begun. I didn’t really want to be there in the first place, I looked like Shrek, and I was looking an an hour’s drive home again. I decided that I was leaving no later than when they walked down the aisle, because there’s only so much tomfoolery one sane person can stand. Retro grabbed me and took to where Cage was, which was a sweet relief to all that had happened before. She looked lovely, and was serene, even through the craziness of the situation. I knew that would be the only chance I had to talk to her, so I explained that I wouldn’t be staying after the ceremony. She understood; she knew how I felt. There’s a fine line between “support” and “condone”, and I wanted to make sure I walked that line carefully. As I headed back over to the ceremony area, I happened to pass behind Fiance’s grandmother, the charming woman from before. And I’m not saying this to be mean; I’m not making this up, and I don’t think it was intentional, but as I passed behind her, the unthinkable happened: She farted. Loudly. Like a frat boy on beer night.
Well. That was the capper on a fine evening, or so I thought.
The Ceremony
I won’t bore you with endless details about the ceremony – hell, I’ve already bored you enough as it is. I’ll give you some highlights.
The Denouement
As promised, no sooner had the happy couple walked down the aisle than I slipped out quietly into the night. I was tired, confused, and mad. I was promised an elephant. I did hear there was some bellydancing after I left, though. Among the dancers was the groom’s mother and grandmother. I think I left at just the right time.
The Postscript
We all found out that the couple had flown to Vegas and eloped about 2 months prior to the actual ceremony.
Peace.
Happy Thanksgetting, everyone! I hope everyone travels safely and eats irresponsibly today, because truly, that’s what today’s all about. You may have noticed that I renamed the holiday. I did that to more accurately represent and reflect the real human sentiment of the day, because as fulfilling as it is to genuinely give, we all get a deeper, more animalistic pleasure from getting. But unlike Christmas, where we tend to expect to get material things such as iPods and credit card statements, Thanksgetting is more about the intangible things – hold up.
OK, I was just watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and the singing float for Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends just got Rickrolled – by the real Rick Astley! Maybe 20% of people watching will even get what happened, but me and DWW just busted out laughing when we saw it. Classic. Oh, and there’s a marching band (Second Time Arounders) that is comprised completely of old people. It’s simultaneously the coolest and saddest thing I’ve seen all week. Now back to my original train of thought. Captain Tangent!
Like I was saying, Thanksgetting is more about the intangible things, such as getting to eat like a pig with a tapeworm, and getting to skip work for no good reason, and getting to watch football with your pants unfastened. It’s for getting sleepy after eating, for getting to shop like a crazed weasel on Black Friday, and getting some seriously sweet deals. It’s also for getting to spend time with family and friends, and to get along with each other. Hence my name change.
It’s also a time to be thankful for the many good things in our lives, such as the aforementioned family and friends, the food, our health, and about a thousand other things that we tend to take for granted throughout the year. But amidst you closing your eyelids and whispering sweet thank yous to whatever deity you worship (I think Buddha is underrepresented, but that’s just me), don’t forget to be thankful for all the little things you have day to day, too. Make sure you’re thankful for:
Happy Thanksgetting, everyone!
Peace.
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