I Hate Joe Theismann

And it’s not as if Paul Maguire is any better.

ESPN’s NFL coverage is unbelievably obnoxious. Theismann is a know-it-all jerk, and Maguire wants everyone to be impressed with his ability to dissect an instant replay. And they both name drop like it’s going out of style. They’re completely unwatchable.

For example, Theismann’s analysis of every pass caught during the first quarter and a half of the game was that the new rules changes made those catches possible. Plaxico Burress makes a circus catch in traffic? Well, he wouldn’t have if he was held at the line of scrimmage, which is now illegal. Terrell Owens gets wide open down the field and catches an apparent TD? Rules changes. I like Paul Maguire’s response to him on that one, which was, “The rules may have changed, but it’s not against the rules to cover the guy.”

I’m glad Detroit’s schedule gives us nothing but knucklehead announcers on Fox and CBS like Brian Baldinger to deal with. At least “Baldy” doesn’t act on the air like he’s been bunking with the players all week, and here’s what they had to say…

While my car was being fixed yesterday, I got a ride to and from work from my little brother. He’s your stereotypical Pontiac Grand Am / Grand Prix driver, in that he’s got a car with some pickup, so he uses every last little bit of it to live out his hyper-aggressive driving fantasies.

I hate riding with him, I really do. He honestly believes that his reaction time/reflexes are sharper when he’s ten feet from the bumper of the car in front of him, instead of two car lengths back. He’s said that out loud. Anyway, the highway on the way home is a divided highway with two lanes on either side, and spots where cars have short left turn lanes leading to breaks in the median to cross. Having driven this road every day, I can tell you that if there’s any traffic at all, brake lights in the left lane are frequent due to people moving over and getting into those turn lanes. I do everything I can to give the cars in front of me plenty of room, as having to jam on my brakes is not a completely uncommon experience.

Not my brother. As a matter of fact, he spent four or five miles tailgating a semi truck, completely ensconced in the blind spot behind him, no more than ten feet away, doing his damndest to try to get around. As soon as he had some room to the left, he darted over without signaling and hit the gas hard. Problem was, the truck – because he didn’t know there was someone almost underneath him, had started to lumber over that way into the clear lane too. My brother had to hit the brakes, and started cursing the truck for making an asshole move.

Yeah, uh huh.

I seriously can’t watch him drive. I know I drive reasonably aggressively, but the key word there is “reasonably.” I want to be in front of everyone too, but I’m not going to push the people in front of me with my bumper to do it. It’s really amazing to me that he hasn’t been in / caused more accidents than he has.

I’ve theorized previously about Grand Am / Grand Prix drivers, but in a nutshell I believe that because these cars have a near-muscle car feel to them for a cheap price tag, that these are the cars of choice for a generation of early twentysomething males who had to give mom and dad the keys to the wagon back before college. The Grand Am / Grand Prix is affordable to nearly anyone pulling a paycheck, and is just sporty enough for a young guy to drive.

And, of course, powerful enough for them to indulge their NASCAR fantasies on America’s highways. If there’s a car that’s weaving in between lanes, and doing everything it can to cut eleven seconds off their commute, chances are good it’s an 18-25 year old guy behind the wheel of a Pontiac.

If I were in charge of insurance rates, I’d make it prohibitively expensive to give a male driver under 30 a policy for a car with anything bigger than a V4 in it. I’m 30 now, so I can say that with conviction.

Damn You Al

America’s Wingman, Al Can’t Hang, sent me an instant message this morning about 830AM EST to let me know that he’s taken today off.

Bastard.

After next week, I get Labor Day, then that Friday off for my brother’s bachelor party, then the next Friday and Monday off for the wedding weekend, so I shouldn’t gripe, but a day of rest would be really quite nice.

Taking an extra one though would leave me only 4.5 days left of vacation, and I need most of that either for the last week of this year (when my client is on shutdown, but effectively I’m not and would have to sit at my desk twiddling my thumbs all day long because I need to be “working”), or in case I somehow end up being able to take a vacation somewhere at some point.

So, I’m hoarding my days, and am living vicariously through Al today.

ME: what’s on TV right now? I think dawson’s creek should be on TBS if I’m not mistaken

ACH: movie on TBS. charmed on TNT. olympics on USA. i’m just watching sportscenter

I love Katie Holmes.

Anyway, here’s a short list of things I’d much rather be doing between 725AM and 5PM today than sitting at my desk attempting to get work done:

>> Leisurely breakfast of blue corn flapjacks and sausage links, with coffee and a newspaper at the Morning Star Café in town.

>> Sitting and waiting for premium hands on the 25NL tables on PartyPoker.

>> Making tomato sauce

>> Sleeping

>> Chain smoking cigarettes on the deck while finishing up my book (“Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs” by Chuck Klosterman)

>> Lip sync rapping to old Wu-Tang CDs

I mean, the possibilities are endless.

So at my dad’s for the week, I was exploring around on his digital cable, and apparently the “On Demand” feature now includes programming from channels like HBO and Cinemax, to both of which he’s a subscriber. So instead of watching “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” or checking out this new HBO series “Entourage,” I of course dive right into “Cinemax After Dark.” I watched – well, mostly on fast forward – a really bad movie apparently about a mummy from ancient Egypt who was freed from her sarcophagus and went looking for her reincarnated lover.

Her reincarnated lesbian lover. Aw yeah.

The acting, as usual, was below sub-par. The reincarnated lesbian lover was dating her college prof (history prof, who behind him on the chalkboard had incredibly disparate things like “1841-1863,” “Florence Nightengale,” and “The fall of Rome”), and the prof was constantly being flummoxed by other “students” in groups of twos and threes who were coming on to him every time class ended. Invariably, tube tops went down, or tank tops were peeled off, and not a single one of these girls were wearing a bra. The prof, much to his credit, was staying true to his girl. Good for him I suppose.

The mummy didn’t look at all Egyptian, and had a massive boob job. I’m wondering if the Egyptian aesthetic demanded enormous breasts of their queens, and if the biological knowledge gained through hundreds of years of mummification processes was valuable to them in the augmentation of breasts in that society.

But maybe I’m over-thinking this movie just a touch.

My favorite part was when two sorority sisters (who were each easily in their early 30s – aren’t there starlets just off the turnip truck willing to tweak another girl’s nipples for a chance at a movie role who are more age-appropriate?), upon being unable to tempt the professor into cheating on his girlfriend, went back to their house to “study,” but weren’t ten seconds into cracking their books open when they decided to take a lesbian sex break.

Good for them, studying is hard.

Anyway, I guess the resurrected Egyptian queen sensed a disturbance in the force, or her gaydar went off or something, because she teleported herself into the bedroom, gave each of them a mind-control French kiss, and turned them into her servants.

Good move by her too, as these servants were able to restrain a barely-struggling reincarnated lesbian lover girl, and strip her down for the queen to make love to.

Because I watched it on fast forward, I had very few actual plot problems with the movie, which I’ll detail below. However, the 90 minute feature only had five sex scenes, four of which were the mummy queen and the reincarnated lover, and one of which involved the sorority sisters. Maybe my expectations are too high, but I’m looking for variety, and this movie absolutely did not deliver on that.

Factual Errors And Plot Problems With This Movie

>> Boob job on the mummy queen was obvious and excessive for ancient Egyptian society

>> Flashbacks to ancient Egypt revealed a garden of palm trees with a Spanish inspired gate and a paved driveway with obvious oil spots

>> Flashbacks also revealed a tattoo of a butterfly on the lower back of the queen’s lover

>> No man is strong enough to resist the siren’s call of multiple soft core porn actresses offering group sex

>> Even if she was a real reincarnated Egyptian mummy queen, she would not be able to teleport herself, and most likely would not be able to afford to purchase tube tops, jewelry, stripper pumps, and mini skirts right out of the sarcophagus without first getting a job and also establishing non-traditional credit through monthly payments of utility bills and rent.

Other than that, on a scale of 1-10, I give it a D.

Questions

In the book I’m currently reading, “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs” by Chuck Klosterman, he’s got a section featuring 23 questions he would ask a prospective girlfriend to see if she was worth his time. A few of these were great, so I’m going to take a crack at a couple.

By the way, I don’t have the book in front of me, so you’re getting paraphrased questions:

If you could go back to when you were five years old with all the knowledge and life experience you have to this point in your life, and essentially live your life over again, how much earlier in life would you have lost your virginity?

That’s an easy one for me. It would be five years. I could easily have talked my way into it with my first girlfriend, as we dated long enough and had a pretty solid connection for kids that young. Unfortunately, if you’re doing the math, I just realized I just told a whole bunch of people that I lost my virginity when I was quite old. Comparatively. At minimum, I had a girlfriend freshman year of college that could/should have been the one, but we were both too chickenshit. Well, whatever. I still got mine eventually.

You meet a wizard. He tells you that he can make you more attractive if you pay him, and proves it by picking out a random passerby and tells you he’ll make that person $1 more attractive. You don’t notice any physical change, but you definitely feel that random person has become more attractive to you. The catch is that you can only pay the wizard once, so you must now decide how much money in one lump sum you are willing to give him. How much do you pay the wizard to become more attractive?

This one is difficult. First of all, yes, I’d absolutely pay the man to make me more attractive. But what’s difficult is judging what $20 versus $50 versus $1500 will get you. I mean, you’ve got to figure that at some point you’ll have tipped the scale so far that you’re David Cassidy circa 1976 with women screaming and chasing you everywhere, and you could possibly even overpay so badly that men would do the same. So basically, you have to try to figure out from his $1 example, what percentage more attractive did that random person become? One percent? Five percent? One quarter of one percent? Then you’d have to guesstimate from there. I’d pay the man enough money to guesstimate myself up 60%. I figure that’s plenty without being egregious.

Your best friend is sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor. For whatever reason, you know that your friend will die if you don’t kick him in the ribs as hard as you possibly can. However, your friend will immediately die if you tell him why you had to kick him in the ribs. Assuming you kick him with all your might, what excuse do you give him when he wakes up and wonders what happens?

It seems wildly insincere to blame it on something like sleepwalking or an epileptic seizure, and I don’t think going Gramatica to his sternum is what you’d do to chase a small animal away. I think you have to blame it on a big animal. A big, dangerous animal. “I’m sorry man, it was a rabid raccoon, and he was about ready to bite you only to move at the last second.”

A large Clydesdale horse has had all four hooves anchored to the ground, and its head fixed in one spot. The group responsible for this offers you this opportunity: If you can kick this horse to death in 25 minutes, every political prisoner in the world will be freed. Assuming they’ll let you wear steel toed boots, do you try to kick the horse to death?

I’d do it for Dairy Queen coupons.

You are offered the opportunity to be introduced to a woman that’s nearly absolutely perfect in every way. She’s beautiful, intelligent, driven, has a respectable career, and you’re guaranteed that the physical attraction is strong and mutual. Her only drawback is that she is obsessed with the Jim Henson Muppet goth movie “The Dark Crystal.” She watches the movie constantly (but doesn’t subject you to it), makes “DC” references while watching TV, reading the paper, in casual conversation, and at dinner parties. As a matter of fact, whenever you are looking for alone time, she retreats to the study to her life’s work, a multi-volume treatise dissecting “The Dark Crystal” on various social and economic levels. Do you take this woman to be your life’s partner knowing this coming in?

I know a girl who’s obsessed on this level with “Labyrinth.” Insulting David Bowie, or even paying him a backhanded compliment is grounds for a serious tongue lashing, and not in the pleasure-filled sort of way. She even has a book she’s writing about it. While I wouldn’t in a billion years date this girl, it’s because she’s not my type (and is really bizarre, not just about the movie), not because she likes the movie just a bit too much. I’d probably find this level of obsessive behavior kind of endearing. So long as I didn’t have to go to conventions or something. Hey, I’m a Lions fan, that’s its own level of obsessive, right?

More of these later…

Summary
Or, using MS Word’s “Auto Summarize” feature to distill today’s post down to 25% of its size

I Hate Joe Theismann

And it’s not as if Paul Maguire is any better.

Plaxico Burress makes a circus catch in traffic? Rules changes. While my car was being fixed yesterday, I got a ride to and from work from my little brother. He’s your stereotypical Pontiac Grand Am / Grand Prix driver, in that he’s got a car with some pickup, so he uses every last little bit of it to live out his hyper-aggressive driving fantasies.

Anyway, the highway on the way home is a divided highway with two lanes on either side, and spots where cars have short left turn lanes leading to breaks in the median to cross. Not my brother. Yeah, uh huh.

I seriously can’t watch him drive. I know I drive reasonably aggressively, but the key word there is “reasonably.” If there’s a car that’s weaving in between lanes, and doing everything it can to cut eleven seconds off their commute, chances are good it’s an 18-25 year old guy behind the wheel of a Pontiac.

Damn You Al

Bastard.

ME: what’s on TV right now? I think dawson’s creek should be on TBS if I’m not mistaken

ACH: movie on TBS. i’m just watching sportscenter

I love Katie Holmes.

>> Sleeping

>> Chain smoking cigarettes on the deck while finishing up my book (“Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs” by Chuck Klosterman)

>> Lip sync rapping to old Wu-Tang CDs

I watched – well, mostly on fast forward – a really bad movie apparently about a mummy from ancient Egypt who was freed from her sarcophagus and went looking for her reincarnated lover.

Her reincarnated lesbian lover. Aw yeah.

I’m wondering if the Egyptian aesthetic demanded enormous breasts of their queens, and if the biological knowledge gained through hundreds of years of mummification processes was valuable to them in the augmentation of breasts in that society.

But maybe I’m over-thinking this movie just a touch.

Factual Errors And Plot Problems With This Movie

>> Boob job on the mummy queen was obvious and excessive for ancient Egyptian society

>> Flashbacks also revealed a tattoo of a butterfly on the lower back of the queen’s lover

>> No man is strong enough to resist the siren’s call of multiple soft core porn actresses offering group sex

Questions

In the book I’m currently reading, “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs” by Chuck Klosterman, he’s got a section featuring 23 questions he would ask a prospective girlfriend to see if she was worth his time. If you could go back to when you were five years old with all the knowledge and life experience you have to this point in your life, and essentially live your life over again, how much earlier in life would you have lost your virginity?

Comparatively. You meet a wizard. First of all, yes, I’d absolutely pay the man to make me more attractive. One percent? Five percent? I’d pay the man enough money to guesstimate myself up 60%. Your best friend is sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor. For whatever reason, you know that your friend will die if you don’t kick him in the ribs as hard as you possibly can. A big, dangerous animal. The group responsible for this offers you this opportunity: If you can kick this horse to death in 25 minutes, every political prisoner in the world will be freed. Assuming they’ll let you wear steel toed boots, do you try to kick the horse to death?

I’d do it for Dairy Queen coupons.

Do you take this woman to be your life’s partner knowing this coming in?

I know a girl who’s obsessed on this level with “Labyrinth.” Hey, I’m a Lions fan, that’s its own level of obsessive, right?

Group Participation

I'm interested...

Let's say the doctor tells you that you have two days to live. The local newspaper lets you know that they are going to run your obituary with a four or five word byline, and they'll let you write it. The only catch is, it has to be absolutely factual without embellishment.

They have these in our paper, with bylines like "Member of St. Patrick's Parish," or "Gardener of prized roses."

Put it in the comments widget below, but (in the spirit of all that is true) again, you can't lie or embellish the truth.

Mine:

Boy Genius
Once Salt Lake City's Mayor

(true, in a sense, without embellishment)

How about you?

D+

I don’t know if you want to really call what I do “writing,” but I think I’ve got some sort of writer’s block going on. So, I’m just going to commit to typing here for a few minutes or more, and we’ll see what comes out.

I’ve always wanted to give the toast that Jim Belushi did in the movie, “Takin’ Care of Business.” To stand up in front of a crowd and offer the words, “To the Cubs winning the World Series, and big tits,” well, that about covers it.

I really rather enjoy big tits. I mean really. Really enjoy them, or really big tits? Well… yes please. My ex-wife was a DDD cup. The best I’ve ever had was a good solid D. I like them an awful, awful lot. To my tastes, there’s nothing like a woman that’s built like, well, a woman. Or Russ Meyer’s idea thereof. Whatever.

Anyway, I plead guilty (really, really guilty) to being one of those guys whose eyes are absolutely magnetized by a tremendous rack. I try to pick them up, and they fall right back down again. It’s brutal.

I remember sitting at a big round table in a hotel ballroom for a three day conference, and directly between my eyes and the podium was this ridiculously beautiful French-Canadian girl with delicate features and a porcelain grey complexion. She spent three days leaning her right elbow on the table, twisting her torso slightly to the outside in order to watch the speaker. I spent three days burning a hole in her chest or trying to mentally will her turtleneck sweater to disintegrate before my eyes.

That wasn’t the worst though.

The worst was when, a few months into my marriage, another couple invited us over for a couples evening of board games and bad spaghetti. The hostess was K, a nearly six foot tall blonde Finnish native with a tremendous body, and also invited were my ex’s brother and his girlfriend A. A looks like a cross between the “My Girl” chick all grown up, Rebecca Romijin-Stamos, and Rebecca Romijin-Stamos if I were to hit her sharply across the bridge of the nose with a fungo bat. She too was nearly six feet tall, and had the type of body that could have landed her bikini modeling gigs, were she to lose about twenty pounds.

Both girls were solid Ds.

Both girls had men much bigger than I.

Much to my dismay, at a late point of the evening the hostess offers for everyone to climb into the hot tub. Both six foot tall blondes with huge racks get into bikinis. All of a sudden, I’ve got the booby prize (so to speak), sitting next to my much, much dumpier wife (think Tiffani Thiessen minus the personal trainer, plus 6500 calories a day for the next eighteen months). And both girls are across from me, both doing the dip-the-head-then-lean-way-back-and-shake-it-out thing, and I’m going absolutely bonkers, because I can only catch this happening out of the corner of my eye. It was impossible to stare, but it was impossible not to. I mean, breasts are buoyant in the bubbles, and they’re only slightly down in a glance from their face when you’re talking to them.

Instead of chanting my internal mantra of “you’re a married man… you’re a married man…” I’m hearing, “their guys will kick your ass… their guys will kick your ass…”

I don’t know what it was with my ex- and friends with big racks. She had one friend that was similar looks-wise to the prissy rich one on “Sex in the City,” but that was really her only small breasted friend. One after another she would trot them out, and each one would be packing something noticeable under their sweater.

Now, I know I am sounding borderline creepy with my stories of staring and leering, but that’s what you get with me. No, not borderline creepy. You get me being honest, and I’m willing to be the guy to come right out and say “I like big tits.”

But that’s not my favorite part of a woman’s body. To me, there’s nothing sexier than a woman who’s fit, but has exaggerated curves. And my favorite curve of all is the one from just under the rib cage on her side, all the way down to her mid thigh. Yes, I love child-bearing hips. I don’t scoff at those sociological biologists, or whatever, who postulate that people are attracted to those of the opposite sex that look the most fertile. Yep, that’s me. I mean, I can appreciate model-beauty, but I like a woman that’s almost the caricature version of “woman.”

That being said, I’ve never really liked that fake plastic look. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun to look at, but a Pam Anderson type just doesn’t really do it the same way for me as someone like Anna Nicole Smith (circa ‘93, before she opened her mouth in public) does. And yes, I realize she’s had some work done too, but everything looks more natural on her than it does on Pam. Far more natural. Her frame supports those curves. Pam’s chest, at its peak(s), looked cartoonish.

Hypothetically, let’s say you were in a bar enjoying a quiet drink. And let’s say you were surprised when Pam Anderson walked in all alone, sat down near you, and struck up a conversation. Now let’s say you were enjoying each other’s company, having a good time talking, maybe even just crossing the border into flirting, but you’re not sure.

All of a sudden, she says, “Do you want to come back to my place?,” and it’s obvious what she means.

Which of these is your first impulse:

A) Yes, absolutely, sleeping with Pam Anderson is what I’ve dreamed about for years.
B) No, thanks. I don’t want to catch hepatitis or anything else.
C) No way I’m getting anywhere close to anyone Tommy Lee slept with for any reason.
D) No, thanks. I couldn’t perform my best knowing all the guys she’s been with.

Just curious. I think I’d be somewhere between C and D, but don’t ever ever underestimate the power of a beautiful woman over me. I’d sell nuclear secrets to the Eskimos if a beautiful woman batted her eyes at me the right way.

Baio!

Four grueling hours on Tuesday night, and I finally have my squad for fantasy football this year. By the way, “Baio!” is my team name, and my logo is a picture of a t-shirt iron-on with a young Chachi with “Loverboy” in rainbow script across the bottom. Super cool.

Due to the fact that our league spans three time zones, we were forced to not only conduct our draft via IM chat room, but to also start it fairly late on a weeknight in the Eastern time zone to accommodate our Pacific contingent.

I’m pretty happy with how things went. Here’s my roster (keeper picks signified by an asterisk):

QB: Daunte Culpepper / Rich Gannon
RB: Michael Bennett* / Chris Brown* / Charlie Garner / Artose Pinner* / Steven Jackson / Tony Hollings / Onterrio Smith / James Jackson
WR: Randy Moss / Chad Johnson* / Brandon Lloyd* / Lee Evans / Freddie Mitchell / Justin Gage / Josh Reed
TE: Todd Heap
D/ST: Baltimore
K: Ryan Longwell

STRENGTHS: I’ve got the top WR and QB on my squad, as well as a top TE and Defense. I’m deep at RB, as I’ve got three guys who will be #1 to open the season. I also have a better 1-2 punch at WR than anyone else in the league.

WEAKNESSES: No top ten RB, too many Vikings for my comfort level. No true #3 WR, took a lot of risks at that position.

Having kept two starting RBs gave me flexibility at my draft slot to pick best available players with my first three picks. I was disappointed to see Manning and Harrison off the board in round two, and was forced to pick Culpepper in that slot. Not a bad pick, but for balance’s sake, I’m uneasy with so many Vikings. I debated hard in round three between Tony Gonzalez (my intended pick pre-draft) and Charlie Garner, who I never thought would be there that late (he was my best available RB when I picked in round two). I went with Garner, and crossed my fingers to hopefully see Gonzo in round four. He went one pick before mine in that round, and without a pick until round six, I was forced to take Todd Heap, lest I miss out on a top TE. I also missed out on taking one other player I had targeted, DeShaun Foster, when I took Baltimore’s Defense in round six, hoping Foster would be there for me in seven. Stephen Davis’ owner took him before I had a shot to.

Otherwise, I think I did pretty well. I like one of my backup WRs to have a decent break-out season, and I think at least one of my backup RBs will be starting somewhere (or logging major carries) by the end of the year too. I got Gannon late, which I think is a major bargain for a backup, and stack up well next to any of my opponents I think.

By the way, before anyone wants to try to critique the team, realize this is a keeper league, and there were a lot of RBs – from LT to Warrick Dunn, and about 15 in between – kept by other teams, which really diluted the talent at that position in the draft. I wasn’t in a position to get a better back than Taylor (who I think is overvalued) or Henry or Dillon in round one, and Eddie George, Garner, CMart were the next three backs off the board after I picked Culpepper in two. So there.

1+2+3+4=$1500

Years ago, I knew a kid who knew a family in whose house there was a drinking fountain.

I thought that was really cool. Who has a drinking fountain in their house? At ten or eleven years old, I couldn’t imagine anything cooler than that.

I’m not really sure when or why that wide-eyed view of the world dried up for me. Even though I do consider myself a cynical person, I don’t think that really has as much to do with it as it could. It just takes an awful lot more to impress me than it used to.

Although I did see a ridiculously hot blonde in her early 20s pulling a baby in a red wagon yesterday. And yes, I was duly impressed.

I’m really just trying to get through this life of mine without taking too many direct hits.

Of course, I haven’t been able to stay out of the line of fire lately. You know how they say “bad things come in threes?” Well, I hit my fourth money-related issue lately, and I’m really quite pissed off about it. The first was having to put two new tires on my car. $120 gone. The second was (and I don’t know if I mentioned this) when my bank took $588 (essentially my bonus check a day after I deposited it, plus $100) to cover my overdraft protection without letting me know they were doing it. The third was finally being asked by my mom to make good on helping her buy her new carpet (an old deal, I had $700 of the expected $900 saved for it, and a bonus check that… oh.), but being surprised with an additional $400 in expenses (above the $900) for the carpet that she wasn’t expecting, but passed along to me anyway.

So, let me count. $588+$120+$400 = $1100 of my money that I thought I was going to have as a savings account cushion, but now don’t.

That’s OK, I still had $900 in the bank.

Had, being the operative word. As I type, my car is in the shop, being looked at for some sort of engine trouble. Fuel pump or spark plugs or something. Regardless, I’m guessing it’ll be a minimum $200 fix, and I’m not even going to speculate how bad it could get.

This means I get no Vegas in the next few months, and that my remaining vacation time is going to probably be spent catching up with my TiVo on the couch sometime in late December.

That was the sound of a heavy sigh.

Basically, I was in a really ugly spot with money up until about 18-20 months ago. My family helped me secure a loan to consolidate all my lates and collections (from the marriage, she leaves the country, I get stuck), and I had faithfully paid on it. I got back on my feet, and just in these past couple of months felt like if a $1000 car repair came along, I could handle it.

Just go ahead and press “reset” on my bank account, I’m back to the paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle now. This means I don’t get to go anywhere on vacation through the end of the year, and that my gambling will have to be for extremely low stakes for the foreseeable future, at least until I can build another buffer.

Hope my family enjoys macaroni pictures for Xmas.

By the way, it ended up being a $275 repair. Better than it could have been, I suppose…

Pacific Poker Sucks

or

What was I dreaming about again?

I had one of the worst night’s sleeps I’ve had in ages last night, and I blame Pacific Poker for screwing up the blogger tournament.

Well, in reality, I’m house sitting at my dad’s while he and the wife are down South, and I really hate the guest room and the bed in there. The bed is somehow both too firm and too soft (yeah, you figure that one out – I can’t), and the pillows are the type that one alone is far too thin, but two together becomes far too thick. Again, I don’t get it, but that’s the way it is.

Throw in a Red Bull and two glasses of wine (Masi Campofiorin, about $15, and my new favorite cheap Italian red), and I had enough trouble getting to sleep, let alone staying unconscious last night.

But man oh man did I have a strange dream.

I don’t know why, but I have a fear of my ex-wife trying to visit me. There’s nothing I want more in life than for her to just continue to live her life on the other side of the Atlantic, forget about me, and not darken my doorway again.

Here’s a chat transcript of me telling her about the dream via IM. I only contacted her about it in the interest of good blog content, as we may chat over IM about a half dozen times a year, and it’s growing more infrequent as time passes – thankfully. Anyway, enjoy (edited only for minor spelling, and to remove a couple of names)…

-------

BG: you there?

BG: you know i don't come to you unless it's important, but i swear it's not about debts or collection notices, i promise

The Ex: oh hi

BG: oh hi

The Ex: sorry didn't see the IM

The Ex: immersed in graphics programs

BG: so long as it's not about debts or collections, then you'll talk to me, right?

BG: :)

The Ex: hehehe no

The Ex: honestly, just didn't see it

The Ex: I'm on a rush deadline here

BG: yeah, alright

BG: no time now then?

The Ex: no we can dish

BG: i rarely remember my dreams

The Ex: trying to decide what the hell to do with these business card design

BG: and i've even more rarely had you in them

The Ex: okkkkk

BG: but between the red bull, the red wine, and the bed i'm not used to sleeping in, i had weird ones last night

BG: by the way, Masi makes an unbelievable Campofiorin, if you see it in the stores ($15 US), pick it up

BG: it's really good

BG: anyway

The Ex: ''bed you're not used to sleeping in''

BG: prefacing this dream

The Ex: right...preface more

BG: there was an episode of the TV show "Monk" i watched this week

The Ex: I've seen it

BG: where the main character went to stay with his in-laws

The Ex: the show, not necc the episode

BG: his wife, after all, was killed by a car bomb a few years ago

The Ex: rigt

The Ex: right even

BG: anyway, in my dream i was friends with your dad

BG: played by some actor

The Ex: ok

BG: but it was your dad

BG: and he lived adjacent to this enormous casino/arcade complex

BG: so i came into the dream knowing i was friendly with your dad, and appreciating his friendship

BG: but was living in fear of running into you, even though you live on the other side of the planet

BG: which does, of course, help

The Ex: heheheh

The Ex: yes, it does

BG: anyway, your dad and i were standing around talking, and your brothers came through the door with a "guess what, we've got a surprise for you" sort of thing

BG: i knew what that meant, so i conveniently disappeared

The Ex: poof

BG: but you gave chase

BG: just to see me, that's all

The Ex: andddd

BG: anyway, all through this arcade and casino, i'm dodging you and disappearing into side rooms

The Ex: right

BG: i have a lot of those "under pursuit" dreams, most aren't insidious

BG: like gunmen or people with machetes

BG: just people i don't want to see

BG: i'm a sociophobe, after all

BG: anyway

The Ex: ok

BG: i got cornered

BG: and instead of freaking out about it

BG: i was the one who came up and gave you a hug

The Ex: no way

BG: like a "really good to see you" thing

BG: that's what i thought, "no way"

The Ex: wow, didn’t see that coming

BG: and it was warm and nice

The Ex: either way, gotta tell you my first instinct is that it makes me happy

BG: what, thought i was going to act like a trapped animal and kick you in the shins before sprinting in the opposite direction?

BG: it was just a nice to see you thing

The Ex: well that's what I thought

BG: you were wearing those white trash "half smoky" glasses

The Ex: ok, you've added a bit of niceness

BG: you know, those "not quite sunglasses" things

The Ex: hehehe, do you think I would wear those

BG: and had a bad haircut

BG: it's my dream woman, back off

The Ex: ah, so ya made me unappealing

BG: i dunno, maybe i enjoy a woman with a bad haircut and no sense of style whatsoever

The Ex: hehehehe

The Ex: so redbull, redwine and an unfamiliar bed did this to you

BG: i just thought it was an interesting dream, that's all

BG: Masi Campofiorin

The Ex: completely uninteresting

BG: i'm telling you, write that down - it's awesome

The Ex: Italian

The Ex: sending myself an email

BG: interesting that i was comfortable enough to not only be the one to precipitate the embrace, but to feel good about it while doing it

The Ex: so are you feeling a little bit more warm and fuzzy about me now

BG: i think, in this dream, the casino/arcade represented my psyche

BG: because it was big and loud and confusing

The Ex: ok

BG: and your dad represented the voice of reason

BG: and you represented my irrational fear of bumblebees

BG: so, i know now that bees are nothing to be afraid of, see?

The Ex: but it looks like that you aren't afraid of bees anymore

The Ex: the clouds have lifted

BG: no, bees still freak me out, and i don't want to have them anywhere nearby

BG: because they sting and are assholes about it

The Ex: I am so not the bee

BG: no, you REPRESENT the bees

BG: i'm telling you, dreams are all about symbolism

The Ex: but I don't sting and am not an asshole about it

The Ex: I know I know

BG: no, bees sting

BG: that's what i'm trying to tell you

BG: :)

The Ex: but I APPARENTLY REPRESENT THE BEE

BG: yes, you apparently represent the bee

BG: you did wear a lot of yellow, you know

The Ex: hehehehe

The Ex: so now that you aren't afraid of me

The Ex: and you know that I will leave you alone

BG: no, not afraid of bees

BG: let's get that straight

The Ex: sweet Jesus

The Ex: hehehe

The Ex: so who's the strange bed you're sleeping in

BG: and trust me, i appreciate the being left alone part

The Ex: I do what I can

The Ex: it would be nice to have more of a friendly thing with you, but I am not pushing it

BG: yeah, smart money says we're not getting close to that

BG: no offense

The Ex: slowly slowly catchy monkey

BG: i was talking to a british dude from gibraltar on the phone last night, and was mentally trying to bitch slap him through the receiver

BG: so am i still bitter? maybe a touch

The Ex: why were you talking to a dude from Gibraltar

BG: i mean, hugh grant movies were completely ruined for me, which really isn't that big a loss all things considered

The Ex: hehehe

BG: i didn't know there were british dudes in gibraltar at all, that was surprising

The Ex: Gibraltar is England owned

BG: i actually thought gibraltar was that little island off the east coast of africa

The Ex: so why talking to Gibraltar

BG: then i realized that was madagascar

BG: so it's not the same

The Ex: ok so why calling there at all

BG: why are you so interested in why i'm talking to someone in gibraltar?

BG: maybe i know people in gibraltar

The Ex: not sooo interested

The Ex: but it's an interesting topic

BG: gibraltar? i knew about the rock, but that's about it

The Ex: okkkk

BG: it's also not the place with the big head statues, that's easter island

BG: i had to be reminded of that last night too

The Ex: yes, its not

The Ex: you don't feel like sharing?

BG: i told you about my dream

BG: you got a hug from me, and i didn't try to strangle you in the middle of it

The Ex: ok, just thought this may be an actual ''conversation''

BG: that's plenty of sharing, isn't it?

BG: i'm in a good mood, maybe i didn't catch you in the same

The Ex: no I'm in a great mood actually

The Ex: work is going so well I am pulling 16 hour days

The Ex: and we had our huge ''Big Ass BBQ'' this last Saturday which was a raging success

BG: good

The Ex: yah, it's good...I'm now doing full marketing services

BG: good

The Ex: which includes photography...so I'm out running around taking pictures for MONEY a couple of times a week

The Ex: I got a PIMP Nikon D100 SLR

BG: good for you, glad you're finally making an effort to make your life the way you want it to be

The Ex: I've been rocking for about 9 months now

The Ex: but had to do a bunch of BS grunt stuff to get myself established here, now I have people referring me to people right and left

BG: go figure, hard work leads to good work... couldn't have told you that was the formula ;)

The Ex: har har

The Ex: you'd be impressed with my stuff

BG: sure

The Ex: you know I hate it when you say sure

BG: i said that on purpose

The Ex: I know

The Ex: do you want to see something that I did...I'm in with this big network of organic hippies here

BG: i can't click into anything

BG: not at work

The Ex: it's a pdf

BG: don't worry about it, i'm sure it's good

BG: i just can't do it here

The Ex: well if you ever get the chance, I'm the new layout editor of XXXXXX

BG: gotcha

The Ex: I do their printed thing

BG: ok

BG: well, that's all i had for you - thought you'd be interested to hear the dream

The Ex: yeah, that was nice of you to share

The Ex: I had one about you the other night

The Ex: but not as tame

BG: that's strange

The Ex: why strange

BG: i don't know if i'm blocking or what, and i don't mean this to be mean or rude

The Ex: I dream a lot...not a lot about you though

BG: but of all the women i've slept with, there's only one that i can remember every detail about - and it's not you

BG: and it's not julie either, so don't freak out

The Ex: I wouldn't

The Ex: what do you mean ''every detail about''

BG: i don't mean that to be mean

The Ex: none taken

BG: i probably slept with her about a dozen times, and each individual time is etched in stone in my head

BG: always has been

The Ex: so this is the new woman

BG: no, this is a really old one

BG: i mean, SHE'S not "really old"

The Ex: I wouldn't remember who she is, but if it's from when you were younger, no wonder

BG: but this was probably 10-11 years ago

The Ex: I mean I remember sleeping with Andy way more than I remember sleeping with you

BG: that doesn't surprise me, we didn't really seem to enjoy each other a whole lot from what i can remember

The Ex: that's not supposed to be a dig by the way

BG: no, same with mine

The Ex: yeah, which is a shame

BG: i don't mean that to be rude

BG: yeah, well, whatareyagonnado

The Ex: heheh, we're not being rude

The Ex: it's sad because I'm a highly sexually driven person

The Ex: and I think that if we had that sorted things would've been better

BG: but you like being served more than you like being the one doing the serving

BG: if that makes sense

The Ex: oh that is so not true

The Ex: sometimes it's true

The Ex: it's called a healthy balance

BG: you put a lot on my shoulders in every aspect of life to be the one to deliver

The Ex: lets not go down that road again

BG: and got tired of me when i couldn't handle that pressure

BG: no, i'm just saying

BG: that's what happened - not just in bed

The Ex: I know...but I've felt bad about that

BG: well, you should - just don't make that mistake again

The Ex: and there isn't anything I can do about it

BG: sounds like i'm life's hard little lesson

The Ex: except for what I have already done, which is apologise

The Ex: nah...I'm really in a good place now

The Ex: things happen for a reason

BG: right, i know, and i've heard the apologies

BG: sure

The Ex: sureeeeeeeee

The Ex: I will tell you I do remember having the sex with you the other night in my dream

The Ex: it was the good too

The Ex: hehehehehe

The Ex: was that highly inappropriate

BG: at least i can find a way to please you three years and 3000 miles away from reality

The Ex: is that what you think, I'm 3k miles away from reality

BG: no, 3000 miles from me

The Ex: you can create your own reality, I hope you know that

BG: and three years from our ugly reality

The Ex: you know, there were good times too

BG: i have a hard time recalling those

BG: i really do

The Ex: want a reminder of a few

The Ex: :-D

BG: if you want to

The Ex: happy thoughts for a Monday, here goes...

The Ex: -games, power Uno, PS2, Roast Beef Sandwich poems (4th grade style)

BG: the only time i can recall where i was your perfect companion at all was when we went to that get together after fiddler on the roof with all your old HS people

The Ex: well, you were perfect more of the time than you know

BG: so, as long as i was keeping you occupied with colors, numbers, or bad humor, things were peachy?

The Ex: no those are just glaring examples

The Ex: sitting on the couch was good too

The Ex: I remember my spot

The Ex: not on the couch...on you, that part on your shoulder I fit perfectly into

BG: i know what you meant on that one

The Ex: wanted to make sure

The Ex: there were lots o good things

The Ex: and when we got the puppy

BG: just the first one

The Ex: I remember you carrying him out of the store

The Ex: all happy, he was all little

The Ex: ok just the first one

BG: that second dog was your fault, i couldn't stand that bitch

BG: :)

The Ex: ok, well that Bitch has a new home

The Ex: and she's a happy little thing

The Ex: just don't write off the time we had as complete misery

The Ex: as there were serious good chunks

BG: ok

The Ex: so doubt you will tell me if you're dating etc

BG: you are correct

The Ex: was worth the ask

The Ex: I'm probably just the evil ex wife that you relay horror stories to these women

The Ex: about how I ruined your life

BG: not just to women, to hundreds of other people too ;)

The Ex: yes, lets not forget those other people too

BG: it's alright, i got burned but i learned an awful, awful lot

The Ex: well, if I had it to do over again, I wouldn't have 'burned' you

BG: like how even if i wanted to smack a british guy in the shins with a louisville slugger, he'd probably wince in pain, smile, tip his bowler, and wish me "G'Day"

The Ex: no Aussies say G'Day

BG: yeah, i know you wouldn't have burned me over again - we would have been smart enough to cut it off

The Ex: or be better to each other

The Ex: one or the other

BG: former, not the latter - it wasn't supposed to work out

The Ex: no, probably not

The Ex: I mean I think I was drawn to England so I could eventually meet J

BG: i hadn't really had that "loved then lost" experience, and i'm sure it's been a necessary thing

The Ex: everything happens for a reasonn

BG: so that's probably the "supposed to" thing here

The Ex: but unlike you I will always think of you fondl

The Ex: y

BG: you're right, i have a difficult time at best with that

The Ex: and that's alright

The Ex: I just don't like to dwell on the negative

The Ex: I would rather remember happy times

BG: gotcha - well, good that you can walk away with a few then

BG: i think it's lunch time for me

BG: good luck and such with everything

The Ex: I hope you have a good lunch

The Ex: hopefully we will talk again soon

The Ex: take care xo

BG: alright

Pacific Poker Sucks

75 strong, we came to play. And they dropped the ball. Eff them. Eff them up their stupid asses.

Highlight of my day though? Hung a tied-for-personal-best back nine golfing today with a 49.

Yes, I suck.

Actually, my game was atrocious on the front, couldn't hit anything straight. So I switched up my game starting on a 165 yard par three at the tail end of the front nine. See, I've got this irons swing where I can hit my 6-PW irons by choking up, closing the club face, hunching over the ball, throwing my hands out forward, and taking a mighty swipe. It's embarrassing looking, but I can drill the ball this way. Good height, amazing distance, dead straight.

Hey, whatever gets it there.

So I'm in the tee box on this par three, and Dan asks me what I'm hitting. I say "eight iron." He gives me one of those "you're fucking kidding" looks. "No way you get it to the green with that. I'm hitting a five iron."

"I'm getting every last little bit of that 165, watch." I step up, knock it pin high to the back of the green, easily 170.

And so it went. My favorite hole of the day was my bogey on the 485 yard par five sixteenth. I was on in three with 7-iron (tee shot), 7-iron (to 90 yards), PW (to 20 feet on the green). Yes, I three-putted, but screw that, I was knocking it 192 with my 7-iron.

And I made 49.

But Pacific Poker still sucks.