Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Stuff About Me

Hello my friends, we meet again. It’s been awhile, where should we begin? Feels like forever.

Ok, sorry for that. I just bought the Creed Greatest Hits CD and was listening to My Sacrifice last night. I’ve been at a total loss for what to write about, so I’m just going to cop out and post some stuff about me that you may or may not know.

1. I am a diverse person that easily adapts to most any situation. No, really I am!
2. I am not a good listener.
3. Despite this, I am a great problem solver.
4. I am just like a big kid.
5. To prove this, I have a SpongeBob wall clock hanging over my desk at work.
6. I am a frustrated high school athlete that knows that he could have played professional baseball.
7. I have deluded myself into thinking that I could play professional baseball still, if I chose to.
8. I have further deluded myself into thinking that I’m aging gracefully.
9. When I was 21, I hit three home runs in a baseball game off of a former major league pitcher.
10. A scout for the Houston Astros saw me play that night and gave me a try out the next day.
11. He told me I couldn’t hit well enough for my age.
12. He also told me that I was good enough defensively to step in and play shortstop for the Astros right then.
13. He didn’t sign me.
14. I love most all types of music.
15. I do not like classical and really don’t get jazz that much either.
16. I mostly listen to heavy alternative and rap.
17. The last 3 CDs I bought were - Marilyn Manson - Lest We Forget; Eminem - Encore; and Creed - Greatest Hits.
18. I pride myself on most likely being the only paralegal in Portland that listens to those CDs at his desk.
19. I have a tribal tattoo on my right arm, between my bicep and shoulder.
20. VaderChick calls it a pencil mark.
21. I had it done in March 2004.
22. I don’t have good picture of it.
23. In 2005, I have plans to have two more done.
24. One will look somewhat like this -
25. The difference will be that instead of the top banner saying "Creed" it will read "Garrett" and I’ll add a banner at the bottom that says "Reese."
26. Those are the names of my boys.
27. Their nicknames are G-Dogg and the Reesey Monstah.
28. The next tattoo I’ll get will be similar to the one on my arm, only I’ll get it around my left calf muscle.
29. I will probably have to have one more done after these two because I don’t like doing anything in odd numbers.
30. 2005 is going to be a great year.
31. I know this because I’m an eternal optimist.
32. I said the same thing about 2004.
33. This year has sucked.
34. No, really, nothing has gone right.
35. I cannot wait for the calendar to change from 2004 to 2005.
36. I really want to learn how to play the guitar.
37. I have asked for one for Christmas.
38. We’ll see if Santa listened.
39. The most important things to me in life are family and friends.
40. I consider those of you that frequent this site my friends.
41. Thank you for taking time to read this stupid stuff.

If there’s anything I didn’t touch on that you would like to know, just ask. I may even tell you.


Monday, November 22, 2004

They’re Playing Bas-ket-BRAWL!!

Ok, let me just say that the brawl between Indiana and Detroit (and their fans) was the most fucking phenomenal thing I’ve seen in a long, long time. Me and the boys were watching the game Friday night when it happened.

We saw the foul (which, incidentally, Big Ben Wallace overreacted to). What happened next totally blew us away. While Ron Artest (who seems to be a lightning rod for these situations) was lying on the scorer’s table, trying to stay out of the fracas, a fan threw a whole cup of beer on him from point blank range. From there, things deteriorated rapidly. I’m sure most of you have seen the video a hundred times by now, so I won’t rehash it. Let me just say that the ensuing five minutes was the most thoroughly engrossing television that I have watched in ages. The boys and I couldn’t look away. It was like a train wreck meeting a mass murder meeting a mass suicide meeting the Adult Video Entertainment Awards. Everywhere you looked, it was complete mayhem. You had Artest rushing the stands and taking down the wrong guy. You had Stephen Jackson right behind him acting like a thug, throwing haymakers left and right (even landing a few good ones). You had Jermaine O’Neal also thugging it up and decking a rolly-polyish dude that was still reeling from catching an Artest right cross to the jaw. That dude probably spent today picking out a new Porsche and is planning on touring Auburn Hills in search of a dwelling upgrade later this week. I’d gladly take a couple shots to the grill for a couple mil. No question about it. Artest is a bitch, pure and simple. As is Jackson. I noticed at the time that neither one of them wanted to get in Ben Wallace’s face after he shoved Artest. Smart move on their parts. However, when a skinny little white dude hit him with the beer, he had no problem chasing him up into the stands. I’d be inclined to say that Jermaine is bitch-like as well, but he never went into the stands, and only attacked the people who were on the court. Jermaine isn’t bitch-like, but rather bitch-ish.

The result of this melee? Artest is gone for the season without pay (73 games). Stephen Jackson is gone for 30 games without pay. O’Neal is gone for 25 games without pay. Wallace is gone for 6 games without pay. An assortment of players have been suspended for one game each as well. I’m sure that most everyone that was in the house that night have all consulted attorneys trying to figure out how to cash in on this brawl as well.

Being an athlete myself, I tried to put myself in the players’ position. I tried to figure out when an athlete is justified in going into the stands and attacking a fan. I couldn’t figure out an appropriate scenario. If a fan throws a beer on you, have his ass arrested. Is another spectator hurling racial epitaphs in your direction? Notify security, especially if the security guard is of the same race as you. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to escort the offending fan out.

Also, thinking back over my 32 years as an "athlete" of sorts, I can attest that I’ve only been in one brawl on a ballfield. I can also honestly state that I didn’t start the brawl, but I had my hand in escalating the situation. Yes, I know you are utterly shocked to hear that, being as how I’m so mild-mannered and all.

I was 23 years old (holy shit, was that REALLY 13 years ago?!?) and playing with a Class A Men’s Fastpitch team called the Osceola Athletics (Kissimmee, Florida). We had just won a National Championship two months earlier, so naturally not only were we feeling invincible, but every team in the area was gunning to beat us every time we played. Bragging rights among us frustrated high school athletes be damned. It was an early game (I want to say 6:00 on a Thursday evening - for some reason that sticks in my head). There was this team called Team Hispanic. They had a decent squad, but we’d beat them every single time we played them. I absolutely owned their pitcher. I probably hit .600 off this guy, which in fastpitch is ownership, plain and simple. I played shortstop for this team, was young, cocky and blessed with a tremendous throwing arm, not to mention devilishly good looks and being hung like a bear. I rarely made errors. I’m one of those guys that the madder I get, the better I play.

Anyhow, getting back to the game, I must not have worked that day because I remember being extraordinarily tired that night. I was probably off from school as well and just lazed around the house all day. That was my usual M.O. on my days off. The first batter of the game hit a two-hop ground ball to my left. I took two steps, bent down and had it kick off the heel of my glove for an error. Being that they knew that I was one of the few players that got paid to play for this team, they started chattering at me from the dugout. "Nice play, JP." "I can see why you play short for theeesss team." "Thass money well spent there." Etc., etc., ad infinitum. Ok, no biggie, I’m still asleep. Pretty relaxed. We get out of that inning unscathed. I come up in the bottom of the first with nobody on and two out (I hit 3rd in the order). Still asleep, but wanting to atone for my miscue in the field, I swung wildly at the first two pitches and then got rung up on a close third pitch for a strikeout. More chatter. Still asleep, I took my glove out to the field to play the second inning. Well, they unloaded against our pitcher (who was our third best pitcher on the roster) during this inning. When all was said and done, it was 5-0 and was probably the first time they’ve ever been ahead against us.

We sleepwalk through the bottom of the second inning getting a walk and a hit, but scoring no runs. The top of the third inning comes around (I’m starting to wake up, but am still on auto-pilot) and the first hitter hits a one hop smash to my right. I dive, glove it, hop up and, remember that great throwing arm I mentioned, well, I throw it waaaayyyyyyy over the first baseman’s head out into the parking lot for a two base error. Guess what? They start chattering again. First of all, nobody in the Orlando area would have even gotten to that ball. Second of all, all they were doing was waking me up. Big mistake. Huge. So, being the cocky 23 year old I am, I start chattering back. I’m saying stuff like "You better shut up. Don’t wake me up. You’re making a huge mistake here," along with one of my favorites, "I’ve beaten better teams than you all by myself." I can't imagine why they didn't like me. The next guy pops out and our pitcher walks the batter after him, putting runners on first and second with one out. The next batter hits a one-hop ground ball to our second baseman. He flips to me, I take the ball at second, touch the base, get waaaaayyyy out of the baseline, throw to first and turn the double play. However, after I released the ball, the runner from first goes out of his way to slide into me and take me out. I tried to jump over him, but he popped up and undercut me, sending me sprawling onto the infield dirt. Ok, that’s fine, I play short, I can handle being taken out, goes with the territory. However, IT’S ON NOW, MOTHER FUCKERS!!

Bottom of the third inning, we load the bases with one out and up I come. It’s still 5-0. With the count 2-2, I absolutely crush the next pitch down the left field line, but it goes foul. The very next pitch, the pitcher throws at my head. Not anywhere near the plate. At.My.Head. I go flying out of the way, get up and tell him, you better make sure this next pitch isn’t anywhere near the plate. You better pray that you walk me. The count is now 3-2, and since he doesn't want to walk in a run, he throws me a pitch right down the middle that I hit into the next county for a grand slam. Now it’s 5-4. However, they’re still jawing at me all the way around the bases. I’m telling them, can’t you see that you’re only making me play better? Don’t you think you should shut the fuck up? No dice.

We end up not scoring another run that inning. Going into the fourth, it’s 5-4 them. Their leadoff hitter hits a double to start the inning off. The very next hitter grounds to second base, sending the runner on second to third. After we got the out at first, our first baseman threw to third, where the runner had strayed a little too far from the base. Now we have him in a rundown. Our third baseman (who was my brother-in-law at the time) runs him toward home and then flips to the catcher. I fill in where he was. As the catcher runs him back toward third, he flips the ball to me. As I catch the ball and go to tag him, the son of a bitch elbows me in my mouth. Didn’t even try to hide it. Well, that was it. As soon as I regained my bearings, I rushed his ass and knocked him to the ground. I was on top, but I was also right near their dugout. After almost all of their players jumped on me, we had a huge scrum for about five minutes, no punches being able to be thrown or landed. Too many people on top of me. My teammates had my back, but really weren’t much help as I was pinned under half their team. I ended up with a black eye, a cut lip and bruised hand (I think I was knocked into a fence post somewhere along the line).

The police were called. The game was forfeited by both teams. After all was said and done, I was suspended for the remainder of the season (8 games) and their whole team was kicked out of the league in Kissimmee for life.

All in all, I’d call getting into a sports related melee an overrated experience. I hope never to be involved in one again....but you never know, especially when you’re as competitive as I am.


Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Sex Versus Violence

You're kidding me, right?

People are outraged over a nekkid Nicolette Sheridan jumping into the arms of Terrell Owens before Monday Night Football? I know she's certainly not what she was 20 years ago, but she's still pretty hot! Do these people have nothing better to do with their life? Do they hate the sight of themselves in the mirror after their shower that much? Why the hell are we worried about seeing someone else’s skin? Is it really that big a deal? No. It’s not. Are we trying to raise a generation of uptight, deprived adults? I would MUCH rather my kids walk in on a clip of two people making love (or the whole MNF scene) than watch a clip of two people trying to kill one another. People are much more tolerant of violence on tv. I’m stupefied by this. On Veteran’s Day, ABC (coincidentally the same station that airs Monday Night Football) presented Saving Private Ryan, uncut and unedited, during PRIME TIME. The opening scene, when the u-boats storm the beach at Normandy, is the most violent, disturbing and vulgar scenes in any movie of all time, yet I don’t see anyone protesting it being on tv. (Yes, I know they pulled it off the air in some markets, so shut the fuck up). I’d let my kids watch a whole episode of Desperate Housewives before I’d let them watch five minutes of that opening scene. To me, it’s asinine to be more concerned with a natural act between two consenting adults than an unnatural, violent, bloody act between two countries. But that’s just me.

Now, maybe there’s something deeper here. In the words of Homer Simpson - “Play the race card. PLAY IT!!!” Would there have been such a big uproar if Nicolette Sheridan was jumping into the arms of a white Eagle or Cowboy, or even if she were wearing a string bikini that only covered parts that weren't shown on TV anyway? Maybe. Maybe not. But I find it interesting that a white woman jumps into the arms of an African-American male and there’s a huge outcry from the so called “moral majority.” I’d be willing to bet that most of the calls that ABC fielded came from the “Bible Belt.” These are the same people that watch porn in their basements and fornicate with everything in a pair of pants because it feels so good to be bad. Most of them are hypocrites, pure and simple.

Here’s the deal people, if you don’t like what’s on tv, CHANGE THE FUCKING CHANNEL. There are no less than 500 channels for your enjoyment. Granted, there’s usually nothing on, but still. Be more concerned with your kids growing up watching violence, not sex. They’ll be better adults that way. I’d say there’s a decent chance that more kids will grow up and have sex rather than grow up and kill someone. I can dream, can’t I?


Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Second Opinion

Well, the outing to Eugene for the UO - UCLA game was VERY uneventful, so my planned blog for today is totally shot. Sorry, you're getting a story I posted waaaaaaay back in May when I started this site. I don't think many of you have read it, as there were no comments on it. Enjoy.

Second Opinion

As some of you may or may not know, I was diagnosed some time back with high blood pressure. Very high. 180/110 high. The problem is that I maintain a relatively healthy lifestyle consisting of a good diet and exercise, so the doctor was stumped as to why it suddenly spiked up. I've been going to the same doctor for years but pretty much got tired of hearing, "Keep taking your medicine and come back in two weeks." That's total bs. If it's high, it's his job to help me bring it back down and it wasn't working. I figured a second opinion was in order so I scheduled an appointment with a new doctor yesterday.

He's got a new and very small practice so it's easy to get an appointment and I was the only one in the waiting room when I got there. I signed in and about 3 minutes later they called me back. I knew I'd have a bunch of forms to fill out since I was a new patient but...cripes! They wanted my life history. It didn't help matters much that my old doctor never sent over my records like I requested 3 freaking weeks ago. That just reinforced why I decided to go with this new guy. That other doctor's office is borderline inept.

The forms started off innocently enough, asking for my name and social security number (I nailed both of those) and then moved into a little more perilous territory.

Employer's address: I have no clue. I've never mailed anything to myself at work. I wrote down the street name and left it at that.

Wife's employer's address: Umm...pass.

Length of time wife has been at current job: Why the frick do they need to know that? This isn't a damn loan application. I thought I'd play with them a little and wrote, "Yes".

Wife's social security number: Okay, now this is getting bad. Why couldn't they ask for my wife's birthday or my anniversary? She's seared those into my cerebral cortex over the years. I went with "867-53-09".

I fully expected the next few questions to be:

"What was your name in your last life?"
"What is your quest?"
"What is the air speed velocity of two mating bald eagles?"

No dice. It was at that point that I decided no one was going to ever read this thing, so I went all out.

Date of last rectal exam? Do you mean voluntarily?
Have you ever had herpes? Is that a proposition?
Have you ever had unproteced sex? No. I always put gloves on both hands.
Do you participate in any risky sexual behavior? No, it’s always on a bed and over quickly.
Date of last inoculation? I rubbed one out a couple of hours ago, if that big word means what I think it does.

I finally finished all the forms and the doctor comes in to check me out. First he tells me he's going to do a reflex test.

Me: A what test?
Him: A reflex test.
Me: I usually gag.
Him: Excuse me?
Me: I have a bad gag reflex.
Him: Umm, no. I'm going to check the reflex in your legs with this little hammer.
Me: Doc, this’ll go a lot more smoothly if you just say that in the first place.

He then went through the usual stuff like holding my legs down while I pushed up, holding my arms and pushing against him. I guess he was testing...well, I have no idea what he was testing. What came next totally floored me, but first a little background. My mom recommended this guy and she told me that at her first visit they asked her to count backwards from a hundred in increments of seven. Sounds like a DUI test to me but whatever. She said she absolutely blew it so I prepared myself for something along those lines. That's when he told me to, get this, stick out my tongue and shrug my shoulders. I'm not lying here. I couldn’t make that up if I tried. Stick out my tongue and shrug my shoulders. I can only assume that he knew how my Mom did on the complicated stuff and decided to give me a break. I can just imagine the conversation with his colleagues before he came in to see me.

"Remember that old lady who couldn't do simple math?"
"Yeah. What about her?"
"This is her son."
"Oh shit. Give him something simple. It might be a whole family of retards."
"How about I tell him to stick out his tongue and shrug his shoulders?"
"BBBWWWAAAHHHAAA!! He'll look pretty silly."
"Well, at least he'll get it right."

So when he tells me to do it, I get this really confused look on my face because I think there's no way I heard him right. He must have noticed so he tells me again what he wants me to do. Oooookaaaaay. I do what he says and I swear I heard a muffled laugh somewhere. I'm pretty sure there was a two-way mirror and the entire office staff was watching me. I'll go to my grave not knowing what that little maneuver was supposed to accomplish.

Next comes the rapid fire questions detailing my personal life.

"Do you drink alcohol?"
"What 'ya got?"
"Sorry. Yes, I do."
"How much?"
"A couple of mixed drinks every night." "Anything else?"
"And a couple of beers."
"OK, three beers."
"Is that all?"
"And a few shots of Beam."
"All in one night?"
"Sometimes into the morning."
"You need to cut back."
"OK. I'll start going to bed earlier."
"That's not what I mean."
"Good. I like staying up late."

~thinks to self~ This isn't going very well.

"Do you exercise?"
(Very proudly) "Yessir!"
"How much?"
" I work out 3 times a week."
"You need to increase it to 4 times."
"You mean I'm not doing enough?"
"You've got high blood pressure, don’t you?"
"Good point."

"Do you get dizzy spells?"
"I never did until I started taking the medicine."
"That's a good sign."
"Why is that good?"
"It shows that the medication is working."
"So feeling bad is a good thing?"
"In this case, yes."
"But I didn't start feeling bad until I started...never mind. I can't win this one."

"Do you urinate normally?"
"Yup. Always standing up."
"No, I mean is it regular, does it hurt...things like that."
"Oh. Well hell no. I don't have any vulnerable disease if that's what you mean."
"It's pronounced 'venereal'."
"Really? I was sure it was vulnerable."

"I need you to lie on your back."
"What for?" "I want to examine your internal organs."
"Whooaaa Nelly! That's not gonna be necessary, doc."
"Not that. I'm going to feel around on your stomach."
"Well that sounds okay."

He then begins to poke and rub on me like one of those Chinese massage ladies.

"I get happy ending?"
"That's not funny."
"It is from this point of view."

"Uh, Doc? You seem to be spending an awful lot of time on my right side. What’cha looking for?"
"Your liver."
"It's probably that thing that feels like a brick."
"That's not funny. We've already discussed your alcohol intake."
"Yeah, about that...I lied."
"About what?"
"I drink a little more than I admitted."
"Look, it's pretty obvious that you need to cut down a great deal. I don't think you can tell me anything that would change that."
"A six-pack."
"I drink a six pack a night in addition to the mixed drinks and shots."
"My God, man! Do you think you're an alcoholic?"
"If it's okay with you, I'll just ignore that question and you can go on with your organ scavenger hunt."

After about 30 minutes of this crap he finally decides to check my blood pressure and it turns out to be....


Perfectly fricking normal. Booyah!

So it would appear that I went through this living hell for no reason. He tells me to keep taking my medicine and think about the things we discussed, which I promised him I would. In fact, as soon as I got home I looked up venereal in the dictionary. Tomorrow I'll check out inoculation.


Friday, November 12, 2004

Tales From The Strip

Ok I’ll admit it, I’ve been to a strip club or two in my day. Yes, I know this comes as a total shock, but it’s true. I’ll even admit that I’ve dated two strippers in my lifetime. Dating a stripper is like trying to find a cure for cancer - it sounds like a great thing in theory, but it’s harder than expected and will leave you eternally frustrated. There are only so many vacuous conversations you can have before you start thinking to yourself, “Man, I need a woman whose IQ isn’t directly proportional to her g-string size.” I look at dating strippers like having a Porsche in the driveway. They’re nice to look at and fun to drive, but they’re not practical, get shitty mileage and are expensive as hell to maintain.

But that’s not where I’m going with this. As I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m heading out to the University of Oregon Duck - UCLA Bruins football game tomorrow. My friend Ben (who is a season ticket holder) gives me a ticket as a birthday present every year. Last year it was the Michigan game (the loudest fucking game I’ve ever been to), the year before it was Washington (in a downpour nonetheless) and the year before that it was Washington State (I don’t remember this game, I’m told that I was there). So, it’s become some sort of birthday ritual with us. Every year, we go down on Friday night. Every year, we eat dinner at his in laws’ house, go to a campus bar and then hit a strip club. Every year, I go back to his in laws’ house with a raging hard-on and a severe case of blue balls. Good times!

My strip club excursions with Ben are totally different than they were when I was in my 20's and living in Florida. First of all, I was nowhere near as confident as I am now with myself. I rarely made small talk or eye contact with most of the strippers I’d meet. The two strippers I dated were actually friends of friends and we were introduced outside of their respective ‘offices.’ Had I met them at their places of employment, I’d be willing to bet that I wouldn’t have went out with them. Even though I’m more confident now, it’s not like I’m a jerk to the women. Dating two strippers that I did taught me a valuable lesson about strippers in general - they’re just normal people. Granted, most of the ones I’ve seen are beautiful, have killer bodies and are personable, but they’re pretty normal. They just choose to take their clothes off to make money. When I go to a club now, I’m less inclined to get a lap dance and more inclined to buy one of them a drink and just talk for awhile. Just talk about their lives, hopes, dreams, etc. I’ve found if you treat them like real people, instead of sex objects, you send them away feeling a little better about themselves than when they first sat down to ‘talk’ with you.

Back in my 20's, if I was at a strip club I’d normally get a lap dance, not say much, smile awkwardly at them for awhile and then go home. One night, my friends and I were out at a very famous strip club in Orlando (that shall remain nameless). We were all drinking, laughing, getting lap dances and having a good time. My friend (we’ll call him John, mainly because that’s his name) found a woman that really seemed to love talking with him, in between lap dances. Fast forward about an hour. John’s already dropped about $50 on this woman and he’s gotten about 4 straight lap dances. In the middle of the 5th lap dance, he stops her. I look over at him with a puzzled look on my face as he stands up, untucks his shirt and sits back down. He looks back at me and says, “damn, she’s been grinding me for about 15 minutes, I’m starting to chafe.” Ok, good enough explanation. After that, he looks over at our other friend, Gary, and says, “remind me to tell you something when we leave.” Ok, seems like a John thing to say. He’s very cerebral that way. About 15 minutes later, John announces that he’s ready to go home. In all honesty, I was too. I was tired, my buzz was starting to wear off and I had a headache from the mishmash of perfumes clouding the building.

Once we get moving toward the front door, John is practically running to get out of the place. He gets out the front door, and is waiting for Gary and I to exit the building. We no sooner get out the front door when John lifts up his now untucked shirt to reveal a HUGE FUCKING WET SPOT. Seems that during the 5th lap dance, he wasn’t chafing, he was skeeting all over his Levi’s. It took a second for Gary and I to register just exactly what we were looking at, but once it did register, we all had a good laugh at John’s expense. Gary looked at him and said, “Remind you to tell me something later? Like you were gonna forget this?” John fired back at the two of us, as we were laughing hysterically, “yeah, you fuckin losers dropped upwards of $100 and have to go home and jerk off.” Touche, John, touche.

My strip club experiences since then haven’t rivaled that one in pure hilarity, but it still makes for a good story whenever I go to Florida and spend some time with John. Usually, within the first hour I look at John, who is now married and has two kids, and tell him, “Hey, remind me to tell you something later.” He threatens to kick my ass. Then I laugh my ass off. It never gets old.

With any luck, I’ll have a new story to tell Monday. And did I mention I just got a new camera phone? And I intend to use it, although it's never good to have photographic evidence of guys' night out! But we’ll all have to wait and see.


Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Just Another Manic Monday

Yesterday was really a tale of two days. The alarm went off (as it always does, despite my throwing everything, including cats, at it) at 5:50 a.m., awaking me from my five hours of slumber (it was a good night). I staggered to the shower, and in the process smacked my left knee on the corner of my bed. Let's just say the whole house was awake by then. The day and week was off to an inauspicious start. During my shower, I somehow managed to get shampoo in my right eye (my contacts were already in), which caused my eye to sting, burn, howl and tear profusely. How I was able to remove my contact, put it in my contact case and rinse my eye out while blinded and without soaking the bathroom or breaking a hip is anybody’s guess.

From there, I went to work as usual. Upon arriving at work, I turned on my laptop to find that the server here is not recognizing my “profile” and has decided to log me in with a temporary one. So all my settings, favorites and the websites that “remember me” are gone. Of course, I can’t remember most of my usernames or passwords, so blogging was virtually out yesterday, save for replying in the comments section. Then, upon telling Chip about the problem, he lectures me for 10 straight minutes about the “dangers of surfing the web with a work pc.” My injured eyes and contacts proceeded to roll out of my head. He told me that he’s going to have to “take my deck away from me and see what I did to it.” Here's to wishing you could aim your eyes when they roll out of your head - my God I wanted to punch him. I didn’t do anything to it. I was in for about a half hour Saturday and it was working fine. I didn’t even go online. I shut it down and left it at that. When I came in yesterday, it wasn’t working properly.

After I got all logged in, I visited my blog to see that Friday’s post, which was supposed to be humorous, but was taken personally by a couple of my readers. I have a saying that goes “Fuck em if they can’t take a joke,” so fuck em. Whatever. I also spent the morning trying to correct an error I made on a case a month ago. Around 11:30, I had to go meet with a doctor that is going to be testifying for us in a case in two weeks. We were set to meet at a hospital about 20 minutes outside of Portland. I get to the hospital and he’s not there. Nowhere to be found. After about 30 minutes of poking around, calling his office and calling mine, I finally figure out that he has an office in the professional building next to the hospital, but he’s not going to be there until 2:00. Fine, whatever. I left the notebook he’ll need on his desk chair and he can talk to my boss after he reviews the documents. Definitely not my finest hours. I left his office tired, haggard, pissy and headed for a serious case of road rage.

But something weird happened on the way back to the office. First of all, I was driving my boss' car, a Porsche Cayenne Turbo. Not a bad car to be driving. Actually, it is one of the best cars to be driving when you’re pissed b/c you can stomp on the gas and come down with a serious case of the giggles. That car is just too fuckin fast for its own good.

Then, I got a call from my friend Ben. We’re going to the Oregon-UCLA football game this weekend. I knew this, considering it’s his annual birthday present to me. What I didn’t know is that we’ll be sitting in the VIP Skybox, which means free food and booze before, during and after the game. Let me say that again - FREE FOOD AND BOOZE BEFORE, DURING AND AFTER THE GAME. Of course, this might nix our plans to go to the strip club after (mainly b/c being in a strip club and being drunk is never a good combination for your wallet), but who fucking cares? I’m getting absolutely HAMMERED for free. I'm sure there will be a co-ed or two running around that won't mind me sticking $5 bills into her g-string. After he lays that bombshell on me, he brightens up my gloomy day even further by telling me that the Tony Roma’s that recently closed (that’s a restaurant about five blocks from my house) is being turned into a HOOTERS. My head is reeling. I do believe I’d bear Ben’s kids right now if he asked me to. As the word ‘Hooters’ came through my cell phone, I swear to Christ that the sun came out at that VERY moment. Very ominous, indeed. That settled it right there, I’m calling him whenever I’m having a bad day. Dude is like a beacon of light.

After arriving back at the office, the day went much better. It was quiet so I could get some work done, coupled with being able to post comments on my blog. Plus, I seemed to begin to get every break for the rest of the day. Case in point, I went upstairs to make some coffee (mainly b/c it’s almost always gone by 3:00), but there was enough coffee for exactly ONE cup, which is all I needed. Also, on the way home, I found out that my long awaited new cell phone arrived in the mail. Very nice Motorola V220 camera phone. I got to play around with it all night long. Add all that to the fact that my kids didn’t give me any guff when it was time to do homework and then go get in the shower and get ready for bed, and it may have just been the perfect evening. Well, as much as an evening without sex can be perfect.

About the only thing that could have made my day better was if Jennifer Garner called me to say she stopped by my blog, read my tribute to her and told me she feels the same way about me. Then, of course, we’d do it doggy style while I called her Sidney. Afterwards, she’d say I was the biggest and best she ever had. Then I'd tell her to get the fuck out of my house because she's damaged goods. Go crawling back to Ben, honey. Save it for Bennifer Part Deux.

Sadly, that didn’t happen...well at least not in real life. I didn’t get laid, but only because self gratification doesn’t count.


Friday, November 05, 2004

The Concession Speech Kerry Should Have Read

I normally don't cut and paste my emails, but this seems pretty apropos.

*NOTE ~ Bush-bashing ahead. If you don't like it, turn back now.*


[Former candidate Felber, flanked by his family and supporters, steps up to the podium in the bright autumn sunlight. Cheers and applause are heard.]

My fellow Americans, the people of this nation have spoken, and spoken with a clear voice. So I am here to offer my concession. [Boos, groans, rending of garments]

I concede that I overestimated the intelligence of the American people. Though the people disagree with the President on almost every issue, you saw fit to vote for him. I never saw that coming. That's really special. And I mean "special" in the sense that we use it to describe those kids who ride the short school bus and find ways to injure themselves while eating pudding with rubber spoons. That kind of special.

I concede that I misjudged the power of hate. That's pretty powerful stuff, and I didn't see it. So let me take a moment to congratulate the President's strategists: Putting the gay marriage amendments on the ballot in various swing states like Ohio... well, that was just genius. Genius. It got people, a certain kind of people, to the polls. The unprecedented number of folks who showed up and cited "moral values" as their biggest issue, those people changed history. The folks who consider same sex marriage a more important issue than war, or terrorism, or the economy... Who'd have thought the election would belong to them? Well, Karl Rove did. Gotta give it up to him for that. [Boos.] Now, now. Credit where it's due.

I concede that I put too much faith in America's youth. With 8 out of 10 of you opposing the President, with your friends and classmates dying daily in a war you disapprove of, with your future being mortgaged to pay for rich old peoples' tax breaks, you somehow managed to sit on your asses and watch the Cartoon Network while aging homophobic hillbillies carried the day. You voted with the exact same anemic percentage that you did in 2000. You suck. Seriously, y'do. [Cheers, applause] Thank
you. Thank you very much.

There are some who would say that I sound bitter, that now is the time for healing, to bring the nation together. Let me tell you a little story. Last night, I watched the returns come in with some friends here in Los Angeles. As the night progressed, people began to talk half-seriously about secession, a red state / blue state split. The reasoning was this: We in blue states produce the vast majority of the wealth in this country and pay the most taxes, and you in the red states receive the majority of the money from those taxes while complaining about 'em. We in the blue states are the only ones who've been attacked by foreign terrorists, yet you in the red states are gung ho to fight a war in our name. We in the blue states produce the entertainment that you consume so greedily each day, while you in the red states show open disdain for us and our values. Blue state civilians are the actual victims and targets of the war on terror, while red state civilians are the ones standing behind us and yelling "Oh, yeah!? Bring it on!"

More than 40% of you Bush voters still believe that Saddam Hussein had something to do with 9/11. I'm impressed by that, truly I am. Your sons and daughters who might die in this war know it's not true, the people in the urban centers where al Qaeda wants to attack know it's not true, but those of you who are at practically no risk believe this easy lie because you can. As part of my concession speech, let me say that I really envy that luxury. I concede that.

Healing? We, the people at risk from terrorists, the people who subsidize you, the people who speak in glowing and respectful terms about the heartland of America while that heartland insults and excoriates us... we wanted some healing. We spoke loud and clear. And you refused to give it to us, largely because of your high moral values. You knew better: America doesn't need its allies, doesn't need to share the burden, doesn't need to unite the world, doesn't need to provide for its future. Hell no. Not when it's got a human shield of pointy-headed, atheistic, unconfrontational breadwinners who are willing to pay the bills and play nice in the vain hope of winning a vote that we can never have. Because we're "morally inferior," I suppose, we are supposed to respect your values while you insult ours. And the big joke here is that for 20 years, we've done just that.

It's not a "ha-ha" funny joke, I realize, but it's a joke all the same.

Being an independent candidate gives me one luxury - as well as conceding the election today, I am also announcing my candidacy for President in 2008. [Wild applause, screams, chants of "Fel-ber! Fel-ber!] Thank you.

And I make this pledge to you today: THIS time, next time, there will be no pandering. This time I will run with all the open and joking contempt for my opponents that our President demonstrated towards the cradle of liberty, the Ivy League intellectuals, the "media elite," and the "white-wine sippers." This time I will not pretend that the simple folk of America know just as much as the people who devote their lives to serving and studying the nation and the world. They don't.

So that's why I'm asking for your vote in 2008, America. I'm talking to you, you ignorant, slack-jawed yokels, you bible-thumping, inbred drones, you redneck, racist, chest-thumping, perennially duped grade-school grads. Vote for me, because I know better, and I truly believe that I can help your smug, sorry asses. Vote Felber in '08! Thank you, and may God, if he does in fact exist, bless each and every
one of you.

[Tumultuous cheers, applause, and foot-stomping. PULL BACK to reveal the rest of the stage, the row of cameras, hundreds of unoccupied chairs, and the empty field beyond.]


My Best Friend

Go show her some love.


Thursday, November 04, 2004

Giving Back To Those Less Fortunate

Ok, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I am hoping some of you could drop some pretty funny descriptions of your average Thanksgiving or some stories of past Thanksgiving family disasters.

My holiday will be fairly dull this year as I'm not going anywhere, thus no "my brother beat the shit out of my uncle for puking on the t.v. during the Cowboys game" stories.

I'll slap together the traditional meal (well I won't, that's a woman's job goddammit, my job is to stuff my face, burp at will, wear my 'fat' pants, watch football and fall asleep on the couch while a small puddle of drool begins to collect) at my place with all the fixins and spend the day with the homeless. Mind you, I will NOT be sharing any of my tasty meal with any homeless Wild Irish Rose drinking lush, just spending a few hours with them... mostly talking about the epic turkey dinner that's waiting for me at my cozy, heated home. I've found in the past that they (the homeless - at least I didn't call them "those people") really aren't worried about getting a hot meal as they are about getting some good ole' fashioned companionship and that's where I come in. Hey, I'm all about giving back.

I'll park my new Suburban up above this one bridge abutment that a few homeless have declared as their own. Kind of like underachieving "Lewis and Clark" type folks. Anyway, I'll roll my cooler down the hill (no, I'm not aiming for them, but if it happens to run a few over, that's the risk you gotta take for my companionship) and set up my fold-out chair with the footrest and cup holders that I use for tailgating. They're usually impressed with how such a fabulous piece of furniture folds up and fits into an easy to carry pouch with a shoulder sling. I plop down and say "Howdy folks, Happy Holidays to ya" as I take my gloves off in order to get my skully cap and leather jacket situated. "Good day to dress in layers, huh?" I say.

Then I flip my cooler, move my 3-tiered sandwich aside for later, and grab a frosty bottle of MacTarnahan’s. For the next few hours I slam beers, shattering each one upside the nearby bridge pier. It gets funnier with each damn beer it seems.

I tell them about the football games that will be on later that day, and even though they aren't interested, offer them some of my world-famous parlay selections for free.

Last year, one fellow named Gilbert stuck his head out from underneath a tattered sleeping bag and asked "Do the Lions still play every year on Thanksgiving?" I assured him that they did and he then asked "Do they still suck every year?" I went BWAAHAAAHAAA! and said "Yes they do Gillie, yes they do". As I leave I munch down my sandwhich and empty out anything left in the cooler, pack up my chair and say "See you fuckers next year then" as I dissappear back up over the hill.

It feels good to roll home with a good buzz and a hearty appetite knowing that you just gave back to the community. In my opinion, that's what the holidays are all about.


Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Not A Very Happy Birthday

Yes, today is my birthday. 36 mutha fuckin years old for yo’s truly today. Usually, I feel 26, but not today. I feel every single bit of my age.

I was hoping to wake up to a landslide victory by John Kerry. Not because he’s so great, but because W. is a flaming idiot. I don’t get it, I really don’t. How can ANYONE look back on the past 4 years and say, ‘yeah, sign me up for 4 more years of this stuff.’ I know a lot of you that read this blog are Bush supporters, and that’s fine. I’ve just really lost faith in people. I guess in 4 years, when we’re paying $5 a gallon for gasoline, schools continue to close at a rapid rate and there is a budget deficit in the bagadzillions, we’ll know who to blame for that. I just wish W. didn’t have so many people snowed. I see right through his tired schtick. He is a warmonger, a bad business man, a self-proclaimed moral compass and a WARMONGER. All you people with older teenage boys that voted for him should be ashamed of yourselves. You’ll learn what he’s all about when he drafts your son to fight and die in his personal war. Did I mention that he’s a warmonger? Did I mention that a doorknob can speak more articulately? (Is 'articulately' a word?)

Combine that with the fact that Oregon made the one man-one woman marriage the only marriage recognized in the Oregon Constitution (in other words, they’re limiting your freedom to be in a happy relationship, legally speaking anyway), and I think I just puked in my mouth. Seriously, I want to know who the fuck gave the homophobes and gay bashers the right to limit individual freedoms in this country. My feeling is that this - if you are gay, GREAT! As long as you’re happy, that’s all anyone could ask for. Life is too fucking short to get caught up making other people miserable or denying them the right to be happy. This country was founded on diverse principles. Now we’re limiting individual freedoms? What’s next, marshal law? What you do in the privacy of your own home is YOUR business and nobody else’s. If you choose to be in a gay relationship, then that’s your God-given right. It is not my place (nor anybody else’s) to take that right away from you. If you choose to spend the rest of your life with that person, that is your right also and you should NOT be limited by any Constitution from the same rights that’s afforded all the so-called ‘normal’ people in this country. Most of the people that struck down this Ballot Measure are closet homosexuals anyhow. They can’t stand the fact that they’d actually be intrigued to have a man go down on them. Yes, my brother is gay. Yes, he was in a heterosexual marriage when he ‘came out of the closet’ so to speak. When he told me, I knew he was gay. I knew all along (musta been the gay porn I found under his mattress when he was a teenager, and no I didn't take a peek). He was afraid that I’d no longer let him see my kids. My response to him was, "Why? Is it contagious? Does it rub off?" No, that’s the way he’s built. There’s nothing wrong with that. I love my brother the same after he told me as I did when he was denying himself the right to be happy. So fuck all of you that think that one man-one woman is the ONLY way things should be. And try not to fall and break a hip when getting off your high horse.

Thank God that it looks like medical malpractice claims in this state will not be capped at $500,000 because if that passed, I may have just found the tallest bridge in Portland (the Fremont Bridge) and jumped off. As it is, I'm considering a move to Tuscany to get away from the dumbasses in America.


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?