Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

My Trip to Las Vegas!!

Las Vegas Convention & Visitors Authority
Convention Center
Las Vegas, NV

Dear Jim,

In response to your request on that billboard I saw to tell you how my visit turned out, I was in Vegas on Friday. That stuff I was told about it being "hot, but it's dry heat," is fucking bullshit ... 90 fucking degrees when I got off the plane at 8:30 in the morning out there is too fucking hot. The fucking cab driver didn't speak a lick of English ... he didn't know where "Starbucks, STAR ... bucks" was, but when I said to the other asshole lawyer who flew in with me, "Probably knows where every fucking whore in the city is, though," he said in some kind of weird accent, "You want whore?" This might get a laugh on our website, but it is not a good thing.

Of course, what do you expect for Vegas?

Sincerely,
Bill

Here was my trip to Vegas:
I got up at 3:30 a.m. Eastern Time to let the dogs out; so, I took a shower, let the dogs in and left for the airport at 4:30. I flew to O'Hare, then took Ted's plane to Las Vegas and caught a cab to the law office on 4th Street. I put four witness' testimony on video for a trial coming up. That took from 9:45 a.m. Vegas time to 12:30 p.m., when I tried to catch a cab when it was 109 fucking degrees. I got the 2 p.m. flight to O'Hare, sitting next to a smelly guy, and the flight didn't take off for a while. I hit my head on the overhead thing on the plane, stars, but no blood, trying to get off the plane quickly, and ran through the tunnel with the neon things to catch the 9 p.m. flight that didn't take off on tome anyway and landed at 11:30 p.m. Eastern time.

I did not visit any casinos. I did not bet any money, but I saw some lady plugging a slot machine for almost an hour and not winning anything at the airport. I paid $4.72 for a venti Starbucks mochas in Las Vegas and $4.50 for one at O'Hare. I ate two 1/10th oz. bags of pretzels, one I snuck from the lady sleeping in a seat nect to me.

This is a large part of what I saw in Las Vegas:

Home Improvement

The floor is in. The bed has been re-tooled and re-built. The file cabinet is in the basement. The shelf I knocked off the wall has been repaired and put back up on the wall. Sometimes it was hard to figure out from which wounds the blood was dripping on the floor and on the bed, but no fingers were lost in the entire process. And that's a good thing.

Tip of the day: Do not remove safety guards and anti-kickback devices from table saws like Norm did ... no, nothing bad happened ... I know what I'm doing. Most of the time ... err, some of the time ... I think.

Bowling Stinks

I could talk about painting the bedroom, but there are no pictures to show you of me painting in my underwear. Tomorrow, I want to lay the new floor, but damn it if work doesn't interfere with doing something I will enjoy.

But this is not about painting ... or floors. It's about bowling. I detest bowling. I thought that I would enjoy it. I gave it a proper chance, but the relationship with bowling has developed into something a lot less than a love affair.

There are several things wrong with bowling ... don't get me wrong, I have a great time with J-dogg at the alley, but there are several things about the experience that turn me off.

Bowling stinks. Anyone who ventures into a bowling alley departs reeking of a certain smell that is peculiar to bowling alleys. I cannot drive home without the windows open. And I can't shower fast enough after bowling to get rid of the stench. But that is only the beginning.

If I took someone to play golf for the first time, I wouldn't tell the person to wear golf shoes. It's not really necessary. Why then do I need to use special shoes for bowling? I go to the alley, and I have to shell out $2.50 for a pair of red, green, and white shoes that don't fit, no matter what size the guy gives me, for the opportunity to wear shoes that 8,000 other people already wore. Ugh! The anti-bacterial powder that the dude behind the counter so conscientiously shakes into the shoes is anti-bacterial. That's all well and good, but athlete's foot is caused by a fungus and plantar's warts are caused by a virus. So is leprosy.

Okay, I stopped by the counter to get a pair of special shoes to wear. Now, I need to get a bowling ball. It took a while, but I figured out that the balls are kind of like color-coded; so, I have to stick my fingers in only 47 swirly pink bowling balls to find one, into the three holes of which my fingers will fit. I try not to think about how many other people have stuck thei9r fingers in those 47 bowling balls and where their fingers might have been, but the thoughts linger out there on the edge of awareness along with the notion that the dude behind the counter doesn't particularly care about pouring that anti-bacterial powder into all those holes in all those bowling balls.

Here's another thing. We haven't even started bowling yet. It seems to be some kind of mandatory rule that I must buy fries for the team ... I think Kenny orders them and tells the lady behind the foods counter that I'm paying or something ... maybe, it's a bowlers' joke. I don't know. But there are no utensils in this bowling alley. If you want to eat fries or a burger or whatever the lady can make, you must use your fingers. That's a calorie-saving thought, isn't it?

You roll the ball down the wooden lane toward the bowling pins. Did you know that there is some kind of oil on the wood? It gets on the ball. It gets on your hands when you touch the bowling ball. Under no circumstance sould you ever go into the men's restroom at a bowling alley to wash your hands. The men's restroom at the alley has not been cleaned since well before the First Gulf War. Yeeech!

I hate bowling.

ONE MORE THING

thanks for the nice birthday wishes. it was a very, very nice birthday. yup. i'm 50. and fabulous. lol.

i'm exhausted. three blog entries (oh yes i CAN count this one, ESPECIALLY since one of the entries is at the nbl kitchen!) i'm going to bed. well not really a bed, since the bed's taken apart and in the garage until after the bedroom's painted and has a new floor. no need to be so literal, you know. g'night.

DECONSTRUCTION

we had a huuuuge project in the works here at the house that would take at least the next couple of weeks. we had planned to build a loft office for bill in the attic over the hallway with a spiral staircase access from our bedroom. bill has an office outside the house -- rarely uses it -- everything's at our house. specifically in our bedroom. it gets out of hand quite often. thus, the plan. i was finally going to get our bedroom completely redone, finally get a king-sized bed.

mark arrived home early friday morning; and he, jax, bill, and our friend dt, were going to start the construction (tearing out of the ceiling) this morning. a quick walkthrough of the attic confirmed my worst fear (and i must admit, my fondest wish) -- wasn't gonna be worth the time and money.

so the three guys, testosterone a buzzin', powertools at the ready, came up with a NEW plan! let's put up some walls in the basement! so now -- i heard this but cannot confirm or deny since the basement is inaccessible to me -- we have the bones (and electricity) of THREE rooms! i can't use it, but i've got plans for it, don't you worry. get some of this stuff out of our room. not the desk and computer stuff, just the file cabinet and other stuff that can be stored in one of the new rooms. yay!

and! since bill's planning to finish it all up (the basement) at his leisure, i've got three guys chafing at the bit to redo our bedroom! paint, new floor, new bedding, new desk, lamps -- ANYTHING I WANT! WOOHOO! they promise to be all done by friday! pictures to follow.

and see what's for dessert in the kitchen.

Physics: Black Holes and Beagles

I have often wondered how physicists and wacky scientists come up with these theories and things. You know, how the hell does anyone know that some meteorite that crashes through some poor slob's house in Leghorne, Texas comes from Mars? That's what I read once.

I finally figured out how Stephen Hawking came up with this new-fangled theory about black holes.

He has a beagle.

You see, the beagle is substantially similar to a black hole. How is that, you ask? Here's how it goes; and if you ask Professor Hawking about it, he'll give you the same answer.

If you leave ... say ... chicken parmesan in the styrofoam container from Olive Garden on the kitchen counter and turn your back to fill the beagle's dish with water, the beagle grabs the container off the counter and eats the leftovers. The beagle destroys all traces of the consumed matter. That's what happens when matter gets near a black hole. The matter is consumed by the black hole and all traces of the matter are destroyed. Nothing is left over. Just like the leftovers from Olive Garden. Gone.

Hawking has always held out the possibility that the matter which has disappeared into the black hole travels through that phenomenon of nature and comes out the other side. This is certainly the expected outcome in the case of the beagle eating the chicken parm from Olive Garden.

But being that black holes and beagles are nearly identical, such is not the case.

Dr. Hawking says that the consumed mass is returned, albeit in a mangled form, which contains the information about that stuff which entered the black hole, but in an unrecognizable state.

Well, that's not exactly true ... the mangled white pieces in the big chunk of stuff the beagle threw up ... I could tell that was chewed-up styrofoam.

How's the Reception?

When I grow up, I want to get a thing for my car antenna just like the one I saw today. I drew a picture of it:

I think it was a cactus ... with sunglasses ... and a red cowboy hat ... and a red bandanna. I gave the lady a wide berth. Very weird. Well, maybe not ... weird doesn't begin to describe it.
______________________

And at Stonehouse Grill in Westlake, Ohio, on Sunday from 4 p.m. until 9 p.m., "bald guys eat free."

SEWING LESSON

the balance of power in a long-time marriage is an extremely delicate matter. constant negotiations are critical in maintaining that fragile balance. nowhere is that balance more obvious than the obligations each spouse maintains in their separate family (the spouse's siblings, parents, and other relatives). in MY family, these obligations have always been nominal (easy) as i maintain no contact whatsoever with my father or stepfather, made all the rules in terms of contact with my mom; and, obviously, my sisters are nothing but delightful. bill's family was a little different (a lot). we spent a lot (A LOT) of time with his parents, and very little time with his sisters.

this weekend, a situation arose in which i asked bill to accompany me to see a member of my family. HOWEVER. before i could ask him (he heard me speaking on the phone), he took the upper hand (struck the first blow, so to speak) and said "i'm not coming." i ignored this breach of the rules (ok. "guidelines.") and countered. "i ALWAYS came with YOU!" normally this would work, but i underestimated his resolve.

"i went by myself once in a while!"

this, of course, necessitated mathematical calculations, which, inevitably, SHOULD have led to my victory. "if you take into account the number of visits-contacts, the percentage of my non-participation so closely approaches zero that it's not a viable number. and your participation in my family visits-contacts is not 100% either! so THERE! i win!"

too quickly i celebrated. i, obviously, was not at my best. i did not anticipate his next response. in our relationship, the OBVIOUS winner.

"so what?" he said.

i saw my victory dissolve right before my eyes. i could hardly believe it. "dammit!" said i. in absolute defeat.

the "victor" laughed. oh, he more than laughed. his cackles became guffaws, which turned into loud, raucus laughter.

it wasn't until a couple minutes later that i realized that i could, indeed, have won. too late. i had forgotten the trump card to his "so what." what was wrong with me? how could i be so humbled - TWICE! - in one argument? the rules ("guidelines") allowed me to respond and triumph with one simple retort. the rules ("guidelines"), however, dictate that i must IMMEDIATELY respond with the trump.

"sew, sew, sew your buttons on."

Wanna Buy a Car?

I had a trial that was ready to go forward today. This is the third time that it was set for trial, and yet again, the judge postponed the trial because a big murder case was ready to go. I didn't figure that the TV cameras were there for my case.

This case has been a bugaboo from the onset. My clients are two used car dealers. Now, you may ask yourself, why is Bill representing two used car dealers? After all, there's nothing worse than a used car dealer who claims to be telling the truth. Well, there is one thing worse ... a used car dealer's lawyer who claims that his client is telling the truth. And you ask yourself -- why would Bill admit that? After all, he's the lawyer. Here's the thing ... they got sued. They don't have to prove anything. It's the other side that has to prove that my clients were wrong.

And suing my used car dealer clients just happens to be another used car dealer. And his lawyer is the one who is claiming that his used car dealer client is honest as the day is long.

Now, in a court room of used car dealers and lawyers, who are you going to believe?
_______________________

And from the news:

See, it's not all bad news!!

IN THE KITCHEN

i lied. i didn't post the pecan cinnamon muffin tops. i posted the yummy dinner we made.check it out.

tomorrow, i'll post the muffin tops.

SATURDAY AND BEEFCAKE

a really nice, lovely rainy day in cleveland, ohio, usa. a much needed lovely, rainy day in cleveland, ohio, usa. i slept in (til 8:30) this morning while bill left early (before 7) for his saturday morning golf game. it was a nice drizzle when he left (his favorite golfing weather. no -- REALLY, it is). a quick stop at starbucks, full-out rain when he got to the golf course. so he headed down to the west side market. brought home lots of goodies -- and a mocha for me!. sweet corn, asparagus, mushrooms, a baguette, cinnamon bread, chicken sausage, steaks, cherries, peaches, nectarines, fresh pasta, and a pineapple.

he walked in the door at around 9 a.m. just in time for breakfast. eggs and nan bread leftover from our indian take-out last night. some british open couch time.

left for errands with jax by noon, a quick chinese lunch, jax left for work at 4:30. bill and i are ready for a nap -- we just woke up. we put some cinnamon pecan muffin tops in the oven (will post to the kitchen later). bill's washing dishes. Here's what i see.

it cracked me up cuz it's just so bill. the t-shirt that, i'm pretty sure, belongs to donnie. lee gave it to bill to wear, i'm pretty sure, "temporarily." his favorite reading glasses. and yes, those are boxer shorts with dogs on them. oh, yes they are. oh. and he's washing dishes.

muffin tops are out of the oven. i'm gonna make us a quick dinner. see you later, alligator.

Taco Bell

I was watching the Tribe open a huge can of whoop-ass on the Mariners last night out on the west coast and early in the morning in these parts when a Taco Bell commercial came on. It's not like I was hungry, but I got this taste for pseudo-Mexican because of all that subliminal stuff they put on the screen like the steam rising from the double-shelled taco, that, in real life, I have never seen.

It's like what ... 12:30 or so, and the game is totally out of hand for the Mariners ... then there is this little message on the bottom of the screen: "Open till at least midnight," or something like it. I mean if I would have blinked at the wrong time, I would have missed it.

And here, I always thought that Taco Bell drive-thrus were like open till like 2 or 3 in the morning, which is, technically, "at least midnight," but it was after midnight; and what if I drove the eight miles or so only to find that the place was closed like ten minutes ago? Bummer, man. That girl with the curly hair stuck up on top of her head would laugh, "We're clo-osed," just like those girls with the curly hair on top of their heads are programmed to do.

So, with the way things were going for the Indians, I decided that it might be better if I continued watching. You just never know when you are the thing that is making them pound the Mariners ... if I went out, stopped watching, turned off the game, it might have been lights out for the Tribe and a big comeback for the Mariners. Things like that happen. That's what happened to Bill Buckner. Really.

I decided not to risk it.

Cherries

The conveyor moved my one item toward A.J., or so his name tag announced. A.J. is just-out-of-high-school age. His hair was pointed six different ways and flat on the left side, as I faced him.

He weighed the bag and punched in some numbers, "$2.13."

"Those are cherries."

"You really know your fruits, dude."

"No. I mean they're like $3.99 a pound and I got more than a pound."

"Dude, the price is what I say the price is."

"Aaaah. Okay. Thanks."

"Catch you later, dude."

Flying the Coop

The pelicans have disappeared. Nobody knows what happened to 28,000 pelicans that inhabit Chase Lake, which is in North Dakota. I was in North Dakota once ... 27 below zero ... pelicans aren't stupid, y'know.

And the duck population in North America is down 11 percent this year. Nobody knows what happened to 4 million ducks. My good friend, DT, said he was duck-hunting, though.

And for all you do-it-yourselfers out there, there's coloring you can add to concrete. I mixed some mason mix and matched the color to the bricks around the pool and did some patching of some bricks, which worked pretty well. I'll let you know what takes that coloring off human skin, but I have a feeling it will have to wear off.

It's a Long Way to Palmdale

Me: How do you plead to the charge of Carrying a Concealed Weapon?
Guy in scratchy black-and-white-striped jumpsuit: If I plead guilty, can I just go home?
Me: You've been in jail for a week?
Guy: Yes, your Honor.
Me: Is this right? You live in Palmdale, California?
Guy: Yeah.
Me: Where were you headed when you were arrested?
Guy: Home.
Me: To Palmdale?
Guy: Uh-huh.
Me: You were walking on the road when you were stopped. Where were you going?
Guy: Home.
Me: You were walking to Palmdale, California?
Guy: No, sir. It's in the Mojave Desert. I can't walk there. My bike had a flat.
Me: Whoa. What? Your bike? You're riding your motorcycle there?
Guy: No, I ran out of money and got a flat. I was walking with my bike when they stopped me and saw the knife handle sticking out of my backpack. Then they arrested me.
Me: A bicycle?
Guy: Yeah, I got a flat.
Me: You were riding your bike to Palmdale?
Guy: Yes, but I got a flat.
Me: Where were you coming from, sir?
Guy: New York.
Me: New York City?
Guy: (nodding)
Me: How long did it take you to get from New York City to here?
Guy: Two days.
Me: What?
Guy: Two days, your Honor. Sorry.
Me: On your bicycle?
Guy: Greyhound bus, but I ran out of money.
Me: Oh, okay. I was just wondering why you weren't riding your bike in the Tour de France.
Guy: Because my bike has a flat.
Me: Sounds like that knife wasn't concealed. You need to plead "not guilty." I'll appoint you a lawyer because you ran out of money. You'll come back Thursday, and maybe your lawyer and the prosecutor will work something out so you can go home.
Guy: Detroit.
Me: What?
Guy: I can get a job in Detroit.
Me: You're not going anywhere while you're in jail.
Guy: And my bike has that flat tire.
Me: Good point. See you Thursday.
Guy: Okay.

G'NIGHT ROGER

warning to kathyhowe: this first bit is about sports. you might wanna skip down the page a bit.

Observations

I saw some stuff over the weekend. This is really a post about getting tired of doing this blogging stuff, but I'm tired and don't feel like blogging about that.

AIDS and The Man

You have to look to foreign news to get an idea of George W. Bush's policy on AIDS. It is apparently not about the free exchange of ideas. It is not about truly helping those suffering from AIDS and HIV-related infections. It is all about his idea of democracy and self-governance -- about dictating to others what their beliefs and i9deology should be.

And I see where he is ignoring the annual NAACP convention for the fourth year running.

Same as it ever was.

Fuck You, Too, Boozer!

The boys and I had a partial season ticket package and made the long ride out to the old Richfield Coliseum to see the Cleveland Cavaliers play back before the turn of the century. It was a fun thing to do with the boys a couple times a month.

But I haven't liked pro basketball for a long, long time. And I have even more reason to hate it. Carlos Boozer, who has played for a couple of years, making just under a million bucks a year to, let's be honest, play a game, and his agent begged to be released from the third year of his contract with the Cavaliers, earning the same amount, and worked out a deal with the Cavaliers that if he were released from the third year of the contract, he would sign a new contract with the Cavaliers and earn over $40 million for the next six years.

The owner of the Cavaliers agreed and actually shook hands on this deal ... something he has done for many years in other business arenas, the old-fashioned way to do busi9ness, where honor is important.

Sweet deal. But this is the 21st Century. Honor? What's that? We have a president of this country who, setting an example, has welched on many a deal. We have a vice-president, who could be president at any time, who, when in private business, ran a company that kicked back money to Nigerian officials and who now regularly deceives the American public.

The Cavaliers released Carlos Boozer from his contract. Boozer signed a new 6-year contract ... with another team ... for 68 million dollars.

Now, in legal circles, that's called FRAUD. I leave you all to your own thoughts about what it's called in non-legal circles.

Octane Ratings

Last night, we went to dinner with two dear friends to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary at a restaurant out to the east, near where the sun rises. And, of course, at the edge of civilization, gas stations are almost non-existent. Now, you might be thinking that this is just another story about how I ran out of gas with Stacey in the car and what happened, but you would be wrong because I would never be able to tell that story, let alone any story.

I found a gas station, a Shell station. The sign just under the big Shell announced that gas was $1.999 for 87 octane, $2.199 for 89 octane, and $2.299 for 91 octane. I know this question has been asked before, but why do they always have that 9/10ths of a cent on there? The thingy on the pump that keeps track of the money isn't in tenths of a cent; so, what is the purpose of that 9/10ths, just to make me think I'm getting a deal or something?

But that's not really my gripe about some gas stations. This gas station had the 87 button for selecting the grade of gas in the middle with the 89 button on the left and the 91 button on the right. If someone is in a hurry, he might hit the button on the left, thinking that this is the lowest-priced gas and would end up paying 20 cents a gallon more.

Please be aware of this deception perpetrated upon the unwary.

Happy Birthday, Matt!

So, there we were on July 8, 1981. This baby was clinging to one of Stacey's fallopian tubes and refused to come out after 28 hours of labor ... and this was labor with contractions a couple minutes apart for a whole day. The exhaustion and pain was well worth it, however, (Stacey was exhausted; I was in pain from her slugging me in the face after I told her that the pain of the contractions "isn't so bad.") because in the delivery room, a healthy baby boy finally popped out, fully formed with all his fingers and all his toes.

Stacey named him Matthew. I did have some input in the naming process, but she was the one who filled out the birth certificate info; so, that ended up what he was named.

He grew. By 11 months, he had taken an early interest in hockey:

He liked Sesame Street and wanted a Big Bird cake on his first birthday:

At age 2, he was already learning to be a man:

Time flew by. He incurred the wrath of his first grade teacher by pointing out that she had spelled "Arctic" incorrectly. He had to point out that she left out the first "c." His second grade teacher brought to our attention an alarming developmental problem ... he made his "g" backwards. His mother turned to me and asked me if I new any adults who made their g's backwards, to which I had to admit that I didn't.

I would be remiss and subject to inhumane torture (laughter on the soundtrack, please) if I did not record for posterity in the ether of the Internet that Stacey introduced Matt to his first desktop computer, an Apple IIC, and taught him the concept of RAM, among other things (I should also point out, for extra credit, that she explained the concept of "consideration" as applied to contract law; so, (for the BONUS, Gene) neither Matt nor I would be where we are today without Stacey.). And he was the first kid on the block to have a Palm Pilot, long before they became known as PDA's:

Although hockey was what turned Matt on to St. Edward High School, Stacey and I were happy he would be going to the school because of the academic atmosphere. Despite not being raised a Catholic, he was the student director of the spiritual retreat program, spending a lot of time in the wilderness of Pennsylvania or West Virginia, encountering bears and withered-faced, toothless men with automatic weapons on occasion:

He graduated from St. Ed's near the top of his class, went off to college, graduated; and now he's married and starting on his Ph.D.

Where did the time go? Looking up ahead, I admit that it looks like a long road; but when moving at break-neck speed, the scenery goes past quickly and, sometimes, it's a little tough to keep it on the road.

Happy Birthday, Dude.

Golf at 6

Monday morning, I went to a local public golf course a little before 6 in the morning and was able to cruise around the 18 holes in a little less than 2 1/2 hours, carrying my beat-to-hell MacKenzie leather bag and walking the dew-covered fairways by myself with no tracings of anyone before me on the pristine close-cropped grass.

I haven't played golf very much this spring or summer, and I haven't played alone with only the rising sun, enjoying the solitude and peaceful earliness interrupted by only the occasional mower droning in the distance scalping the putting grounds.

It's a time for reflection, a time of relaxation, a time to escape the frustrating vicissitudes of everyday life in an almost zen-like state.

Shooting a 76 doesn't hurt, either. I'm about ready to pack it in and get a real job teaching golf, then I can go to Starbucks in the morning wearing my golf shoes, my U.S. Open hat, and my plaid pants, just like the guy I saw there this morning from the country club down the road.

LADIES' ROOM RANT

this is a rant - aimed at those who deserve it. you know who you are.

i just got back from a trip down the hall to the ladies' room. once again, the dumbass from the office right across the hall, the same one who ALWAYS does this, was in the handicapped stall. yes, i know, it's the nicest stall in the bathroom - nice and roomy. and. nobody on our floor uses a wheelchair, so what's the big deal? i'm here to tell you, k?

the big deal is that the wider door opening and the fact that the toilet is 4 INCHES HIGHER than the toilets in the other EIGHT stalls just happen to make that stall much, much easier to use for the handicapped women on the floor. there are three of us now. we all use canes. easy to spot. i'm sure you've noticed us. and when you use a cane to counteract the balance problems you have, as i do - i'm not sure about the other two women - those 4 inches and the wider door opening make a hell of a lot of difference.

so now you know.

what you also don't know, i'm just guessing here, is how hard it is to come to terms with the fact that you're handicapped. for me, it was verrrry difficult. i was one person for 40 years, all of a sudden somebody else. i don't mean that who you are has changed, but there are way too many ways (too many to list) that life has changed FOR you. that might be why it's hard, you know? YOU'RE not different, everything else is. in a big way. everybody looks at you different. you feel the same, but everyday, in a thousand little ways, you're reminded.

it took me 5 years to get a cane and a handicapped sticker. i just COULD NOT DEAL WITH IT. i used an old golf putter as a cane in the house. i knew i needed it, but could not deal with using a real cane in public. bill or one of the boys would offer me their arm - THEY were my cane. i really don't know how long it would have taken me to get a cane if left to my own devices. matt and mark bought me one as a christmas gift. a really cool one. it was and will always be one of the best gifts i've ever received.

bill pushed and pushed me to get a handicapped parking placard - because sometimes (increasingly less and less, i noticed) i'd be out by myself and navigating curbs were becoming increasingly treacherous. [that's another thing you might not have noticed - the lack of curbs at the handicapped parking spaces. it's not really about the best parking spaces in the lot. which is why YOU want them, i guess.]

i've been letting this build up for a while. but i think i've been a lot nicer than i really feel about this. there are EIGHT FREAKING NON-HANDICAPPED stalls. get your ass in one of those. yes, i know, "ironsides can wait his turn." [i actually saw this comment on another site. over a year ago. it has not set well with me (don't you love how delicately i phrased that?) since then. in fact, i'd like to kick that fucker's ass who said it. a young, arrogant, shithead yuppie lawyer. i can't find the comment, i think the blogger removed it from his post - otw, i'd link to the asshat's (the commenter - NOT THE VERY NICE BLOGGER who wrote the POST) site and let you at him.

June Was a Bad Month

There were a few things that bugged me over the weekend, but I have one big question before I let you in on the inanities of life I encountered on the holiday weekend, some things that others will never get to enjoy:

Did any of the media outlets let anyone know that 42 U.S. soldiers were killed during the month of June in Iraq? Or isn’t that newsworthy?

Here are DEAD:

Tank Tops

I took my lovely wife to Sugarcreek Restaurant for breakfast this morning. And I wanted to point out something that I don't like. Now, there are a lot of you who will say that I'm nuts or whatever, but I have been restored to reason.

I hate it when men wear those damn tank tops or t-shirts with cut-off sleeves to restaurants ... well, restaurants at which I want to enjoy a meal. I'm sure that these guys like open the closet in the morning and say to their wife, "Hey, honey, what do you think goes with these long, shiny navy shorts I'm wearin', y'know, the ones that hang below my knees?" And she says like, "Oh babycakes, your white tank top with the Boston Marathon design is at the cleaners, but the Hooters t-shirt with the cut-off sleeves is back, but they made a mistake and it has medium starch." And he says, "It'll have to do, I guess."

Come on, you're going to a restaurant. Maybe I'm old-fashioned; but sweaty male armpits are kind of gross to me. Especially in the eating context.

NOT ABOUT POLITICS

for something a little lighter (in a manner of speaking) than my cranky political rants of late, check out what's in the kitchen today.

Is This Guy Stoo-pid Or What

Have a safe 4th of July!

Look what we got!!!! I can't believe it!! We're going!!!

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Ooops! 25 g's per plate. Ummm, think he'd take a check? I mean, deficit spending is the rule in this country, isn't it?

I AM A PATRIOT

i love this country. if you dare question that loyalty and appreciation, you’d be wrong. i don’t believe that i’m a bad american because i disagree vehemently with what george bush, cheney, rumsfeld, wolfowitz, et al have done to this country. i don’t believe this country is one man or even the majority of men. i believe in the principles upon which this country was founded. principles that have been eroded, slowly, without most even noticing. our principles and values have been replaced by warm fuzzies. patriotism is now symbolized by the flag. the pledge of allegiance. parades. we think we’re teaching our children something real about america by having them place their hands over their little hearts and promise not to question. we teach them that this nation is guided by god, not men.

we are creating idiots. an idiot is someone who does not exercise their duty to question, to probe, to protect this fragile republic.

we’ve sent our children to the other side of the world to ... protect us from terrorists? if we thought we were targets before we invaded iraq, then i don’t know what we are now. more hated than ever. and with a lot more reason. george and company pretended this was about terrorism, and it was sooooo easy to believe that. anger feels gooood. so much better than fear.

if the u.s. were invaded and reduced to rubble in the same way iraq has been, would we celebrate those who holed up and fought? yes, we would. oh, but wait. i keep forgetting that that’s only because we’re RIGHTEOUS. riiiiight. guided by god. riiiiight.

[AP PHOTO] Abbie Hoffman, wearing a shirt with stars and stripes on the U.S. Capitol grounds in 1968, is arrested and charged with mutilating the American flag.

that’s why today when i wore my flag shirt to work and people said something about it, i told them it was my abbie-hoffman shirt. not because i celebrate everything abbie hoffman said or did. but because i celebrate that we live in a country where i can say what i believe, even if george and friends are trying to take away that right. in a much scarier way than even richard dailey and richard nixon imagined. but because georgie and buds call it the PATRIOT ACT, we ignore it. how bad can it be – it’s the PATRIOT act, for fuck’s sake!

don’t think it didn’t break my heart that only ONE person had any idea what or who i was talking about when i mentioned hoffman. it’s hard not to think about hoffman and company this summer. democratic national convention coming up. bill and i’ve been talking about this stuff a lot lately, especially today. he said it was hard not to feel hopeless. i sometimes feel myself falling down that hole, too. but we will not stop fighting. in our small, small way.

and don’t you fucking DARE say that it’s only because i live in THIS country that i’m able to express these views. duh. if that thought has crossed your mind, and you think that should make me shut up, then you don’t have a fucking clue.

Brando

When Francis Ford Coppola hired Marlon Brando for a cool mill to do his thing as Kurtz in Apocalypse Now, the controversy was huge; and the complaint was that Brando was huge in girth and did not fit in the part of the renegade jungle commander of Montagnard tribesmen. Coppola, jillions of dollars over budget and many moons over schedule, shot Brando in shadows and at angles to "hide" Brando's weight.

Back when the movie came out, a lot of people who saw the movie thought Marlon Brando and the movie were terrible. I loved Brando in the part. His "girth" added only power to his interpretation of the supposedly-demented Colonel Kurtz. He communicated "the horror" and the futility of war to this audience of one like no other had before or since.

And I'm saying two more things, leaving out the filmography of the greatest movies of all time in which he appeared. As brilliant as I thought he was in Apocalypse Now, Brando is why producers and directors should never cast a white guy as Japanese, which was done in Teahouse of the August Moon. And Brando said in an interview, just after the film was in the can and before its release, that the worst movie he ever made was The Freshman, which, I think, was hyperbole because he was terrific in this comedy -- if you have not seen the movie, you must put it on the "must see" list for the family.

SLACKING 101

in other news:

hope you all have a glorious holiday weekend, too.