Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Time!

The film - I call them "films," don'tcha know because I got whatcha call fucking culture now (and I don't drop my g's anymore) - was starting at 9:40; and the guy in line in front of me, an attorney - it's not difficult to tell just by casual observation after all the years of dealing with them - asked me for the time.

That's not an accurate description. I was behind him in line. He turned his rounded body somewhat and swiveled his head a little and demanded, voice gruff with grating raspiness, from years of inhaling Kents, now Camels, "TIME."

Now, I must say at this point that I knew he was asking me for the time of day - maybe he wasn't wearing his Rolex, but more likely he was and forgot his reading glasses - because that is the way most attorneys talk to regular people, that is, every other person in the world, especially someone as ordinary-looking as me, as if every other person is in the servant class. His dark gray suit, after a Saturday at the office and after sitting in a movie theater for at least an hour and a half, if he saw only one film, was severely rumpled. His shirt was supposed to be white and could have been adequately disguised by a tie, but he had discarded that before he drank his coffee.

"Did you say something? I didn't catch that."

"Do you have the time?" he asked.

"Oh, is that what you wanted ... it's 20 after."

He left the line.

"You're welcome," I said to him.

Cleveland International Film Festival

If you get the opportunity to see a film entitled Dean Spanley, you must see it. It is required.

Funny and touching in a I-was-a-dog-in-a-former-life kind of way.

If you really want to be depressed, however, I can give you a few titles -- and sub-titles.

Dean Spanley was the first film I've seen at the Festival that didn't have sub-titles.

Arizonans Are Complaining About the Heat

I come out here because everyone says it's a great trip to get away from the whining and complaining about the vagaries of the winter weather in the northern climes, and all I have been hearing is whining and complaining about the fucking weather right here in Arizona -- it's too hot, they are whimpering. Give me a fucking break -- they moved out here into the DESERT (okay, I know that the definition of "desert" is something about rainfall and not temperature, but in the popular sense of the word, you know what I mean). What did they expect? Changing seasons? Snow in April during the Indians' home opener? Isn't Death Valley pretty close to here? People actually have fake green grass in front of their homes in the desert -- what's wrong with them? Move back to the north coast of America, a place where the grass is real, where sandstorms don't exist, where brushfires don't clog up traffic, where water is plentiful. Stop whining about a little sunny, 88-degree weather in mid-March.

In any event, I have always admired the photographic extravaganzas over at the award-winning blog The Chucklehut, in which the author national-geographically brings us his world travels with awe-inspiring pictorials.

I thought I would explore the flora around Phoenix, which is very different than that in northeast Ohio, where, I expect, it will be snowing when I return.

If you look closely just to the right, behind the Weinermobile, you will see some kind of tree-y thing that is kind of spiny looking -- that's different. The other stuff you can't see real well because the Weinermobile got in the way, but the trees aren't in my part of the country.

This next one was taken in Papogo Park before climbing to the top of the big rock in the background, the one with the hole in it -- with three people stranded in the hole, whom I rescued, by the way. That scrub-y brush turns into tumbleweed, I'm guessing, in the summer months when it gets up to 116 degrees -- as I pointed out before, they moved out here into the DESERT.

This little number is called, in layman's terms, the jumping cholla. It has the usual spiky needles on it, but at the end of the ... err, branches are things that are reddish-purplish in color that look like flowers, but they are not flowers. They are skinny, tiny needles, and if you get too close, it seems that they jump out and stick in your leg or arm or the rubber cover of your iPhone. Oh yeah, I know it's upside down. Kind of turn your head -- yeah, like that. The next one is right side up. Quit your bitchin'. Did you expect me to get it right the first time?

This is a Mercury Grand Marquis -- Hertz didn't have any cars. I had to go to another car rental place, and this is all they had -- well, this or a Yugo. Fuckers. In the background are some trees I never saw in my part of the world and a young Saguaro cactus, which, for your edification, can live up to 200 years.

These Saguaro cactuses, a species found only in the Sonoran Desert (there's that word again -- fucking DESERT), are at least 75 years old. Some guy claiming to be a former lecturer at a museum said that the arms start growing after the cactuses reach the age of 75, which is 525 in dog years.

While we have this type of grass in Cleveland, it's usually covered with snow about this time and not green like the outfield grass at Goodyear Ballpark.

And we don't have older-looking Saguaro cactuses around The Jake or Progressive Field or Municipal Stadium, whatever it's called now, like they have out near Goodyear Ballpark in Goodyear.

There were prickly pear cactuses in abundance at the Lost Dutchman National Park, where DT and I went on a hike up the mountain, but were unsuccessful in finding the gold that was hidden -- and I would be pretty stupid to say that we did find it, if we did. The prickly pear is on the left side of the photo.

I'm trying to recall where I took these photos -- somewhere in Arizona, I think. The first is of a large number of a different type of cholla -- one that doesn't jump -- and the second is a close-up of one of the cholla cactus.

We stopped at another scenic area -- we could see some kind of volcanic remnant sticking up -- 6 1/2 miles away -- and the retired museum lecturer warned against picking the flowers on this plant or it's other colorful cousins because if we touched our eyes, we would be painfully blinded -- only a temporary condition ... or so he claimed.

On my trips to Starbucks at 5 in the fucking morning -- I would wake up because I was still on Eastern Time at 10 minutes to 3, 4 a.m., then I'd just get up and say "fuck it" -- I saw strange things growing from the ground. THINGS NOT OF NATURE! Alien things. There was one clump that was pure white in color.

And this one was yellow, a quite scary yellow, if you really care to know. It looks as if someone touched this -- alien plant -- and was liquefied, evidence of which liquefaction can be easily seen in the photo, even though he -- or she -- wore a latex glove.

Now, I called the Chandler Police -- what with a missing liquefied person and all, I thought it was kind of important. The dispatcher was suspicious when I explained the reason for my call. And I was courteous, I thought, not calling 9-1-1, but the regular number, even though it was an emergency, of a sort -- that missing liquefied person, you know. And she demanded to know of me, "What planet are you from?"

We were disconnected before I could answer. I'm not so sure that this is an alien problem, now that I've had a chance to think about it. It's the Government.

NICE TO SEE YOU -- GOTTA RUN

quickbooks payroll is kicking my ass. if i have to call support one more time or have to void one more check (yesterday, i had to void 6!), i'm gonna cut off one of my toes. erm, maybe not. but i WILL scream. oh wait, i did that yesterday. mark my words: i will get mad. der. madder. you're all scared now, aren't you. i know you think we're all safe until payroll next week, but YOU'RE WRONG! i'm going to set up payroll for next friday's paycheck direct deposits (bill, me, and the lawyer he has working for him) TOMORROW. why? because we are leaving sunday for vacation in phoenix, arizona, for a week; and I WILL NOT BRING MY PC (THERE IS NO MAC QUICKBOOKS. PFFFT.) laptop on vacation. i will. not.

bye. bye. on my way out the door for THIRD time today. back to cleaners for SECOND time today. must pack. must do all kinds of crap. poor me. pffft.

My Trip to BP

So, I stopped in to see my old friends at the BP gas station late yesterday afternoon, my old friends who yelled and screamed at me over the loud speaker to stop talking on my cellphone while I was pumping gas because I could cause an explosion.

I have learned my lesson. I recognize the fact that the employees working at the BP gas station have a vast amount of experience in the petroleum supply industry and are trained at regular intervals concerning the operation of electronic, computer-actuated-and-controlled fuel pumps, automatic scientifically-hermetically-sealed vapor recovery systems, and garbage cans.

There can be no doubt that these select employees, having survived the grueling BP application, interview, and hiring process, have passed rigorous, extensive examinations administered by a major international independent petroleum retailing testing service and received certifications in many areas, gas station fire safety and gas station customer service among them, by the National Petroleum Retailers Association, in addition to being licensed by several federal, and many state and local regulatory agencies, to earn their stress-filled positions behind the desk in front of the massive high-tech array of electronic panels and LCD screens and a unidirectional dynamic microphone (unfortunately, it is not equipped with an integrated shockmount system to reduce handling noise).

I had my doubts about my cell phone causing a conflagration, gasoline vapors ignited by the tiny electrical sparks that whiz around the chips in my iPhone, a miniaturized version of Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory, flames shooting up the gas hose through the gas pump and into the underground storage tank, exploding with volcano force from under the upheaving concrete and asphalt.

Of course, I guess if I was talking on my cell phone and lit up a match to check the fuel level in the tank, I might blow up the gas station.

And I guess that if I was talking on a cell phone and discharged some static electricity near the filler tube, I might blow up the gas station.

But don't tell me I'll blow up the gas station if I'm telling Jackal we're going to see Clapton in Columbus. And don't you know, I have some proof that will not happen, proof beyond a reasonable doubt. And it comes right from the experts.

Yes, that's what I said -- the experts.

She wore the green and yellow shirt, the BP shirt, and gray slacks, but not the green hat because it would have covered her not-found-in-nature black hair with bluish-purple stripe; and that would have been very bad. She thought she was original, but I saw similar make-up in A Clockwork Orange, originally rated "X" by the MPAA or its forerunner, some 35 years ago, as she went about her business checking in the several waste containers at each gas pump island, fur in all with three dual pumps each, to see if any required one of her many expert services.

And she walked right by me, saying, "They're gonna be at Peabody's tonight," not to me, but into her cell phone.

I am vindicated.

_____________

Remember, World Squash Day is March 14.

Cleveland International Film Festival

I realized a few weeks ago that the world premiere of Ruslan was just going to have to wait. Nobody informed me that the 33rd Cleveland International Film Festival begins March 19th and runs through March 29th at Tower City.

As you know, the 20th Annual Steven Seagal Film Gala had been on the books for the weekend of March 20 - 22, premiering a rough cut of Ruslan, including the always hilarious outtakes. Rather than draw crowds away from the 33rd Cleveland International Film Festival, I have postponed our annual get together, and thank you for your understanding.

I have encouraged all who notified me that they were attending by e-mail to come to Cleveland anyway for the Cleveland Film Society's annual March Movie Madness. I realize that many of you have already made travel arrangements from as far away as Singapore and Thailand, and I guarantee that the films at the 33rd Cleveland International Film Festival will not disappoint.

Really, Mr. Seagal will understand.

Alcohol Portrayal on Television

A group of researchers at Radboud University Nijmegen in the Netherlands report that college students watching American Pie 2 with random commercials, some advertising alcohol products, drank about 1 1/2 times more beers than those who watched 40 Days and 40 Nights, which was shown with commercials having little alcohol-related content.

Neither movie won an Academy Award, by the way.

In other news about television-related research, as you are probably acutely aware, pediatricians discourage parents from allowing children 2 and under to watch television programs. A new study seems to suggest that 2-year-old children suffer no cognitive deficits from TV viewing, no matter how much they watch -- or maybe it means that there is no difference between those children who watch TV a lot and those that only watch a little; they all suffer the same when it comes to cognitive development.

The children used in the study about cognitive development who watched TV more than 2 hours a day may suffer from an increased risk of developing asthma, however, according to another study.

And if the 2-year-olds were watching American Pie 2 ...

COMMENTS FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY

i won't say that this exchange was, um, typical, because lucy is not typical by ANY definition. but here it is.

Dear Mrs. L***,

my response:

dear ms. ***:

and from miss lucy yet again:

Still. Protesting. Lack. Of. Comments.

and so, as we cannot withstand such dissatisfaction, comments are back. as an aside, many of the emails mentioned how much the comments added to the posts, that they were as much fun as our posts. hrmph. as if. but go for it.

Happy Square Root Day!

I saw a motion (that's a fancy word for asking the court for an order) filed in a lawsuit in federal court seeking millions for a perceived civil rights violation. I have selected portions for your amusement on Square Root Day:

The corresponding summary judgments are asked to be stricken from the record. Each and every Defendant is relented upon voluntarily. Evidence and the OH1 document, so previously submitted, help to assert such a warranted motion by the Plaintiff. As F.R.C.P. Title 28, R. 56 allows for such. Motions may be requested to strike summary judgments or orders.

He was just getting warmed up. Later, he pointed out that:

The State of Ohio's last gasp is the citation of ORC 2443.02(a)(1), in hopes of generating procedural errors against the Plaintiff, this code is called & believed air tight, but with God almighty nothing is air tight unless he makes it so. The State of Ohio gives far less fuss to paying their lottery ticket winners, who have not earned one single penny. The Plaintiff has worked for, studies and is preparing to walk away like a lottery winner, and rightfully so. And for more ethical reasons of getting paid by the State of Ohio than a winning lottery ticket holder, as the Plaintiff's constitutional rights trump lottery tickets any day of the week.

Then, fear must have risen in the other side when he demanded that those he sued ... relent, as the Plaintiff has more legitimate tactics in reserve, for a legal victory!

Then he proclaimed: Criminals in our country earn millions for lobbying on Capitol Hill, Bankers get billions and the Plaintiff here is led to believe he is out of line and needs to worry about costs? No, the Plaintiff cannot relent. The Plaintiff has a rightful intent to walk away from this matter a well-to-do man because his Mother would have wanted him to and because he is a smart & industrious business man.

Take that!! How can you fight God and Mom?