Remember when there was a dinosaur called 'Brontosaurus'? Am I the only person who remembers that exihib in the museum? I guess they call it 'Brachiosaur' now.
Anywho, there is this new dinosaur.
What is great about this one is that 'SCIENTIST' believe that this "Dragonking"
"...used their knobby heads to butt other dinosaurs."
That. Is. Awesome. I mean, how long have we waited for the Three Stooges of Dinosaurs? I, personally, am beyond elated! I mean, can you picture this:
Location: The Island from the Original Jurassik Park.
The players: Jeff Goldblum as Chaos Theorist, Dr. Malcom. Laura Dern as Laura Dern. And Sam Neil as the ever annoyed Dr. Grant.
Scene: The trio stumble upon a majestic scene of impossible beauty. Where never before seen dino's interact in the real drama of life, nature and… slapstick?
And ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... Scene!!
Dr. Malcom: I say Laura, the imperfections in your hand seem to have migrated to your face.
Lara Dern: Uh, that isn't in the scri..
Dr. Grant: Shhhh!! Can't you see I've perfected my put out and annoyed look? I'm sure to win an Osc.. Wait, look over there! Do you see them? They are beautiful! Majestic!! Pay no attention to the slightly out of focus and absence from my actual line of sight quality, its secondary.
(Enter a quadruped dino with an oddly flat noggin, intent on feeding on the copious vegetation, oblivious to the somewhat larger biped dino that appears to be stocking it, which in turn is being stalked by what appears to be a Tyrannosauruses Rex wearing a huge and horribly bad toupee.
Suddenly, the first dino turns and head butts the second dino in the gut. The second dino clutches its middle with its poorly equipped for clutching and stubby arms while simultaneously exploding a whuff of air from its gasping jaws; the violent collision causing it to double over, its tail arching up suddenly to smash the Tyrannosaur in the face. The Tyrannosaur roars in shock and anger as its toupee flies up and into the face of a passing Pterodactyl. The Pterodactyl weaves away, erratically, its vision obstructed by the offending head cover. The second dino wheels and recovers enough to face the T-Rex. The T-Rex uses its own poorly formed and stubby arms to vainly reach for its head, in vain, as the tips of its claws reach only to its sizeable teeth. Enraged, and slightly embarrassed, the T-Rex glares at the second dino, while the first wisely seeks shelter behind dino 2. The T-Rex glowers. The T-Rex glares. The T-Rex flexes its mighty jaws, dripping saliva from its razor sharp teeth. It tenses as to spring and suddenly, it strikes, poking dino number two in the eyes with a surprisingly adept finger jab. Dino 2 shrieks and pounds dino number 1 on the head with its club like tail. Dino number 1 ooomps and head butts the T-Rex in the stomach with his oddly flat noggin. This continues for some time. In the distance you hear what appears to be a giant flying reptile colliding with a large stationary object.)
Lara Dern: (giggle)
Dr. Grant: Whah??
Dr. Malcom: Hmm, yes, Chaos Theory predicts this sort of behavior.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
hunters bug me
And here’s why.
First, it’s abundantly obvious to, like, EVERYONE, that we are the dominant species on the planet. Does anyone question that? We thrive in just about any environment. Other than disease, we have no natural enemies (outside of our own species) and if you say polar bears I’m gonna hurt you.
There really are two acceptable reasons to hunt:
1) You’re bloody starving and that bunny, while cute and fluffy, is gonna be a sheeshkabob or you’re gonna punch out to the long sleep.
2) The bloody animals are screwing like lemmings and their gonna all die from syphilis unless you cull them out a bit.
Now, I may be talked into a third reason of an insane animal creating havoc and needs to be put down, but even then I think it is dependent on the situation.
So, this guy and his boyfriends grab their high powered rifles, space-cold resilient parkas, self heating boots and hire a local to show them where they can off themselves a big white bear. Just to smile and have a photo op and maybe a big rug and show how ‘superior’ they are to nature. Huh? Why? Dude, I ain’t impressed.
You want to impress me? Here is how I’ll accept your hunting as proof of yer ‘mad nature’ skillz.
1) Get yerself a big knife or spear or make yerself a bow and arrow out of bones, dirt and a rabbit weenie.
2) Walk yerself into the backwoods of isolation where no one can here your sissy screams for help.
3) No, you can’t bring your hi-tech camping gear. Take a flint, ya pansy.
4) Now, whatever you can track down and kill with your limited tools will be the worth of your ‘mad nature’ skillz.
How ya making out with that polar bear now, eh, Tarzan?
And that is why Tarzan is the epitome of ‘mad nature’ skillz. Hey, sure, screwing monkeys may have been a knock on the old Lord of the Apes, but the kid could bring it, right? I mean, he was weaker than, well, everything but Timone and, maybe, Poomba, but that didn’t stop him from maxing out on the old ‘Jungle Cred.’
Tarzan wants a cat. What does Tarzan do? Gets himself a lion. A LION! The bloody King of the Jungle is his pet! Are you kidding me? That is mad skillz, my friend.
Tarzan wants a leisurely ride across the havanna and, you know what? Bro gets himself a real SUV; yah, an elephant.
And if any of those big time jungle cats thought they was ready for the throne, well, Tarzan didn’t have a high powered S&W, my brotha (I saw the Squid and the Whale recently. … Can I just say that, although the Baldwin’s are horrific actors, except for the oldest, they are always good for a chuckle) and he always came out on top! Yep, that’s right. Always. And he didn’t have an elephant gun. No, and no uzi, for the love of Heston. Dude just packed a knife.
You want to impress me, Bwana? Get yourself a knife next time you want to prove yer superiority.
First, it’s abundantly obvious to, like, EVERYONE, that we are the dominant species on the planet. Does anyone question that? We thrive in just about any environment. Other than disease, we have no natural enemies (outside of our own species) and if you say polar bears I’m gonna hurt you.
There really are two acceptable reasons to hunt:
1) You’re bloody starving and that bunny, while cute and fluffy, is gonna be a sheeshkabob or you’re gonna punch out to the long sleep.
2) The bloody animals are screwing like lemmings and their gonna all die from syphilis unless you cull them out a bit.
Now, I may be talked into a third reason of an insane animal creating havoc and needs to be put down, but even then I think it is dependent on the situation.
So, this guy and his boyfriends grab their high powered rifles, space-cold resilient parkas, self heating boots and hire a local to show them where they can off themselves a big white bear. Just to smile and have a photo op and maybe a big rug and show how ‘superior’ they are to nature. Huh? Why? Dude, I ain’t impressed.
You want to impress me? Here is how I’ll accept your hunting as proof of yer ‘mad nature’ skillz.
1) Get yerself a big knife or spear or make yerself a bow and arrow out of bones, dirt and a rabbit weenie.
2) Walk yerself into the backwoods of isolation where no one can here your sissy screams for help.
3) No, you can’t bring your hi-tech camping gear. Take a flint, ya pansy.
4) Now, whatever you can track down and kill with your limited tools will be the worth of your ‘mad nature’ skillz.
How ya making out with that polar bear now, eh, Tarzan?
And that is why Tarzan is the epitome of ‘mad nature’ skillz. Hey, sure, screwing monkeys may have been a knock on the old Lord of the Apes, but the kid could bring it, right? I mean, he was weaker than, well, everything but Timone and, maybe, Poomba, but that didn’t stop him from maxing out on the old ‘Jungle Cred.’
Tarzan wants a cat. What does Tarzan do? Gets himself a lion. A LION! The bloody King of the Jungle is his pet! Are you kidding me? That is mad skillz, my friend.
Tarzan wants a leisurely ride across the havanna and, you know what? Bro gets himself a real SUV; yah, an elephant.
And if any of those big time jungle cats thought they was ready for the throne, well, Tarzan didn’t have a high powered S&W, my brotha (I saw the Squid and the Whale recently. … Can I just say that, although the Baldwin’s are horrific actors, except for the oldest, they are always good for a chuckle) and he always came out on top! Yep, that’s right. Always. And he didn’t have an elephant gun. No, and no uzi, for the love of Heston. Dude just packed a knife.
You want to impress me, Bwana? Get yourself a knife next time you want to prove yer superiority.
'Scuse me?
A couple of weeks ago my buddy RB came into town from Austin, TX for a conference on African American graduate studies and/or academia (Ok, I'm not a 100% sure on what exactly the conference was about, other than it had to do with AA in post secondary education). I think I may have mentioned his ‘announced’ visit. At any rate, everything worked out and we had a good time, yadda yadda yadda.
On one particular night, we went out to a club for a little, you know, 'clubbin.' This was after RBs conference and he indicated that he’d be with some of the people that he met. So, my new GF and I met RB at this club called Purple Martini where he was with some of his new colleagues. Meeting these new intellectuals was fairly uneventful except for this one gentleman. Follows is the brief exchange:
Conversation: Meeting RBs newly introduced associate.
Players: RB, MJ, RBA (RBs associate)
RB: Hey, MJ, this is RBA. One of the academia I met at the conference.
MJ: Hey, what’s up, man. (Obligatory hand gripping)
RBA: What’s up, black man.
MJ: *Thinking: Did he just say, what’s up, BLACK MAN?
Before I could come up with a follow up or snappy repertoire, RBA was moving away into the crowd. At the time of the meeting, my GF was away in the lavatory. RB looked at me inquiringly, as I must have had a strange look on my face, and I told him what his associate had said to me.
I was a little taken aback by the greeting and RB explained it this way:
“Yeah, he’s a little out there.”
Yes, a little out there. He further explained by saying RBA may be slightly racist. Ok, maybe, but ain't he an african american as well? Is he trying to remind me that I'm one as well?
Uh huh.
Mayhap he felt that I had forgotten the hue of my skin. Or, perhaps something I did or said set his neo-militant mindset off and the greeting was his preemptive warning? I can't be sure because we never re-encountered eachother again. It was a strange way to greet someone you know nothing about and are meeting for the first time. For instance, what if I had responded thusly:
Alternative Conversation: Meeting RBs newly introduced associate.
Players: RB, MJ, RBA (RBs associate)
RB: Hey, MJ, this is RBA. One of the academia I met at the conference.
MJ: Hey, what’s up, man. (Obligatory hand gripping)
RBA: What’s up, black man.
MJ: Where?! WHERE IS THE BLACK MAN? ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?? ARE YOU BLIND? CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I’M A LOVELY SHADE OF CARAMEL???? IF YOU MUST, REFER TO ME IN HUES AND SHADES, KINDLY REFER TO ME AS CARAMEL MAN!! YA STRAGGLY BEARDED BASTICHE!!! So glad to meet you.
On one particular night, we went out to a club for a little, you know, 'clubbin.' This was after RBs conference and he indicated that he’d be with some of the people that he met. So, my new GF and I met RB at this club called Purple Martini where he was with some of his new colleagues. Meeting these new intellectuals was fairly uneventful except for this one gentleman. Follows is the brief exchange:
Conversation: Meeting RBs newly introduced associate.
Players: RB, MJ, RBA (RBs associate)
RB: Hey, MJ, this is RBA. One of the academia I met at the conference.
MJ: Hey, what’s up, man. (Obligatory hand gripping)
RBA: What’s up, black man.
MJ: *Thinking: Did he just say, what’s up, BLACK MAN?
Before I could come up with a follow up or snappy repertoire, RBA was moving away into the crowd. At the time of the meeting, my GF was away in the lavatory. RB looked at me inquiringly, as I must have had a strange look on my face, and I told him what his associate had said to me.
I was a little taken aback by the greeting and RB explained it this way:
“Yeah, he’s a little out there.”
Yes, a little out there. He further explained by saying RBA may be slightly racist. Ok, maybe, but ain't he an african american as well? Is he trying to remind me that I'm one as well?
Uh huh.
Mayhap he felt that I had forgotten the hue of my skin. Or, perhaps something I did or said set his neo-militant mindset off and the greeting was his preemptive warning? I can't be sure because we never re-encountered eachother again. It was a strange way to greet someone you know nothing about and are meeting for the first time. For instance, what if I had responded thusly:
Alternative Conversation: Meeting RBs newly introduced associate.
Players: RB, MJ, RBA (RBs associate)
RB: Hey, MJ, this is RBA. One of the academia I met at the conference.
MJ: Hey, what’s up, man. (Obligatory hand gripping)
RBA: What’s up, black man.
MJ: Where?! WHERE IS THE BLACK MAN? ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?? ARE YOU BLIND? CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I’M A LOVELY SHADE OF CARAMEL???? IF YOU MUST, REFER TO ME IN HUES AND SHADES, KINDLY REFER TO ME AS CARAMEL MAN!! YA STRAGGLY BEARDED BASTICHE!!! So glad to meet you.
Why I may or may not reach 45
Ok, hold onto your hats here, but MEN try to IMPRESS WOMEN.
I know, it’s a shocker. And, as it turns out, that is what these guys are attributing to men not living as long as women. It seems us men type are expending so much energy trying to get some nookie that we are forgetting to breath and/or eat. Or something like that; its all very scientific so I’m just summarizing here.
I think these guys are on to something and here is why:
I fell out of a bus once while trying to be cool enough to impress women.
Yes, a bus. Yes, fell out. Yes, I FELL out of a BUS.
Now, this sort of thing isn’t the same as expending needed energy for living, but it certainly ups the old 'accidental/stupidity' mortality risk.
I’m sure I’ve nearly caromed off of many bridges or nearly driven into on coming traffic simply because I’m trying to focus in on that large breasted woman in my rear view mirror as apposed to, say, clearly stated an agreed upon driving regulations. I just don’t realize that I’ve nearly avoided that near catastrophe because I’m too busy figuring out which fantasy is best with THAT particular big breasted jogger (and, now, I never bellow, hoot, holler, nor leer too openly).*
Basically, what I’m saying is this, guys don’t care if they die as long as they get some action, ya dig? … Hmmm.. is that what I was saying? I don’t really recall what I was talking about as this really hot red hea..….
*Naturally, this sort of behavior has ended now that I am dating a fabulous and funny female femme fatale… fellatio. (Listen, you try to have an ‘F’ alliteration without throwing in that last one. Go, on, just try it. YOU CAN’T DO IT! It just jumps on the end of its own volition!)
I know, it’s a shocker. And, as it turns out, that is what these guys are attributing to men not living as long as women. It seems us men type are expending so much energy trying to get some nookie that we are forgetting to breath and/or eat. Or something like that; its all very scientific so I’m just summarizing here.
I think these guys are on to something and here is why:
I fell out of a bus once while trying to be cool enough to impress women.
Yes, a bus. Yes, fell out. Yes, I FELL out of a BUS.
Now, this sort of thing isn’t the same as expending needed energy for living, but it certainly ups the old 'accidental/stupidity' mortality risk.
I’m sure I’ve nearly caromed off of many bridges or nearly driven into on coming traffic simply because I’m trying to focus in on that large breasted woman in my rear view mirror as apposed to, say, clearly stated an agreed upon driving regulations. I just don’t realize that I’ve nearly avoided that near catastrophe because I’m too busy figuring out which fantasy is best with THAT particular big breasted jogger (and, now, I never bellow, hoot, holler, nor leer too openly).*
Basically, what I’m saying is this, guys don’t care if they die as long as they get some action, ya dig? … Hmmm.. is that what I was saying? I don’t really recall what I was talking about as this really hot red hea..….
*Naturally, this sort of behavior has ended now that I am dating a fabulous and funny female femme fatale… fellatio. (Listen, you try to have an ‘F’ alliteration without throwing in that last one. Go, on, just try it. YOU CAN’T DO IT! It just jumps on the end of its own volition!)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Get thee behind me, humongo!
So I was going to comment on this 1200lb guy who needs to go have a 'life saving' operation attributed to his 'husky' physique. Only now, I can't find the link. Blast.
So, anyway, how does one get to one thousand two hundred pounds? I mean, maybe 3 bills is average for your typical NFL lineman, but when you start to tip the scales at, say five hundred pounds.. no, no, lets cut the guy some slack and say he didn't notice he was eating, you know, everything within reach, and say that the first six hundred pounds just sort of ‘crept’ up on him. Hey, it can happen. You know, you’re sitting AROUND the house, you might be a little depressed and you, you know, eat Johnny Depp. I mean, it can happen, right? It’s the hat that makes him seem like a nutty bar, really.
So, all of a sudden, you’re at six bills. Ok. Fine. At that point, you just have to lean back, look at your self in the mirror (or your left arm, depending on the size of the building to which the mirror is attached) and say, ‘wow, I may need to lose a pound or two. Getting a little soft in the middle.’ Right? I mean, am I right? You have to take a stand, even if you, you know, cannot stand, and say, ‘enough is enough!! Send the mountain of twinkies away! Dismiss the mounds of Mounds and don’t but me with the ‘almond joy’s got nuts!’ Away I say!’ And roll yourself into a sauna for the love of Simmons!
Not this guy, nooooo, 600 lbs is only half way there! It’s a pittance! It’s only a Yugo, for crying in the night! I’m shooting for a full blown Gremlin here! I guess you could admire a fellow who doesn’t give up halfway to a goal. ‘Twelve hunny is callin an I’ma answerin!!’
I mean, can you imagine how much soap the guys from Fight Club could have made with this guy?
So, anyway, how does one get to one thousand two hundred pounds? I mean, maybe 3 bills is average for your typical NFL lineman, but when you start to tip the scales at, say five hundred pounds.. no, no, lets cut the guy some slack and say he didn't notice he was eating, you know, everything within reach, and say that the first six hundred pounds just sort of ‘crept’ up on him. Hey, it can happen. You know, you’re sitting AROUND the house, you might be a little depressed and you, you know, eat Johnny Depp. I mean, it can happen, right? It’s the hat that makes him seem like a nutty bar, really.
So, all of a sudden, you’re at six bills. Ok. Fine. At that point, you just have to lean back, look at your self in the mirror (or your left arm, depending on the size of the building to which the mirror is attached) and say, ‘wow, I may need to lose a pound or two. Getting a little soft in the middle.’ Right? I mean, am I right? You have to take a stand, even if you, you know, cannot stand, and say, ‘enough is enough!! Send the mountain of twinkies away! Dismiss the mounds of Mounds and don’t but me with the ‘almond joy’s got nuts!’ Away I say!’ And roll yourself into a sauna for the love of Simmons!
Not this guy, nooooo, 600 lbs is only half way there! It’s a pittance! It’s only a Yugo, for crying in the night! I’m shooting for a full blown Gremlin here! I guess you could admire a fellow who doesn’t give up halfway to a goal. ‘Twelve hunny is callin an I’ma answerin!!’
I mean, can you imagine how much soap the guys from Fight Club could have made with this guy?
I may have misjudged
The other day I’m sitting in my cube and my buddy SC calls me over. ‘Here’, SC says, ‘Read this email and tell me if you see anything odd.’ So, being as I’ve already been called away from my desk where I had been just on the verge of a monumental breakthrough in the advancement of lazy-ing thru the day, I decide to comply. Here is the email I was reading (partially, at least) with PDF attachment of a brochure:
Hello all! I am sending this brochure to you in hopes that you or someone you know would love the opportunity to golf on the prestigious and private golf course of Pradera in Parker. Only home owners in Pradera and members that pay a minimum of $20K for a membership can golf here. Therefore allowing the great opportunity for anyone that is an avid golfer and loves to try out all the courses in Colorado to get on board... However, the main reason and focus of this tournament, is to donate to the Freedom Foundation. A foundation that is up and coming in the county of Douglas which assists those in need. It will allow funding for many good services the foundation is already active in in this community and will allow the opportunity to reach out to other counties as well... I am a member of the Freedom Foundation and the Blacks on the back of the brochure are personal friends of mine. .......
Attached to the back of the brochure was this picture.
My first thought was ‘Are you kidding me?’ I mean, aside from the grammatical errors and the stunted and awkward speaking, does anything, you know, RACIST like, stand out to you? I mean, is it now ok to, you know, refer to people by the hue of their skin? And why does this family have to be on the BACK of the brochure!??! Why can’t they be on the front? Or the middle? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE DREAM, MAN!! THE DREAM!!
Then, in the midst of my King like (and mostly, melodramatic) rant, I am told this:
‘Dude, that is the name of the family. The Blacks.’
Oh, the irony nearly flattened me.
Hello all! I am sending this brochure to you in hopes that you or someone you know would love the opportunity to golf on the prestigious and private golf course of Pradera in Parker. Only home owners in Pradera and members that pay a minimum of $20K for a membership can golf here. Therefore allowing the great opportunity for anyone that is an avid golfer and loves to try out all the courses in Colorado to get on board... However, the main reason and focus of this tournament, is to donate to the Freedom Foundation. A foundation that is up and coming in the county of Douglas which assists those in need. It will allow funding for many good services the foundation is already active in in this community and will allow the opportunity to reach out to other counties as well... I am a member of the Freedom Foundation and the Blacks on the back of the brochure are personal friends of mine. .......
Attached to the back of the brochure was this picture.
My first thought was ‘Are you kidding me?’ I mean, aside from the grammatical errors and the stunted and awkward speaking, does anything, you know, RACIST like, stand out to you? I mean, is it now ok to, you know, refer to people by the hue of their skin? And why does this family have to be on the BACK of the brochure!??! Why can’t they be on the front? Or the middle? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE DREAM, MAN!! THE DREAM!!
Then, in the midst of my King like (and mostly, melodramatic) rant, I am told this:
‘Dude, that is the name of the family. The Blacks.’
Oh, the irony nearly flattened me.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Why, no it isn’t the LA smog on a CO vacation…
Who smokes like the Marlboro Man, a cloud of noxious fumes always accompanying her, regardless of her final destination?
Who stinks like the burning tar of the Jurassic Period, or so I imagine?
Who smiles at you with a tinge of yellow coating her enamel like a weak and tired gold plating, except, yeah, that ain’t gold?!?
Well, no, it isn’t Shaft; it’s the Uncontrollable Laugher in the next cube over!
You know, she was gone for the first part of this week, and it was quiet and, you know, cancer free and all. This morning rolls around and I’m sitting at my cube working hard, industriously, efficiently, relentlessly and dedicatedly on my blog, when I smell what has to be an escaped imp from the smoky confines of Heck. Is there a fire, I think? Is someone being burned in effigy in the lobby, I wonder? Then I hear a ‘good morning’ and I look up and there is my cube neighbor. ‘Hello’ I manage to choke out, ‘how are you?’ managing to even breath thru the deadly and invisible, but not imperceptible, cloud of ghastly putrescence? I added that last bit in my head.
So now my throat is getting that scratchy irritating feeling, but, thankfully, my nose has surrendered, not nearly as fast as the French, unfortunately, but swiftly enough for me to be mildly thankful that it is deadened to the continued odiferous assault.
I’m thinking about requesting a move…
Who stinks like the burning tar of the Jurassic Period, or so I imagine?
Who smiles at you with a tinge of yellow coating her enamel like a weak and tired gold plating, except, yeah, that ain’t gold?!?
Well, no, it isn’t Shaft; it’s the Uncontrollable Laugher in the next cube over!
You know, she was gone for the first part of this week, and it was quiet and, you know, cancer free and all. This morning rolls around and I’m sitting at my cube working hard, industriously, efficiently, relentlessly and dedicatedly on my blog, when I smell what has to be an escaped imp from the smoky confines of Heck. Is there a fire, I think? Is someone being burned in effigy in the lobby, I wonder? Then I hear a ‘good morning’ and I look up and there is my cube neighbor. ‘Hello’ I manage to choke out, ‘how are you?’ managing to even breath thru the deadly and invisible, but not imperceptible, cloud of ghastly putrescence? I added that last bit in my head.
So now my throat is getting that scratchy irritating feeling, but, thankfully, my nose has surrendered, not nearly as fast as the French, unfortunately, but swiftly enough for me to be mildly thankful that it is deadened to the continued odiferous assault.
I’m thinking about requesting a move…
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
So, yeah, I get in at 1:30 tomorrow
I few months back my old friend RB, who resides in TX, called and said there was a possibility that he would be coming to CO for a conference. I said great and volunteered my domicile as a lodging option. He said great and would get with me later to confirm as the trip was yet to be approved by management, but as soon as it was he’d let me know so I could plan accordingly.
Last night, at about 10PM MT, I get a call. Its my buddy RB:
MJ: Sup sup!
RB: Not much, man, what up you?
MJ: Chillin, main, chillin.
RB: So, I get in about 1:30 tomorrow.
MJ: Wha? (thinking furiously, trying to figure out what I’m not remembering)
RB: My flight? It arrives at 1:30 tomorrow.
MJ: OH! Your conference trip. I thought you were going to call me?
RB: Yeah, sorry about that. Is it still ok?
MJ: Uhh…(trying to figure out the logistics in my head. You see, I have kids and they tend to complicate/eradicate spur of the moment planning) Yeah, we’ll make it work.
RB: You sure? The approval didn’t come until late last week .. (launches into detailed explanation of approval, but I’m only partially listening as I play out various logistical scenarios)
MJ: I’m sorry, what?
RB: I was saying, are you going to be able to take a late lunch or are you going to leave a key?
MJ: Oh, no, I’ll just give you the combination to my garage door opener…. (the rest is unimportant)
….
So, I have a, not unannounced, but unexpected house guest thru the rest of the week. It should be fine, as RB and I go way back and he’s welcome anytime, but, it will be interesting to see how the logistics compute.
Last night, at about 10PM MT, I get a call. Its my buddy RB:
MJ: Sup sup!
RB: Not much, man, what up you?
MJ: Chillin, main, chillin.
RB: So, I get in about 1:30 tomorrow.
MJ: Wha? (thinking furiously, trying to figure out what I’m not remembering)
RB: My flight? It arrives at 1:30 tomorrow.
MJ: OH! Your conference trip. I thought you were going to call me?
RB: Yeah, sorry about that. Is it still ok?
MJ: Uhh…(trying to figure out the logistics in my head. You see, I have kids and they tend to complicate/eradicate spur of the moment planning) Yeah, we’ll make it work.
RB: You sure? The approval didn’t come until late last week .. (launches into detailed explanation of approval, but I’m only partially listening as I play out various logistical scenarios)
MJ: I’m sorry, what?
RB: I was saying, are you going to be able to take a late lunch or are you going to leave a key?
MJ: Oh, no, I’ll just give you the combination to my garage door opener…. (the rest is unimportant)
….
So, I have a, not unannounced, but unexpected house guest thru the rest of the week. It should be fine, as RB and I go way back and he’s welcome anytime, but, it will be interesting to see how the logistics compute.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Things my father may or may not know
I was once hit by a car while blindly running across a street. I was 10 or 11 at the time (probably about the same age for most of these). I can still remember rolling up onto the hood of the car and then rolling off into the street. I wasn’t hurt at all, but the lady who hit me jumped out and grabbed me and kept hugging me and crying for what seemed like days. Unfortunately, I wasn’t much into women at that age so I couldn’t properly enjoy her attentions. I do recall that she was kind of cute, in that frenzied, scared to death, and completely shocked sort of way.
When we lived on 14th and Milwaukee, I used to pinch some of the coins you put into that huge glass water cooler bottle and use them to buy sweets at that Asian guy’s convenience store. I couldn’t lift the bloody thing, but since you kept it on the floor, I could sort of tip it over and let the land slide of coins spill out. I would also, occasionally, use this to buy copious amounts of Mountain Dew from the coke machine in the apartment basement. I could really ‘do the dew’ at that age.
I once discovered this huge ‘sugar daddy’ caramel (is it carmel or caramel?) hidden in the kitchen cabinet (I can’t remember where the house was we lived in, but I believe you were dating Willy(sp) at the time). I regularly whittled this down by sneaking bites out of his arms and such and rewrapping him to hide my pilfering. Eventually, before I could finish him, he disappeared. I wonder if you thought we had rats? I was younger then, maybe 5 or 6.
I knew where most of your firearms where hidden and showed them proudly to friends when you weren’t home. As you know, was a fairly intelligent little tyke, so I rarely pointed any of them at, you know, any of them.
My friend Tag (his name was Taggert of all things. Taggert!! Can you even imagine the teasing?), this girl Debi and I once hung out in one of those mini concrete construction tunnels, that used to dot the playgrounds back in the day, and practiced kissing for what seemed like hours, but, since we all know that time passes exponentially slower as a child, was in all probability about 5 minutes.
I punched this kid named Michael in the stomach in the fourth grade because he stole my watch. .. Well, truthfully, I lost it and he found it but refused to give it back. Besides, he hit me first. So I slugged him and he went crying to the teacher the little pansy. I had to stay after school that day while that little bastard got off scott free. The good thing about that was, after that, I got myself a bit of a rep as the ‘don’t mess with him’ guy. I guess when you’re 10 that can be amusing.
I once hit the parrot you gave me, open handed, because the little bastard bit me for no good reason. It flew across the room, or tried to, but since its flight wings were clipped it only did this sad little flutter-splat thing into the wall. Oh, also, sometimes, I would give it boogers and it would eat them! I know, gross.
All the kids in school thought you were, by far, the coolest dad. The one time you came into class with your Denver PD uniform on caused such a stir that they talked about it for weeks afterward. They were, of course, absolutely correct in their assertion. .. You were, and are still, the coolest dad ever.
I discovered your ‘hidden stash’ of educational reading material, and recall vividly being very perplexed by not only why ‘milk’ was coming from that man’s penis, but also what made it ok to be ‘spraying’ it all over that women’s breast?
I liked fire and would often pilfer your matches so I could play with it. Yes, that is what happened to my finger that day, and yes, I did know what happened, but I was far too frightened of telling you I was playing with matches so instead pretended like I had no idea why I had a blister the size of a quarter on my finger.
I liked the way your pipe smelled, during your pipe smoking days, way more than I liked the clouds of cigarette smoke.
Ok, so, bell bottoms were not the best choice of pants to wear to 7th grade in 1983, but it would have been better to hear that from you than from the bastards at school. Yah, I know, I picked them out, but I was 13, what did I know?
They turned my old elementary school (Stevens) into some kind of retro-cool condo-plex. (This school was awesome. It was built using granite slabs and what not. Had a ton of character, well, the building still has character, its just there are garages where my kissing tunnel used to be.)
When we lived on 14th and Milwaukee, I used to pinch some of the coins you put into that huge glass water cooler bottle and use them to buy sweets at that Asian guy’s convenience store. I couldn’t lift the bloody thing, but since you kept it on the floor, I could sort of tip it over and let the land slide of coins spill out. I would also, occasionally, use this to buy copious amounts of Mountain Dew from the coke machine in the apartment basement. I could really ‘do the dew’ at that age.
I once discovered this huge ‘sugar daddy’ caramel (is it carmel or caramel?) hidden in the kitchen cabinet (I can’t remember where the house was we lived in, but I believe you were dating Willy(sp) at the time). I regularly whittled this down by sneaking bites out of his arms and such and rewrapping him to hide my pilfering. Eventually, before I could finish him, he disappeared. I wonder if you thought we had rats? I was younger then, maybe 5 or 6.
I knew where most of your firearms where hidden and showed them proudly to friends when you weren’t home. As you know, was a fairly intelligent little tyke, so I rarely pointed any of them at, you know, any of them.
My friend Tag (his name was Taggert of all things. Taggert!! Can you even imagine the teasing?), this girl Debi and I once hung out in one of those mini concrete construction tunnels, that used to dot the playgrounds back in the day, and practiced kissing for what seemed like hours, but, since we all know that time passes exponentially slower as a child, was in all probability about 5 minutes.
I punched this kid named Michael in the stomach in the fourth grade because he stole my watch. .. Well, truthfully, I lost it and he found it but refused to give it back. Besides, he hit me first. So I slugged him and he went crying to the teacher the little pansy. I had to stay after school that day while that little bastard got off scott free. The good thing about that was, after that, I got myself a bit of a rep as the ‘don’t mess with him’ guy. I guess when you’re 10 that can be amusing.
I once hit the parrot you gave me, open handed, because the little bastard bit me for no good reason. It flew across the room, or tried to, but since its flight wings were clipped it only did this sad little flutter-splat thing into the wall. Oh, also, sometimes, I would give it boogers and it would eat them! I know, gross.
All the kids in school thought you were, by far, the coolest dad. The one time you came into class with your Denver PD uniform on caused such a stir that they talked about it for weeks afterward. They were, of course, absolutely correct in their assertion. .. You were, and are still, the coolest dad ever.
I discovered your ‘hidden stash’ of educational reading material, and recall vividly being very perplexed by not only why ‘milk’ was coming from that man’s penis, but also what made it ok to be ‘spraying’ it all over that women’s breast?
I liked fire and would often pilfer your matches so I could play with it. Yes, that is what happened to my finger that day, and yes, I did know what happened, but I was far too frightened of telling you I was playing with matches so instead pretended like I had no idea why I had a blister the size of a quarter on my finger.
I liked the way your pipe smelled, during your pipe smoking days, way more than I liked the clouds of cigarette smoke.
Ok, so, bell bottoms were not the best choice of pants to wear to 7th grade in 1983, but it would have been better to hear that from you than from the bastards at school. Yah, I know, I picked them out, but I was 13, what did I know?
They turned my old elementary school (Stevens) into some kind of retro-cool condo-plex. (This school was awesome. It was built using granite slabs and what not. Had a ton of character, well, the building still has character, its just there are garages where my kissing tunnel used to be.)
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