Life Revisited (Part 3 -- The Wedding)

So my little brother got married last month. How about that?

Really, he's not that much younger than me (I'm 26, he's 23 -- a difference of about 32 months separates us). And, I was married at only a year older than he is now. But holy moley, it is surreal.

Vinnie had chosen me as his best man. What this meant is that I had two responsibilities, which eventually became three. I had to throw the bachelor party, and I had to give the reception toast. A couple months before the wedding, I took over the job of getting a limousine to transport the bridal party from the church to the reception.

The catches to that last task included: the nearest limo rental place was 45 minutes from the site of the wedding. The bridal party included 16 people. Also, the bride was not to know about the limo until she exited the church.

Happily, I was able to get a massive limo at a relatively decent price for 3 hours, and somehow, despite everyone (including the bride's parents) knowing about the limo, my brother's wife of moments was kept in the dark. She first found out we had gotten a limo when she exited the church, and her reaction was certainly worth the costs.

I won't get too far into detail about the bachelor party. The hotel suite, down at the Hampton Inn on Smallman St, was freaking phenomenal. And about the night of debauchery, let's say this: all the guys had a great time, no one got arrested, and only a few people threw up. Well, actually, only my brother threw up--but he puked enough for a few people.

Lastly, the wedding toast. Never before have I been so nervous to speak in public. I've given public speeches since I was 9 years old, performed my own writing numerous times, but I was stomach-sick about this, and it wasn't the hangover. Mostly, I was nervous because my brother had been my best man a mere 20 months ago. His speech was funny, heartfelt, and overall superb. Even if I wasn't a professional writer, the bar would have been high. But of course, I am a professional writer, so the bar, to my mind, was stratospheric.

I sweated over the speech for two whole months. By "the speech", I mean a blank computer screen. I had nothing written until the week of the wedding; just ideas floating in a cloud. Luckily, in the final 24 hours, everything clicked into place. The cloud of ideas became a line of reasoning, and I finished my notes the morning of the wedding. Then, I ad-libbed a bunch during the speech, to positive effect. The laughs were in the right places, the "aww's" were as well, and I think I did a pretty serviceable job. I hadn't wanted to try and top my brother's speech, but I at least wanted to be in the neighborhood.

It was very cool to hear from all the different people Vinnie went to school with. My brother has a lot of peers who respect him a great deal; it is not a surprise, but it is still impressive to hear.

All in all, a great wedding weekend, and an even better union. Welcome to the family, Deanna!

I still have one more entry to make before this update is through; but I think I should take a short break. I will update further this afternoon.

Life Revisited (Part 2 -- The Death)

I was going to go at this chronologically, but I didn't want to end with the end, because the stuff in the middle is really more important.

The end of which is speak is the sudden end of Michael Jackson. As you likely know, MJ died last week. Good news for the Iranian government!

Snark aside, I do appreciate the magnitude of Michael Jackson's star power. It did sadden me and half-surprise me to hear that he'd died. And his death deserves attention, wordage devoted. Not all of the wordage, but a portion.

But can we dispense with the goddamn hyperbole? I don't have the link handy, but I've actually read the argument put forth, in earnest, that this is my generation's JFK moment. "We'll all be telling our children where we were, and what we were doing when we heard that Michael Jackson died."

If this is my generation's JFK moment...then fuck my generation. And fuck its asinine priorities.

I don't know about you, but I had to go look up whether he died on the 25th or the 26th as I began to write this blog entry. I don't remember what I was doing--oh yeah, I was surfing the Internet. I must've been; that's how I get all my news. What a great story. *wank wank wank*

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm not an MJ fan. I did the requisite listen-through of the HIStory album (disc 1 only) when I learned of his death. I watched the YouTube video of that prison dance troupe doing Thriller. I even got turned on to an interesting song of his that I'd never heard, from his Blood on the Dancefloor album.

And, of course, I thought back to how much I fuckin' loved the Bad album when I was a kid back in Middletown. One my first CDs, that. It may have been the 2nd one I ever got. (The first CD I ever owned, I know certainly, was Changesbowie.)

But Christ, Michael Jackson's not the goddamn Pope. He's not even King Lear. And he lived in your CD player, not in your guest room. So can we please stop crying over him like he's the family dog, and move the hell on?

Life Revisited (Part 1 -- The Champions)

Wow, it's been a dreadfully long time since I've written here, hasn't it? I've been an irresponsible blogger. I can't say why, precisely -- my life certainly hasn't been wanting for new developments.

I'll do y'all a favor and break things up into separate entries. It might get messy otherwise. So, first off!

1) The Penguins won the Stanley Cup! Good lord, would Jenn and I have been pissed if we'd decided to stick it out in LA for another year.

The Steelers and Pens in 2009; if the Pirates climb out of the basement and join them in the pantheon, surely Jesus will rise from the grave, judge the living and the dead, and the planet will disintegrate into dust. So what I'm saying, Pirates, is that I guess it's good you traded McLouth, Burnett, Morgan, and Hinske, in order to ensure not only your failure to produce a winning team, but also the continued existence of...existence.

But let's not dwell on our semi-pro baseball team, and return to our ultra-pro hockey team.

In support of the Pens, I grew this year, for the first time, a playoff beard. Really, it had started out of laziness; this was back when I was rebuilding the retaining wall with my dad. I just didn't shave for a couple days, the excuse being, "I'm doing manual labor, why shave?" But as the Penguins grew closer to clinching a berth, I decided that I was going to remain purposefully unshaven. I was in it for the long haul. I even joined "beardathon.com", where I posted pictures of my beard-age in order to raise money for the Mario Lemieux Foundation.

So, months go by, the beard grows full and even. To my dismay, I learn that almost everyone in the world thinks I look fantastic with a beard. That's to my dismay because my wife and I both hate the beard. Hate, hate, hate it. For three weeks it itches, and when the itch subsides, it's catching soup and ice cream, and wing sauce, and getting stuck in my mouth, and tickling my nose, and protruding into my lower peripheral vision like hair blinders. I don't know how hipsters and Civil War re-enactors manage it. Beards suck.

But they do, apparently, win teams Stanley Cups. Yes, I've said it. My beard won the Penguins Lord Stanley. I'm willing to give credit when credit is due -- especially when it's due to me. So, I'll happy accept your thanks, your cash, and your checks made out to cash.

More momentarily!

The Vocabularian

Around the time I got my teeth out, I mentioned a sidebar about the word 'surgery' and what it means to me. So here we go.

You know what moment in my life comes to my mind when I think of the word surgery? I flash back to Middletown, NY, fifth grade at Memorial Elementary.

Some of the 'trouble' kids at school had just formed a little gang, a sort of kid-version of what their uncles and older brothers were doing out in the real world. The leaders of the gang, Obed B. and Billy Darling, invited me to be a part of their circle.

I'm not certain why they pulled me in. We weren't friends by any stretch. In fact, Obed had beaten me up in 2nd grade for no reason at all. He'd punched me in the lunchroom, making humiliating "Pop!" and "Boop!" noises as he pummeled me to tears--it was the sound effects that brought the tears more than the physical pain--and since then I'd stayed clear.

I think part of it was that my mom was on the school board, and since the kids had no idea of what that actually meant, they thought it made me powerful, like the child of a don or something. The other, more prominent, part of it was that I was Smart, and would help them organize.

Organize what? The so-called gang didn't have a plan, other than to bully and smoke cigarettes. Well, Obed and Billy explained, I was to be the "secretary" of the whole enterprise. It would be my job to hand out blue slips each week to the kids that Obed and Billy wanted to remain in the gang the following week.

As for the kids who were out? They got pink slips, I shit you not.

And so it went for three weeks or so. I didn't smoke or bully, but I did keep records and hand out the colored slips on Friday. It beat getting pegged in the head with a basketball during recess, I'll tell you that.

At the end of the month, Obed and Billy came to me with a new job. They wanted me to help them write a poem for some kid they didn't like. I don't recall what their problem with him was; I doubt they even had any specific issue. But eager to please, I handwrote the poem per Billy and Obed's dictation. I'd chime in with a suggestion or flourish here and there, or show them how to form a stronger rhyming couplet...not that they gave a fuck about mechanics.

The final product was exactly what you might expect: childish and ugly. The specifics are largely irrelevant; it was mostly scatological, all about this poor kid's dirty ass and his invisible dick. The one line I remember clear as the La Jolla coast, though, is this: "I hope you have surgery, because your face looks like shit."

The poem was delivered anonymously, unsigned, left in the target's homeroom desk. The kid cried, was seen crying by Ms. Noelle, our teacher, and she read the poem for herself. She sent the kid to the nurse to clean up, folded the note away, and nothing came of it at the moment.

During lunch, I was called down to the principal's office. Ms. Noelle and Mr. Katulak were there, ready to interrogate. They knew the note was at least partly my work. They didn't know it from my handwriting, though. It was surgery. This was not a school of future Rhodes scholars. Ms. Noelle had known it was me because I could spell the word surgery correctly. After being confronted with this, I folded pretty quickly. I confessed, took sole responsibility for the note, even though everyone in the room knew this wasn't the whole truth.

You'd think Billy and Obed would have been grateful that I took the fall on my own, but you'd be wrong. The point to them, I believe, wasn't that I'd covered for them, it was that I'd confessed at all. Either way, that week was my last in their gang.

For the sake of the anecdote, it would have been fitting if I'd gotten a pink slip of my own--but I was the secretary, after all, and as I've noted, Billy and Obed didn't care much about mechanics. My dismissal was unspoken, but clearly understood: I was out. And life went on.

As I type this up, I realize that I can't recall for the life of me the name of the kid about whom we wrote the poem. I wish to hell I could. Everything else is pretty sharp. I remember Ms. Noelle (pronounced, inexplicably, like canoli), that wisp of a woman who was tough as nails. I remember Mr. Katulak (of whom I've previously written); in a world without Morgan Freeman and "Crazy" Joe Clark, he might have had his own biopic. I can recall Obed and not only his to-the-core meanness, but also his ability to do a double backflip with only a few yards of a running start. And of course, there's Billy Darling, whose name I've included in full for its irony--I can also remember, ten years back, reading about his death, after his snowmobile lost a duel with a telephone pole.

As you can see, "surgery" brings back a flood of details. But in my mind's eye, there's a blurred outline where our victim should be standing. There's something I can't shake about that, something that feels wrong. But, like a child, memory is often unfair.

Teabagging is for Lovers

Let's set the scene. I'm sitting at the shop window on this fine spring afternoon. I'm taking a quick lunch break, using the time to enjoy both the clear sunny skies and a delicious Pomegranate Raspberry Green Tea. And, as per usual, my mind is wandering.

As I dunk my tea bag into the waiting mouth of my mug, I can't help but think about the oh-so-smartly-named protests that went on yesterday. Fierce, open-throated protesting in the name of...what were they protesting again? I think porktaxesblackpresidentguns, or something.

Either way, all these teabaggers roaming the streets really tickled my fancy. The very base of my fancy, where it meets the gaping maw of my id.

That is to say, it got me thinking. Pondering. Now that the righties have had their Teabagging Day, or whatever, what protests loom on the horizon?

I, for one, have some recommendations for future targets.

Why not hone your focus next time? You guys shouldn't beat around the bush.* Go after a single issue. Immigration! There's a hot button. And you don't need an expensive prop like tea bags to make a statement. As you've probably become aware, mass tea bagging can be quite expensive. This time around, don't break the bank...just use dirt. That shit's free! You could take a bunch of dirt, and pour it, Glenn Beck-style, on a bunch of dudes dressed as Mexicans. You can call it Dirty Mexican Day. No, not Dirty Mexican Day...it's too vague. It should be more personalized; that'll knock the issue right home, put a face on it. So, Dirty Sanchez Day.** It's catchy, it's poetic. Brings a tear to mine eye.

Or maybe you don't want a single-issue protest. In that case, why not go straight after the Democratic Party--that band of dirty, dirty socialists. Those filthy socialists, with their sinister socialist programs like the fire department, and the police force. Of course, you can't just go batshit crazy and start whaling on a bunch of Democrats. That'd be crass. Instead, attack them through the wonders of metaphor! Go right after their party symbol, the donkey. Round up a bunch of donkeys, and just beat the shit out of them on the steps of the Capital. Sure, you'll rile up PETA, but why would you care? Donkeys don't have souls; everybody knows that. And I've even got a great name for the whole spectacle: Donkey-Punching Day.

All right, all right...maybe that one leaves you open to ridicule. Especially if the donkeys fight back. So...well, you could always do another vague, generalized-anger protest, like your Tea-Bagging Day. But you need to up the ante. And I have just the way. Why not dress up as a marching brass band? To symbolize The Band Playing On--you know, as the Titanic (read: America and her values) sinks? C'mon, read a fucking history book. Or watch the (final hour of the) film. Then, here's the kicker. To symbolize the fate of the Band That Played On...you can all jump into the ocean!

I'm not saying drown yourselves, persay. That's why it's symbolic. Jump in, flail and gibber about like some Pentacostal asshole, swim out. All you might lose is your brass instrument, which will likely be sacrificed. And that's why, to honor the sacrifice, we can call it...Rusty Trombone Day.

That's all I've got. Three ideas. Still, it's three more than the Republican Party has.


* Side thought that I can never include in a children's book: Speaking of bushes...Wouldn't it be interesting to find out, via time machine or seance-style, that Moses' burning bush actually referred to a severe case of crabs or pubic lice? I know if I'd come down with a case of the crustaceans in those pre-medicated-cream times, I'd be apt to promise God anything to get out of it.

** Not to be confused with "Freddy Sanchez Day". Go Buccos!

New Blog!

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...April Fool's!






(But on the real, I will be updating more regularly, starting quite soon.)

Percocet and Ice Cream

That was what I had for dinner last night.

Yesterday morning, I had the dentist remove an entire 1/8th of the teeth from my mouth. Luckily, they were all wisdom teeth...those teeth whose 'impact' I've been denying over the last two years.

First, it was the fact that we were moving out to LA...I didn't want to have surgery and then move cross country. Then, we were getting ready for a wedding, so I didn't want to have chipmunk cheeks in the photography. Then, we were just in L.A., where every medical doctor appeared to be a crooked shitbag with not a clue as to how to actually treat humans--a trait that I assumed applied to dentists as well.

Now, though, we're back in Pittsburgh, home of some of the greatest hospitals and medical professionals in the country...so I finally let my wife convince me to git er done. (At the very office that pulled her wisdom teeth, no less.)

A quick stand-up X-ray revealed to me that which I'd suspected for quite a while; my upper wisdom teeth were crowding my molars, trying to get in on the greens-chewing action, while my lower wisdom teeth...they were so wise that they were able to do basic geometry, and show-offs that they were, they grew themselves perfectly perpendicular to the others.

So surgery it was.*

Here is a play-by-play of the surgery, including every detail I can muster. My wife and I entered the waiting room of Snyder & Dugan where the receptionist was waiting to hand me a release form. As I signed the form, which dutifully listed every possible complication that can arise during a surgery such as mine--thanks!--my wife paid the fees. At the receptionist's suggestion, we opted to put the fees on a credit card, rather than pay cash, in order to take advantage of the reward points. Fair enough.

Then, the nurse assisting with the surgery comes in, so I take off my coat and hoodie, to give them access to a vein for my anaesthetic. This of course revealed my tattoos, so the nurse immediately asked if I was taking an illegal drugs. The doc came in as I settled in the chair, and the nurse cleaned a spot in the crook of my arm. The needle went in, the doctor asked me about my tattoos, I asked when the anaesthetic would kick in, and then, the doctor put the final stitch in my mouth and packed some gauze in.

Yeah, I don't remember a goddamn thing of the surgery, which I like. Apparently, it took a half hour longer than planned, due to my extra-clever lowers. But now they're out, and I'm chilling at the house.

I needed Percs all day yesterday, but I haven't needed a one today. We'll see how that continues. I get to gargle with salt water once an hour, and I'm staying away from solid foods for a couple days. On the menu thus far today--broccoli cheese soup and chocolate ice cream. Next...probably yogurt. I need something, for certain. I just awoke from an afternoon nap, to discover that my mouth wounds are still bleeding a bit, which tastes awesome. I am out of gauze already, so I hope that'll just...stop.

Maybe I'll try that teabagging thing.

No, not that teabagging thing, I mean take literal teabags, and put them in my mouth, which is supposed to help with clotting.


*The mention of this word reminds me of an anecdote, which I'll share soon.

I'm Not One to Advocate Book Burning, But...

Word is that Sarah Palin is making a deal to write a book about her campaign experiences.

Now all she has to do is learn how to fucking read:

PETA = Idiots (It's science.)

I had thought this was a joke when I first read the article, but here it is, right on the PETA website. Apparently, PETA's so up-in-arms about all the fish-eating that goes on in this cruel, cruel world of ours, so they've launched a campaign to "rebrand" fish...

As sea kittens.

Are you fucking kidding me? Sea kittens? The logic, according to Ashley Byrne, the coordinator of PETA's sea kitten campaign, goes like this: "A lot of people don't realize that fish are capable of feeling fear and pain, that they develop relationships with each other, and even show affection by gently rubbing against one another. Knowing that the fish sticks in the school cafeteria are really made out of tortured sea kittens makes most kids want to lose their lunch."

I keep starting and stopping this entry, because there are so many reasons that I just can't stand fucking PETA. Don't get me wrong; I do support some of the stuff PETA has done in its history...sort of. For instance, I believe that animals should be treated humanely, especially at the point of slaughter. Why? Because it makes them taste better.

I think I found my main objection to PETA, or at least a uniting thread through several of them. I just can't abide by a group that values animals over people. And they do. It seems that PETA can't make a point anymore without turning women into sex objects, using offensive and thoughtless hyperbole, or torturing its own interns.

Fur is murder? To quote a member of another extremist group, "Literally fuck your own face!" Would you feel better if I told you that I also eat mink burgers? Well, I would, were they available. That's my biggest problem with the fur industry--it's wasteful. There are a lot of homeless people who'd be happy to eat fried ermine, or rotisserie chinchilla or whatever the fuck.

Sorry, I'm losing track. I got started on this whole rant because of sea kittens. Sea kittens! I know what you can eat instead of "sea kittens", PETA. You can eat my asshole.

But you know what? When I'm honest with myself...I kind of hope they succeed with the renaming.

That way, it'd finally be socially acceptable for me to eat a kitten.

This Week in Michael

Now that my resolution's complete, I'm finding it hard to scrape together the motivation to write in here.

It's not for want of new information.

For instance, I finally got, in writing, word from the collections agency. It's official--we don't owe anybody any damn money. They've canceled their pursuit, and there's no reflection in our credit record that we even had a case. Hurray!

Not so hurray: I saw a car accident happen just a couple feet from me while I was walking through the Strip District yesterday. As far as I could tell, some thoughtless pig (as Alec Baldwin might have put it) tried changing lanes through another car.

I can't quite be sure who was at fault, since I wasn't watching the initial collision. I heard the crunch and looked over, just in time to see the hit car veer off to the left and smashed into a parked van...which I happened to be right next to. Nobody was hurt...but holy fuck was it loud.

Not just the wreck, either--the driver who smashed the van could easily have a career playing the obligatory "Sassy Black Woman" in Michael Bay movies. I could still hear her hollering from a couple hundred yards away.

Yeah, I didn't stick around to talk to the police. Why would I? I didn't see the first accident, so I couldn't definitively say how it came about. And there were no injuries, so no need for me to help with first aid--which I would have done without hesitation. Also, Sassy and her equally angry husband...honestly, I didn't want to deal with their screaming and bullying.

Other than that...not too much has happened. I did host a small party for my sister and her friends over the weekend; that was a lot of fun. They're nice folks, and my wife gets along with them quite famously. I think we'll be hosting another one of those get-togethers relatively soon.

More to come!

Finishing Week 1

Evening, ghosts and ghouls. I figured it'd be good to drop in here, make a note or two, just so that my handful of readers will know that this blog project did not meet its doom on January 1st.

No, I'll continue writing, ranting, and what-have-you...it will just be less once a day, and more once a week, or perhaps twice.

So how has Week One of 2009 gone? Quite well. It's been a week of work, camaraderie, and family socializing. Today, for instance, I worked on a children's book, helped my brother pick out a tuxedo for his upcoming wedding, met he and my sister for All-You-Can-Eat Wing Night at Quaker Steak & Lube, and enjoyed Game Night at the Squirrel Cage with my wife and our friend John.

For those interested, the Wing Endeavor tallied like this: 31 wings in four servings, capped by a final five super-hot ones that made tears stream down my face, and caused the server to ask if I was all right. Who has two thumbs and is totally awesome? This guy...

The Cage was fun, as far as the company went, but I must say I was disappointed in the general experience. For all their bitching and complaining about the 10% Onorato tax--they even have headshots of its legislative supporters posted, with an encouragement not to serve them--the Cage sure seems to have taken advantage. In the 19 months since I was last there, our standard preferred beverages have jumped not 10%, but closer to 30%. We used to say, my wife and I, "God damn, we drank too much at the Cage last night...we spent $30!" That included food, mind you. Now, for 3 people, eight (not-so-strong) drinks, it was $31 before tip.

Bullshit on you, Squirrel Cage. Bullshit. On. You.

Anyway, I reek of secondhand smoke--it is time to retire.

Resolute

With this entry, I meet my New Year's Resolution to write one entry for every day of the year. (Though, admittedly, I did not accomplish this by blogging every single day.)

So what have I learned? What has changed from Dec. 31, 2007 to Dec. 31, 2008?

Well, I learned that I was not a Hollywood Person. Or to put it another way, I learned that the thing I am trained to do, I will be unable to do. That was a tough pill to swallow. Some have told me I'm brave for deciding to walk away from L.A., once I realized that I could not have a complete life there. Most said I made the right choice, and at my core I believe that I did.

That said, it is damn hard some days to wake up and not feel like a loser and a fool. Like it was not a triumph to choose my life over my career, but a copout. Like I took a test, and failed it.

Still, those kind of days are growing fewer and farther between.

I don't intend to get overly reflective, because I'm in a good mood and I'd like to stay that way, and also because it's time for me to walk downtown with my kind and caring wife, to enjoy various festivities. So here's my summation for the year oh-eight:

I am happy to be back here in my true home. I am happy that my family is healthy and strong, and that my wife and I are still madly in love. I am happy to have the job I have, and to potentially get the chance to make a difference in the lives of many kids.

As I crest the hill into 2009, I am lucky to be where I am.

The Final Day

So I'm sitting here, having just dropped about 9 pounds of rock salt on the sidewalk, porch, stairs and driveway, having rolled up my soaked-ass pant cuffs, having just had my final breakfast of the year with my wonderful wife at Bloomfield Sandwich Shop.

The breakfast sandwich was delicious, as always, if a bit overdue. I'm not sure how long it took from order to serve, precisely, but I did listen to about 11 tracks of David Bowie's Low album while I waited. They play CDs in a DVD player that's hooked up to a TV in the shop, which acts as their PA system.

I'm watching a mid-season episode of The Wire, a scene set in an NA meeting, and I think I just heard the best monologue about addiction my ears have had the fortune to pick up. So I'm shutting down my distractions and rewatching it. Expect a year-end sum-up later today.

One Final Evening

First off: Happy Birthday, Vinnie! I'll take you out for some drinks when you get back to town next week.

Second off: I just got back from Harrisburg two hours ago.

It was an interesting service...partly because through the whole first 1/3 of the thing, there was Christmas music playing over everything. It must have been automated, an on-the-hour sort of thing, because nobody in the church made an effort to shut it off.

Then, the priest was half unintelligible. Folks knew what to do, since the ceremonial stuff is pretty rigid, but his sermon, or homily, or whatever--I could barely make out half the things the guy said.

It was good to see everyone, though. I enjoyed catching up, finding out what my cousin Jessica and others are up to. It was also pretty neat to see all the collected news clippings from my Uncle Ed's time on the force.

My little cousin Merrill is coming to live with my parents, as of tomorrow. There he'll be joining his mom, and his brother Nelson...it's a full house once again. Merrill's 11, starting 2nd semester at the same middle school I went to. I'm going to be helping my sister and my dad tutor him, get him caught up and ready to go with the flow.

That's all she wrote for today, I think. Time to greet my wife, as she gets ready for her one day off this week.

The Wind-Up

So I'm up, dressed, fed, and waiting to be picked up for my ride to Harrisburg. I've even got a plan for some hand drafting of the new kids' book. Hopefully, I have fully overcome the car sickness I used to get whenever I tried to focus on written text. I think I have, but one never knows what sort of sensory memory will get stirred by a ride in the parents' Crown Vic.

I wonder who I'll see at the funeral; my aunt Camille, of course. Uncle Joe? Probably a lot of folks I've never met before off Uncle Ed's family. I'm not sure what to expect. Now that I run through the catalog, I've never been to a service without a body.

Goddammit. I've had weeks to mentally prepare for this thing. Why am I still unready to go?

Five to Go

This, according to Blogger, is entry number 362 for the year 2008. I just might pull it off!

Anyhow, it looks like the New Year's Eve plans are beginning to take form. My wife and I will be attending First Night downtown with some friends, and taking in the many sights and sounds there. (Smells, too, probably.) One thing I'm excited to catch is the show performed by Bricolage. I know one of the founders there, and I'm looking forward to seeing him again.

There's also the music, which should be quite entertaining. I guess things run all the way to midnight, at which point we'll figure out our energy level. I got invited to a wee-hours New Years breakfast that starts at 2am, which I don't know for certain whether we'll be able to attend. My wife works on the 1st, and also the 2nd, 3rd and 4th, so she is the play caller.

But mmm, 2am mimosas and breakfast goods sure sounds like a good start to a promising new year...right, honey...darling? Wink wink?

Fistfight with Boredom

It's been a relatively dull Monday, all work with very little play. I've been playing holiday catch-up (as well as funeral day jump-ahead) since 8:30 this morning, with a break for lunch and another episode of The Wire. I haven't been into a show so deeply in quite a while...definitely not since The Sopranos. When are you making another one of these, HBO? Get on it, or you're canceled!

Tonight I'll watch another one, and continue inching myself toward the necessity of purchasing Season 2. I wish my wife was more interested in the show, but on the plus side, I'm not obligated to wait when I want to watch it. I just have to limit myself to no more than one episode per day.

...Or two.

At any rate, the day's been successful as far as the work crunch goes. Tomorrow, I'm going to try and write a children's book I've been letting percolate for the last month or so, while I ride in the car to Harrisburg and back. My folks volunteered to let me carpool out there with them, which keeps 400 miles off my odometer. Bully for that.

This entry is circling the creative drain, so I think I'll get back to business till my wife returns.

The Wire

"You can't even call this shit a war. Wars end."

One episode down, I am hooked on The Wire, most definitely. How on Earth did I only become aware of this show when it was almost through its run.


The show had a lot of OZ alums in the cast, which naturally made me think about that show, HBO's first foray into hour-long drama. This is the kind of show that I think OZ aspired to be, before it fell into an almost self-parodic style by the end. It uses the elements that are made available by being on a cable network, not gratuitously, but only for verisimilitude.

Anyhow, since there's likely little I can add to the volumes written by the show, I'll make my review brief.

From the opening scene through the opening credits, it's a master class in setting tone. With its terrific dialogue that's quirky, yet real, its bopping theme song, and documentary cinematography, you're immersed in seconds. The show holds you pretty tight the rest of the way, and I find myself practically drooling for a second dose.

Unfortunately, it's bed time. Night!

An Egregious Omission

While writing about Christmas presents and surprises, I could feel that I was skipping something, something big. I realized this evening what I'd neglected to mention. Not only was it in keeping with the "Christmas surprise" theme--but it should have been at the very top of my list.

It turns out that the biggest surprise was not for my wife after all...but for me. You see, I'd had a vague idea of everything I was to receive; not that it made any gift any less satisfying, but I'd made suggestions. I'd known that the vast majority of my gifts would come from that list. And just about all of them did.

Save one.

All through the month, my wife had been making a scrapbook for my sister, which chronicled the three weeks, spread over two trips, where she'd stayed with us in Burbank. All sorts of little moments made the book--the time my sister dropped a meatball in my wife's purse in San Fransisco (and we took a photo, because that's the kind of classy we are); the time those graying alpha-males held court about their penile function troubles on the train from Santa Barbara; the panda fight we witnessed at San Diego Zoo; the night I drank Wild Turkey and they got me to wear some green face mask stuff with them (wouldn't you love to see that gem?). At any rate, it was an incredibly thoughtful, painstakingly made gift, and I was truly glad to see my wife taking all the time for my (and now, her) sister.

Never did I suspect that she was making a similar gift for me the entire time--a scrapbook of our honeymoon in Italy. No one's ever made me such a present, and it really made my Christmas to get it.

And to think, all those times my wife was trying to hustle me out of the house so she could take my scrapbook out of hiding and toil away...I just thought she didn't want me around!

I'm kicking myself for neglecting to give it a prime spot in my Christmas sum-up. But still...I do need entries, with the clock rapidly winding down on 2008.

Anyway, I just thought I'd let y'all know that I pretty much have the best wife in human history.

The Education of the Cleveland Browns

Down, Cleveland! Down!

They might have knocked our QB out cold, but we took their whole team apart at the joints.

I think last week we were playing with complacence. This week, we were determined not to go down like a bunch of punks.

I'd have like to see Troy in on more plays; for instance, it would have been nice if he'd been the one to pick off either of those INTs. But I'll happily take 'em either way. Really, I think I wanted him on screen more often so I could demonstrate to my little cousin Nelson, "See? That's the dude whose jersey you're wearing. 4-3."

How nice it was to watch a game where no nails had to be bitten (discounting that fifteen minutes where it looked like Ben might well be dead). Even if we were playing a punching bag, rather than a true contender, we looked sharp and ready for the playoffs. A hell of a lot more ready than we looked last week, for certain.

This 1st round bye now feels earned. A 12-4 finish, with a healthy blowout cherry on top. We're going to make Tennessee pay when we see 'em next.

The Final 10

Only ten entries left to meet my resolution, so here we are.

I'm pretty psyched about digging into the first season of The Wire, which my folks gave me for Christmas. I'm also looking forward to sharing Network with my wife, who's never seen the flick.

The best surprises of the day were for her, I think. First, my sister gave her a ticket to tomorrow's Steelers game, courtesy of my mom's boss. And second, I got us a pair of tickets to a Penguins game next month. Hopefully...they'll play a little better than they did tonight, goddammit!

Not to mention a damn sight better than when I saw 'em last week! We've got almost the exact same seats as my sister and I did at that game; we were in the second row behind the goal then; Row B, seats 7 & 8. My y wife and I will be in the very first row, right against the glass--also in seats 7 & 8, incidentally.

We'll have fun either way, I think. It's prime fight territory, for one. Fights tend to happen more often around the goal because players are protective of their goalies, and if there is any perceived fucking-with, it's time for hard shoving, glove dropping, fist flying fun.

Also, there's a camera directly above our seats--it is used for an angle that's frequently used during hockey telecasts, and my wife hates with a passion. And understandably so; the angle destroys any depth perception, is a bit disorienting, and makes it very difficult to follow the progress of the game. Anyhow. I learned during my last game that when a player gets smashed into the boards, this ire-inspiring shitty-angle camera gets knocked off track and spun like a top. I think my wife'll like that.

Only four days left in '08!

Zuppa

Today, my Uncle Jack cooked for the family a dish called zuppa di pesce, which is basically a blend of various seafood served over linguine.

I picked up the seafood myself at Wholey's near the house, which included squid, clams, shrimp and scallops. Quite scrumptious.

However, I have eaten entirely too much, and am slipping into a food coma. Hopefully, I will snap out of it in time for the Penguins game this evening.

The Day After

I spent a pretty excellent day with the family, and followed it up with near-perfect evening listening to the sounds of local band, Omega Love.

I say "near-perfect", not due to any problems of sound or song...but problems of smell. It had been rainy out all afternoon, and the girl next to us must have dipped her Converse All-Stars in a flooding gutter, because her feet goddamn reeked.

This was more than swamp foot. It was like...the smell you might encounter when you're cleaning your pool filter for the first time after a two week heat wave, and you find that a rat had broken its neck in there 10 days ago or so. My nostrils, it did offend.

Other than that, the show was awesome. My friends Ben and C.J. joined us, and I ran into several kindly folks that I knew. That's something I like about Pittsburgh. Almost everywhere I go, I know one person, or maybe several.

Anyhow, tomorrow is zuppa di pesce day, so I must retire and get my beauty winks.

Puns at the End of the World

Even though it's Christmas, I thought I'd take a few moments to remind you that Bush is still in office for another four weeks, which is plenty of time to drop a thumb on that nuclear button.

Because Bush is that kind of man, I imagine that he's got a few choice lines prepared for the occasion.

Lines of dialogue--not toot, or whatever.

If he does have something prepared for whenever he drops the big one, I can assure you that they are 1980s-action-movie-style one-liners. Puns, and the like. Such as:

I'm-a nuke you like a Hot Pocket.

Put up your nukes and fight!

Let's pick a tune off the nuke-box.

Let me play you a song on my...nuke-ulele.

Nuke-ya-later, alligator!

This is what happens when I do not sleep enough.*


That's not a pun; that's just me talking. Though, I can actually imagine Bush kicking off a nuclear war that way, too.

An Ode to Harold Pinter

Harold Pinter dies at 78.
Harold Pinter writes The Birthday Party and other major plays.
(Pause)
Harold Pinter is born October 10, 1930.
Harold Pinter wins the Nobel Prize, using the opportunity to denounce Bush and Blair for the Iraq War.
(Pause)

Merry Christmas!

My wife and I, after gorging ourselves on Ukrainian dishes and other assorted goodies at her parents' place, traveled to my folks' and stayed the night.

This morning, we got up at 7am to watch my 3-year-old cousin, Nelson, open his presents from Santa. What a thrill it is to see that kid completely overjoyed. He's incredibly photogenic, too, so I got a bunch of nice snaps that we can embarrass him with when he is a teenager bringing a date over for the first time, or something like that.

My wife is at work from 10-6, at which point we'll do the rest of the family's gifts. (We have more for Nelson, too, including a Troy Polamalu jersey for him to go with the football he got this morning.*) Though, to get her through the day, my sister and my wife traded one present each--a painstakingly crafted scrapbook for my sister, chronicling her two visits to California, and a ticket to Sunday's Steelers game for my wife. (That's to balance that I took Angela to the hockey game while she was at work. It was very difficult not to tell my wife in advance!)

Anyhow, I am stuffed full of breakfast, and ready for a shower. Nuk-u-later!


* I can write this, because Nelson is only just beginning to learn to read, so I will not be spoiling the surprise.

Snapfish = Dirty Fucking Liars

So, I've been waiting here all day for an order from Snapfish, a very quality printing service that does all our digital photos, and various other fun items. I have been waiting for this order, because I have called them three times in the past three days, and each time gotten their assurance that the package would be here today.

I called once on Monday; "It'll be here, I assure you!"

I called once on Tuesday--this time, because on the day before delivery, the order was showing "Printed", rather than "Sent", on their website. This time, the guy says, "Oh, it is only showing printed due to a computer glitch. It is on its way, and you can expect it at your door tomorrow. I do not have a tracking number at this time, I am sorry."

I called once this goddamn morning! I was told, "It has shipped, but due to the rush order we put on it, I do not have a tracking number from FedEx. It will arrive at some point today."

So I've been waiting. Three hours, it's been, since my wife left for her folks' place. And then I wonder...can FedEx tell me any info if I don't have a tracking number? Maybe I can find out if the package is on the ground, or in flight still, or something.

After twenty minutes on hold, I get through to a FedEx operator, who, using my address and zip code, can dish the details! But wait...the order hasn't left the Snapfish warehouse. They had a shipping label printed, which is on file, but Snapfish never scheduled a pick-up of my shipment! It's still across the country in...you fucking guessed it.

California!

So, basically, I was lied to, twice, and given flimsy, false explanations as to why I couldn't verify their lie through the normal channels.

I call a supervisor. She, of course, is obsequious. She, of course, has no explanations as to why I was given made up information the last two times I called. She, of course, assures me--they're so assuring over there!--that lying to customers is not company policy, and it will be looked into. She, of course, is utterly useless.

At least I get to leave the damn house now!

Counting Down

My wife has already gone to her parents' place, taking with her the borscht, the pierogies, the cookie dough, the presents. I am here alone in the house, left with the oh-so-thrilling task of...waiting for the mail to come.

I don't even have a tracking number to verify that the materials are arriving today; only the sending company's assurances that it was shipped overnight last night, and that "I can expect it". Apparently--and I'm not sure if I buy this--the company doesn't get tracking numbers from FedEx when it's a rush job such as this.

We will see. I just don't want to be stuck here, missing dinner, waiting all the while for some non-existent truck.

I've actually already gotten a delivery from FedEx today; my complimentary copies of books 6, 7 & 8 in my kids' book series came. That FedEx guy said that there can potentially be several deliveries in a day, depending on the "shipping track". The one I got was FedEx ground, so I hope he wasn't shitting me...like, say, Best Buy.

I was supposed to have another package coming from Best Buy today...a DVD. I ordered it back on Saturday, 2-Day Air shipping. Apparently, it was just too tough a job, to get a single DVD from a warehouse in New Jersey, four hundred miles to Pittsburgh, in 4 days. They did refund me the shipping costs--but I'd gotten a discount on the shipping in the first place, so it was about $2. Since that gift is missing Christmas anyway, I'm considering just returning it on principle and getting something else.

Ahh, the gestures of the rageful and impotent.

Man on Fire

Is it just me, or is watching Dick Cheney in action this past week or so kind of awesome?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not meaning awesome as in, pizza is awesome; I mean awesome in the way that an angel with a sword that shoots holy fire might be awesome. Leaving one awe-struck, you know?

We are watching a man who has no regard for the institutions in which he is immersed, no regard for the people around him, no regard for much of anything--and he's having his coming out party. Giving more interviews than we've gotten from him in practically his entire tenure, sharing information, letting people in on just what it is he's been up to, as "The Man Behind the Curtain"...

What a sociopath! He's a fascinating person to me--he's got no future aims after office, which means he can do and say anything he wants. He's like an evil, real-life Bulworth.

I really hope that in the next few weeks, he'll say some truly incriminating shit. I have a feeling it's coming--he danced pretty close recently with the Valerie Plame stuff. I think he'll do it, maybe to flaunt, but maybe also to force Bush into a position where he gives Cheney a pre-emptive pardon, thus preventing the next administration from taking action.

Either way, he seems as though he's gone off the reservation, like some belligerent grandfather. Maybe like your belligerent grandfather. By the way, couldn't you at least have sent him a card? It's Christmas Eve, for fuck's sake.

Oglebay

After my cooking adventures/injuries, my wife and I took a drive to Oglebay, which is a small community near Wheeling, WV. There, they have a massive, spread-out Festival of Lights display with all sorts of Christmas-y stuff.

My wife used to go there every year when she was younger, but due to various circumstances hadn't been in about a decade. I used to go during high school myself, but it's been something like eight years for me. She had been especially excited to see the outdoor zoo--more specifically the reindeer.

However, it turns out that the little zoo at Oglebay no longer features reindeer. Why? Because, apparently, reindeer, when they are cooped up, tend to get something called chronic wasting disease. So now it's either illegal to keep them, or Oglebay just doesn't want to deal with it; that part wasn't clear.

In the end, it was still quite enjoyable way to spend a couple hours, and now it's time for...

More cooking!

Cooking: The Revenge

One stick of butter fried.
Two onions diced and sauteed.
Three pounds of sauerkraut boiled.
Twelve slices of cheese melted.
Sixteen potatoes peeled.

One finger peeled as well.

After my borscht exploits, I was feeling extra motivated, so I decided to make the filling for 12 dozen pierogies (these being in addition to the ones made earlier this month). And...I managed to mangle my pointer finger. My judging finger. Ahh well, my wife is hurrying me, so I'll leave it there.

More Christmas Cookin'

Right now, I'm simmering the potatoes for some homemade borscht, which will be served at a Ukrainian Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow night. Aside from the pierogie assistance, this is my way of stepping up, since my wife's mum got injured and can't help quite as much with preparations this year.

Many people, like with my wife's prune pierogies, are turned off when they hear the word "borscht"--they think beet broth, maybe a dollop of sour cream in the middle of it--but it's actually a really delicious dish, when prepared properly.

It's also, like most soups, quite time consuming to prepare from scratch. I cut the vegetables previously, which saved me quite a bit of time today, but still, there's the sauteed beets and onions, the potatoes, the stock, and then 90 minutes of simmering on top of it.

But when you're done, you've got this scrumptious, iridescent pink soup--more like a stew, really...it's a lot heartier than you might expect.

Anyway, the timer just went off, better check those potatoes again. Cheers!

On A Lighter Note

So I've covered the frustration o' the day. On the bright side:

More stuff from Barnes and Noble arrived in the mail today! Including the DVD they forgot to include in a previous shipment. Which means: a major corporation took me at my word, acknowledged that they'd made a mistake, and corrected it at no extra cost to me.

Cue the angel trumpets and seraphim! Jesus Herbert Walker Christ!

There are only a few things left to arrive, and they're all on time. Which goes to show--as long as it doesn't go through California, there's a chance the system will work.

Concentrated Rage Extract

Okay, collections agency tools. You fucking chimp man-children. Seriously. It's been 10 days since the Avalon Communities slumlords filed to cancel their claim against my wife and me. But when I call today to confirm that you rancid dingleberries had actually processed the cancellation, some new schmuck I've never spoken to tells me to "call back Monday". So all I want to know is:

What fucking Mafia don do I have to blow in order to get you to do your goddamn job?

I'm not even kidding. A two and a half week turn around to process a single fucking fax? How long did it take for you to realize you have to lift the toilet lid before you take a shit?

People like you make me wish that someone would pull a Lex Luthor and turn Nevada into oceanfront property.

Morning Afta'

Good lord. I can't believe I used the word "shan't" last night.

Anyhow. It's cold. So cold it gives you a stutter cold. I mean dippin'-your-balls-in-ice-water cold today. But, since I overslept, I have to go pick up the car from my wife's work, which is 4.5 miles away. Time to bundle the hell UP!

On the plus side, perhaps the 30mph winds will blow that disgusting smoke smell out of my scarf. One forgets how terrible cigarettes smell, after seventeen months in a state where smokers are treated with the same regard as pedophiles.

(Howlers, the bar I was at last night, is one of the few places left in town where you can smoke indoors--to the great delight of Hipsters large and small.)

By the way, note to fat hipsters: stop it. You can be one, or the other, but not both. It just doesn't work that way. Hot Topic has, once again, led you astray. So put down that cup o' ranch, and make a damn choice. One...or the other.

It's a fork! You should like that.

Obligatory Entry

I shan't keep this long, as I've imbibed many intoxicants over the course of the evening.

However, I must update, as there are precious few days left, and many entries to write for this foolish 1-day-1-entry endeavour.

This evening, I went to the club "Howlers", where my friend Brandon's band played in honor of Festivus. (I realize that Festivus is not for a couple days; I guess the venue called the shots on this one.)

I had hoped my wife could join me, but despite my efforts at wrapping up a number of Christmas-related tasks today, she still had a lot to take care of this evening. So, I ventured through the single-digit frigid-tude by my lonesome, where I got to hear three pretty fun bands.

I got to catch up with Brandon, as well as his bandmate Ian, whose wife I also met. Hopefully, I can introduce my wife to this couple soon.

This entry has no point, and I offer my apologies. But this is what happens when I drink too much Hennessy and beer.

A Sixty Minute Blow Job.

That is, 60 minutes of blown coverage, blown offensive plays, and gutless kick returns.

The Steelers did not play like a playoff-ready team today. We gave up 21 points off turnovers, gave up 300 yards of offense for the first time this year, gave up four sacks to a damn rookie!

Ben made a lot of mistakes he doesn't very often make...two interceptions, okay, that we've seen. But, I mean, four fumbles on top of that? Sure, we only lost two of them...but the two we kept were on crucial third downs. It was like Ben saved up mistakes over the past five weeks and cashed them all in today.

And the "run" game? That was worth a chuckle. Willie got taken for not 1, not 2, not 3, not 4, but 5-yard losses, what, three or four times? Mewelde Moore got on three carries what it took Willie 18 carries to reach. Who is the starter again?

They had our number from minute one. And the Titans spent the final minutes literally stamping Terrible Towels in the mud.

In the end, this was not a make-or-break game. We'll still be playing games at home, we still won our division. It just means that in a few weeks, if the Titans do what I expect, we'll be facing them again. And that game will be make-or-break. We'd better man up by then and get fuckin' ready.

An Inappropriate Thought

I was walking down Craig St. towards the Supercuts in Oakland a few days ago. I used to go there when I was in school, and now that I'm back, it's just another place I'm picking up where I left off.

Anyhow, I'm walking down Craig, spying in the shop windows as I pass by, when in one window, I spot an engraved chunk of rock. The engraving reads:

9/11/01
LET'S ROLL!
And all I can think is, "Wouldn't that be a great thing to put on a bowling ball?"

If there's a hell, I'll try and let you all know.

Penguin Post-mortem

So the game was a blowout in the wrong direction. So we were outshot something like, 500 to 6. So Fleury flopped around like a wall-eyed fish out there. So the defense was subpar and the offense more timid than a 7th grader unsnapping his first damn bra. So what?

The game was a lot of fun. And though we lost in every way measured by statisticians, we did win a lot of the fist fights. And a lot of the fist fights went down on my end of the ice--thanks, guys! I only wish my camera had snapped its shutter quickly enough to catch some of the bloody action.

It's more fun when you win, sure...but there was pleasure to be had, if you could simply ignore the big picture.

Workin' in a Coal Mine

Actually, working in my house...but what the hell, it's Saturday. I don't have to be particularly clever.

Good news! I got a pair of tickets to the Penguins game tonight! My wife is working, so I'm taking my sister. All I have to do is walk over to Wilkinsburg, where the tickets await. Hooray! I'll just call it a particularly long lunch break.

Mushy Blog

Note: this entry is 100% cynicism-free. So, if you're looking for the usual bitterness and barely-concealed rage, perhaps just skip this entry for now.

I'm sitting in the living room while my wife wraps presents in the other room, singing along to Christmas tunes, and I find myself overwhelmed with feeling. I am madly in love with this woman, all-consuming love with her...and I still don't know what I've done to deserve it. I wonder about this sometimes; a guy who gets a love like this--where it's living, breathing, perfect--well, isn't he obligated to do great things? To truly earn this cosmic connection...I mean, he's got to change the world or something, doesn't he?

This feeling runs completely contrary to my personal belief system, which is basically entropic and karma-free...but it lingers nonetheless. I feel like I've got to pay back the gift I've been given. To whom? Who knows. Leave it to the philosophers.

Better yet, don't. Instead, I offer this:

My wife is my perfect counterpart; my total match and equal; and if the soul exists, then she is my soulmate. We have, against all odds, found--and then kept!--each other. This makes me happier than I can express in language, and luckier than numbers can quantify. I love you, sweetheart!

Shameless Self-Plug

Wow, now that I look at that in print, that line above reads more like a sex toy than a title.

Buy it now! The new Shameless Self-Plug. For the special times, when a normal plug simply isn't debased enough.

But really--I just thought I'd mention that my new books are on sale at the online store:

Little Lincoln Store

The new books are: Don't Fear the Doctor, Mind Your Manners, and A Healthy Pace...which is a health-focused takeoff on Aesop's The Tortoise and the Hare. They're pretty solid, if I do say so myself, and they're educational, to boot.

I'm damn proud of the work I'm doing--I really wouldn't promote it in every venue known to digital man if I didn't think it was top-notch. Like, for instance, I did this video for a Catholic Church in Mercer, and I got paid good money--but I didn't tell a damned soul about it (no pun intended). I did a video once for some shitball online reality-TV-star-worship site, and got paid a healthy sum...but did I tell you to check the video? Hell no!

So really, if you've got a kid in your life, floating around somewhere in the ether, send 'em a damn book. If you know someone who has kids in their life, then send 'em to the damn site and let 'em buy a damn book...Dammit!

(end self promotion)

Lunch Break

As I sit in my living room on my lunch break, eating a frozen microwave pizza that tastes kind of like posterboard that had a sausage smeared on it, I thought I'd take a moment to write.

JCVD...ruled! It was really well made, despite Z-Grade production values. It took a number of artistic chances, and they in large part worked. I'd have liked to know a little more about the hostage takers, even though the movie wasn't really about them.

The film did have a good deal to say about the love/hate relationship average people have with celebrity, and some to say about the subject himself. In fact, there's a point late in the film where Van Damme does a long, direct-to-the-camera, one-take monologue that's truly moving. A portrait of a broken man who doesn't understand why he deserves his fame. He's not afraid to show emotion, and not afraid to be humiliated in the film. (At least he didn't let the fear get in the way.)

I highly recommend the film, for its time-jumping narrative, for its New Wave-style epigrams, the monologue, and even the opening film-in-a-film action sequence, where Van Damme shows he's still got the goods, even if no one is taking advantage, and especially for the ending, which is lovely and understated.

It's out of the theaters in Pittsburgh, as of today, so I guess you'll have to rent it. Or buy it! Van Damme needs the mon-ay.

Completion!

All hail the king of Christmas cards, for he has completed his yearly task!

Strange Dream

I had my nuttiest dream in a few months last night. Here's what went down:

It all started at a holiday party for my company. As I've noted, many of the women on my team are currently pregnant; in the dream, they'd all given birth and were toting infants. Anyway, one of my co-workers--I think it wound up being her in particular because I'd recently looked at her Facebook profile in order to find her husband's name for their Christmas card--so my co-worker hands me her baby, who has just shit himself. Apparently, I've drawn the short straw in some holiday game, and it's up to me to go and change the baby. Which is perfect, actually, because I needed an excuse to slip out quietly. Because this night...

Is the night that I'm supposed to rig the Emmy awards. Yeah. (I'm supposed to rig a few categories for HBO, in case you were wondering.) So I carry the baby into the headquarters of the Emmy people. It's a really swanky building full of people in suits, but fortunately for me, in one of those perfect dream jumpcuts, I've somehow changed from wearing a Christmas sweater to a suit. The kid's still in his onesie.

The Emmy people, in the dream, have a vault in which they keep all the winner cards, in envelopes, until the ceremony. It's only accessible through the uncrackable vault door...and through a ventilation shaft that's only accessible from a high-security bathroom, that has a "pass phrase". (Everyone who has watched too many bad espionage films, step forward. What, just me?)

The actual "pass phrase", I can't recall, but I do remember that I had to type it into a Blackberry-style keyboard, it was about three or four words long, and it was about a person, who has an object with him. (This is important later.)

I enter the bathroom, and it's empty! But not for long. Just before I can open the vent that's above a bathroom stall, someone enters. A very tall, shark-like man in a suit, a stockbroker type. I duck into the stall. More very tall men enter, much like the first. They're crudely chatting it up about work and their secretaries and such, growing in number until soon, it's bustling like a high school bathroom between classes.

And I notice that I'm taking up the only stall in the whole place. Me and my baby.

Some of these very tall men, they start to notice too. And they can see over the stall, if they want to find out who's in there. I sit myself on the stall, hide the baby in a handbag--yes, I know that's unsafe--and scramble for an idea. How can I dissuade these giants from looking over the stall's edge and discovering me?

So, I wet my lips, and make a slurpy, realistic farting sound. I can hear some stifled giggling outside the stall. Then the room starts to return to its normal ambient volume. I continue to rip mouth-farts of varying pitch and timber, and soon, the guys in the room are laughing and literally cheering me on! The baby, thankfully, has remained silent.

The men start to file out, wishing me good luck through the stall wall, and then something that stops my heart happens. One of the giants looks in over the top of the stall to see who I am. But instead of recognizing me for an outsider, he reaches over the top of the stall, down into where I'm sitting, and offers his hand to shake. As we shake hands, he says to me, "I need a shitter like you on my team. How'd you like to come work on my floor?" We set up a meeting for later in the week.

After all this, I'm kind of disoriented--but I leave the baby in the bag, climb the vent, enter the vault, change some names in winner envelopes, and I'm back to the bathroom in no time. I rush out of the bathroom, having completed my switcheroo...but then I freeze.

I left the fucking baby in the bathroom! I turn right back around and start to type the "pass phrase" to re-enter. But suddenly it's like I've been drugged. My fingers are going for the keyboard like I'm moving through deep water. And I can't hit the right letters. I have to try five, six times. The baby starts to cry inside. If I enter incorrectly one more time, though, the alarm sounds, the police come, and I'm fucked. I try to really concentrate...but I enter the pass phrase incorrectly anyway. But no alarm! No, the machine gives me a second chance. It asks me, "Was the passcode about a person, or a thing?"

I know this! I distinctly remember the thing in the passcode. I answer "thing". But wrong! The passcode was actually about a person, who happened to be carrying a thing. The silent alarm triggers. I quickly walk out of the building, carefully avoiding any security personel, and escape outside. Job complete, I dash off.

So I've completed my mission and escaped the authorities...but how I will explain losing my co-worker's baby?

End dream.

What the hell, people?

Presents

Much of the remainder of today was devoted to Christmas/holiday activities. A great deal of fun was had, hanging with my sister in the Strip, but after she was gone...crack of the whip and back to work. Things addressed/solved:

It turns out, after closer inspection of the shipment I received, that Barnes and Noble somehow forgot to include an item I paid them for. This wasn't a malicious thing--they're no Avalon, lemme tell you--but one of those simple errors that go up in volume during the holiday time. The whole thing was remedied with a single phone call, no arguing or anything--and a replacement item is en route from a warehouse as we speak.

I designed a present for a family member, and that's the best I can do, detail-wise. It took a lot of time, but I think it turned out very well. We'll see how they feel about it in a week.

I devoted my final two waking hours to card writing. After this evening's session, I'm down to the final 25 cards. I think I can get all of them out tomorrow, which means that they'll arrive close to, but not before, Christmas. Which won't matter much to my non-Christian friends, but hey, it beats a kick in the teeth, right?

Which is what you'll get if you complain!

Elitist Coffee

Blue collar, Dunkin' Donuts guys. Effete, Starbucks latte liberals. Bullshit manufactured to anger people who don't pay enough attention.

All through the primaries and the presidential campaign, we had this coffee narrative snaking its way through the Democratic race, and then the general. This concept that liberals drink fancy, elitist Starbucks lattes, while "real" Americans drink dark, cheap, Dunkin' Donuts coffee.

First of all, this narrative's completely manufactured because it ignores the fact that Dunkin sells lattes, that go for the relative same price as Starbucks; in fact, Dunkin is actively promoting their Dunko-lattes, or whatever they're called. Second, when it comes to straight coffee, Starbucks and Dunkin are also almost equally priced. I think Starbucks pulls ahead by 20 cents, or something negligible.

(One might argue that 20 cents a day is not negligible to some--after all, it does come out to a $73 if one goes daily for a whole year. But I say, if $73 over the course of a year is going to break your bank, you probably oughtn't be buying coffee every day anyway--you should brew the stuff yourself and invest in a goddamn thermos.)

Anyhow; I think the elitist equation's flipped all upside down. I say, Dunkin' Donuts drinkers are the elitists. Why? Because there are less Dunkin' Donuts locations than there are Starbucks. And the coffee is better in quality. So, Dunkin' Donuts drinkers prefer a rarified, top-shelf product, as opposed to the on-every-street-corner sludge peddled by Starbucks. So, fuck you, Dunkin Donuts Joes, you elitist pricks.

Thank you.


By the by, I really do prefer Dunkin Donuts...but I've always been an elitist.

Morning Travails

I'm having my sister over so that she, my wife and I can go shopping down in the Strip District.

I'm starting to feel like the old me again--eager to share cool places and experiences with friends and family, ready to take a little time to engage in frivolity. I had started to lose those qualities in Los Angeles, and it's good to feel enthused about something again.

Since it's a weekday, things won't have quite the same bustle as they do on our usual Strip day, which is Saturday. Still, the shops will be open, and even if Enrico's doesn't serve their kickass quiche on weekdays, they've got their flagship biscotti, and Mancini's still gives bread samples.

I'm not entirely positive what we'll do in the Strip, but unlike in L.A., I don't feel compelled to micromanage the moment-to-moment. I know we'll have fun, no matter how it comes about.

I do know that I'm taking my wife and sister to this coffeeshop on 21st St that brews coffee by the individual cup, in a space-age, $12K brewer. It's costly coffee--think a latte at Dunkin' Donuts or Starbucks*--but it's goddamned delicious, and the brewing process is pretty neat, too.


* Seeing these two together reminds me of something else--but since I'm behind on posts, that'll have to come in the next entry.

Christmas Carding

I spent a good five hours writing up Christmas and generic "holiday" cards for friends and family. That netted me about 55 cards, a total that seems like it should be bigger.

I did try to be specific in the cards, as many of the people I wrote to are folks I've seen somewhere in the last year or two--mostly at my wedding. But damn, it is time consuming. I think I still have another 50 or so cards to write, plus cards for my wife's friends/family.

Hopefully, I can finish this tomorrow evening, and get everything out by Thursday. That way, they'll all get to their destinations in time for X-Mas.

Holy hell, am I tired all of a sudden...I was going to write more, but I think I'll have to call it quits.

Meetings

I spent the morning in East Liverpool, for the weekly marketing meeting. I don't feel particularly useful in these meetings--my focus is pretty myopic, in the grand scheme, and the product I work on isn't really a big-ticket item.

However, I do enjoy getting out of the Little Lincoln bubble and seeing where things might be headed in the company at large. It's pretty crazy to learn about...but I don't want to talk out of school, so let's just say that if things go well, a couple turns go our way, my company could end up on pretty darned strong footing.

One thing that pleases me about these meetings is that there is talk about what's best for the kids. It's still part of the company's core philosophy--what's best for students is best for the company. No short-cuts; the aim is to put out the best product possible, no matter what. I like knowing that.

Daily Wrap-Up

Let's see...you know how I spent my morning; since then, it's been fairly productive. I've got a handful of possible solutions to my latest children's book conundrum, and I reviewed a bunch of material that I've been sort of putting off. Now, I can do a little me-work, which will focus on a screenplay I want to try and push to the lawyer lady who contacted me recently.

First, though, the weather! WTF, Pittsburgh? It's snowing (cool!), then it melts and it's raining (boo!). Then I get a cold (boo!). Then my wife gets a cold (even more boo!) We start to get better (yay!), and then it's snowing again (boo!). Then it's raining again (guess!).

And, of course, with all these 30-degree weather fluctuations, neither of us gets time to fully recover. Fan-tastico. I know I said I wanted to live in a place with varied weather, but Pittsburgh, old friend, there is such a thing as over-doing it. How about you settle down into a standard wintry groove, eh?

End result being, it's another night of hot soup and tea, plus vitamin C, in the hope that one of us will feel great (or at least 'okay') in the morning. Maybe I'll wear my scarf to bed, just to be extra cautious.

** UPDATE **

It was raining when I started writing. In the time it took me to write this blog, it has cooled down considerably, and now it's snowing. I say again...WTF, mate?

Son of the Bitch!

As you might remember my noting, last week I had to take a lovely, rain-soaked jaunt on down to the office of Equitable Gas on the North Side, in order to prove that I'm not the money-owing pustule on the perineum of society who rented my house previously. After wasting the better part of the afternoon, I had to re-apply for gas service, and schedule an onsite reading of my meter. That meter reading was scheduled for today, between 8am-12pm.

So I wait around, noodling about on work and such, until about 12:15pm, at which point there's still been nary a knock at the door. Duly pissed, I call Equitable up to verify/complain.

Well, it turns out, the woman I spoke to--as befits such as an asshole--was full of shit. There was no need for an on-site, in-the-house meter read, and thus there was no one scheduled to show up.

It would have been nice TO BE NOTIFIED! They had me waiting for four hours, and, just like when I pray...I got nothing!

These schmucks are lucky they're the only game in my neighborhood.

Okay, now that I've worked up a bit of a lather, time to call that collections guy and take a verbal dump on him.

Partly Cloudy, 60% Meatballs

While I was taking a quick lunch break, I had a thought: "I wonder what Mr. T's up to these days?"

I have these thoughts quite often, and my single-minded pursuit of the answers is likely what kept me out of the Ivy Leagues.

Anyway, Mr. T is up to several things. He did that World of Warcraft commercial, which I already knew about. But the thing that got me is...he's lending his voice to a 3D-animated film adaptation of Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs!

!!!

Yes, one of my absolute favorite, gold-standard kids books is coming to the silver screen, voiced by the likes of not only Mr. T, but also Bruce Campbell, James Caan, and Anna Faris. (Plus two of my favorite current SNL cast members, Bill Hader and Andy Samberg.) It'll be out next year. How have I not heard about this?!

I have very fond memories of this book. It goes back to 2nd grade, when I lived in Middletown, NY. If you haven't heard of Middletown, NY, might I suggest Googling "shitholes". Or, you could just listen to the rap group the Smut Peddlers. They name-drop Middletown, New York in their song "One by One"...as the place "where young girls and dogs procreate". I don't have any hard evidence to back up that lyric, aside from some suspicious elementary classmates, but anyway.

I had skipped directly from Kindergarten to 2nd grade, and I was doing well, but my kickass school principal, Mr. Katulak, was still concerned that I might have too much time on my hands, leading me to end up falling in with the wrong kids. So, once or twice a month, he'd have me come to his office, where he'd assign me a new book to read and report on. The very first book in this series was...Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs.

All I can say about the adaptation is...I hope they don't fuck it up with fart jokes and Z-grade humor for the idiot mouth-breathing spawn I see on leashes at the mall.

I ought to spend less time wondering what Mr. T's doing, and more time about what Mr. Katulak's doing.

Steelers Clinch It!

Another week, another game that was closer than it damn needed to be. Still, the Steelers get better as games go on, and they perform generally well in clutch situations, which is more than one can say for a Tony Romo, or other such overrated shitsacks.

We clearly came out the superior defense, making important stops and generally crushing the Ravens, even as our special teams unit spotted them ridiculous yardage at nearly every opportunity.

The offense lay dormant for much of the game, it seemed, until finally coming alive for an 80+ yard TD drive in the final minutes--which was just the right time to do it.

And, we clinched our division! Plus a playoff bye week. The only thing left up for grabs is: will be we #1 in the conference, or #2? That'll be pretty much decided next week, when we face up against the difficult, but not invulnerable, Tennessee Titans.

That'll be one rough pecker of a game.

Perohi

Before the game today, I spent the early afternoon with my wife, her aunt, and her grandmother, making pierogies from scratch. They usually do this with my mother-in-law, but with her being laid up in the rehabilitation center, I volunteered to fill in as best I could.

Quite the labor-intensive endeavor, making pierogies. My wife and I made a limited amount for Christmas when we lived in Los Angeles, but to do it right, it's really a four-person job. One making dough, one preparing the filling and boiling, and two doing the pinching. Once we got going, we made about 9 dozen of the suckers in an hour and a half. Not too bad! There are many more to be made, but it was a decent way to spend an afternoon.

I like labor-intensive, time-consuming cooking projects. I enjoy the process of chopping tomatoes and onions (which is a good thing, because any time my wife needs an onion, I'm the one who has to chop it). You've got to pay attention to your fingers, sure, but there's something about the repetitive action involved in chopping, rolling dough, grating cheese, that allows me to clear my mind of worry for just a little bit. And I really appreciate it.

Which is why I was a perfect fit to fill in at the dough-making station. It's a fairly intuitive process, little to no measuring involved, which is the way I prefer to cook when possible. Cooking in pinches, measuring elasticities, judging textures by touch--take the science out, and your mind is free to roam. What a great way to spend an afternoon!

Dolphins Enjoy Murder

I've been doing a little bit of reading about that lovable and intelligent species, the dolphin. And by "lovable" and "intelligent", I mean "murderous".

Apparently, dolphins have this habit of viciously murdering porpoises. They separate porpoises from their packs, tear their flesh and ram into them to create serious blunt force trauma. Dolphins even use their ultra-sound capabilities to image the vital organs of their targets, in order to deliver more damaging blows.

I haven't even gotten to the most fucked up part. The most fucked part is that their porpoise murder is really just training...so that dolphins can more efficiently kill their own young.

According to marine biologists, it all comes down to fucking. As you might know, dolphins are one of very few species (if not the only, other than humans), who have sex for the sole purpose of pleasure. Everybody else, they're trying to make babies; dolphins do the nasty because it feels freaking awesome. Well...

Female dolphins are unavailable to be sexed up when they've got a kid in tow. So adult male dolphins literally beat the life out of infant dolphins, in order to free their moms up to fuck more. Holy hell!

Learning things like this makes me think and feel a number of things. First off, why the hell are we working so hard to keep these bastards out of our tuna nets? I think porpoises would be pretty pissed to learn about that--we're basically keeping their murderers out on the streets.

Second, it makes me think about news articles I'd like to see eventually. For instance--I'd love to read something about some wealthy Republican guy who was on a pleasure cruise around Halloween. The guy, being on a cruise, decides his costume should be aquatically themed, so he dresses up like a porpoise. Then, after too much brandy, he falls off the boat in costume. At which point, he gets the everloving shit kicked out of him by a dolphin. That would pretty much make my day.

Belated Review

I saw the film Twilight a couple weeks back, so I thought I'd make some (snide) comments about that 2-hour turdling.

Starting with the positive, the actors were actually not bad. They were just working with a vomit draft of a screenplay, which was a pared-down version of a book that never should have made it to print. (Full disclosure: I have not personally read the book, but the excerpts my wife has shared with me aloud give me confidence in writing so.) I mean, seriously, it's a book about vampires, only with everything that makes vampires interesting taken out. At least she didn't write about werewolves and fuck their mythology up too. Oh, wait, that's books 2-4.

All right, I did really intend to start with the positive, but as you can tell, I quickly ran out. Yes, the actors were good with what they got, but the romance is so lamely written that the film should have been titled, "Two Teenagers Looking Lustily At Each Other: The Movie".

So the script blows horses. Let's talk effects! The special effects ranged from B-Movie Funny-Bad, to Stupid-Bad. I know in Hollywood dollars, this movie was made for cheap, but come the fuck on! It was still over $30-mil. I could have done better work rotoscoping in Photoshop. What'd you blow the budget on? That annoying blue filter your D.P. used the whole movie? It couldn't have been on the screenwriter. It couldn't have been on fake blood.

Yeah, a bloodless vampire movie. Genius. Bloodless in every way. And I haven't even gotten to the problems I have with the film, regarding its poorly thought-out abstinence metaphor.

You see, throughout the book series, and this film, Edward's resisting his temptation to drink Bella's blood, which is a metaphor for chastity/abstinence, what-have-you. But at the end of the film, a rival vampire bites Bella, and Edward must take out the "poison" that causes vampirism (stupid, stupid, stupid, but anyway) by sucking out just a *little bit* of Bella's blood.

So what are they trying to say here? There are two options, as far as I'm concerned.

1) If a vampire's bite = boning, then this rival's bite would have to be a rape. In which case, I guess the film is saying: Rape victims can be un-raped? That's probably more an un-thought-out side-effect, rather than a central message. Here's what I think they really meant.

2) There are three films coming after this one, and if the central conflict is Will Edward turn Bella?, then his little nibble at the end didn't count. Which means, if a vampire's bite = boning, but a vampire's nibble ≠ boning, then the message of the film is:

It's not sex if you just stick the head in.

Stephanie Meyer, you're a fucking nincompoop.

Wexford Home

We finally got to visit my wife's mum tonight, which was nice. We got there just in time for the changing of the dressing. Her knee had a perfect line of staples in it (21 of them, to be precise), and aside from the bruising, it looked pretty good. She's not in much pain anymore; also good. I think her positive attitude is helping at least as much everything else.

Now we're home, on the verge of getting snowed in, waiting a pizza and other such artery clogging delights from Pesaro's down the hill. I don't know what it is about bad weather, but every time my wife and I are compelled to order in. No cooking, no microwave dinners--it starts snowing, we've got to have food that's been delivered to our door. What do you call that?

Oh, I know. Bastardry!

Relief

So I get a call last night, while out celebrating my friend Jay's PhD, from the community manager at Avalon. I don't take the call, since I'm enjoying the night, but he leaves a message. A very apologetic message.

He says that the order has been sent to the collection agency to cancel our "account", and they should process the paperwork soon. Sorry, sorry.

Until the paperwork's processed, though, every time I speak with the collection guy assigned to us, the conversation begins with "As I am required to inform you by federal law, this conversation pertains to a debt my agency is currently attempting to collect from you, and anything you say can be used against you, blah-blah-blah I'm-masturbating-my-power-boner." What a thing that guy has with words.

All I've got left to say is...Process away, fuckers, process away.

The Taint That Ate Chicago

Can we please use a new word for the embarrassment Gov. Blagojevich is causing in Illinois and at large? Seriously...taint?

I saw an article from Time that was titled--and I'm not making this up--"Can Obama Escape the Taint of Blagojevich?"

You put it like that, the thing almost sounds like a holy relic. The bones of St. Peter. The elbow of St. Augustine. The taint of Blagojevich.

Picture that one, folks. Can Obama escape it? I hope so; if not, we'll be hearing headlines like this:

Blagojevich's Taint Stretches From Chicago to White House.

That's the kind of thing that makes milk shoot out your nose. And here's the kicker--you're a vegan.

Me, I'd just feel bad for Indiana. "Ooh, honey, did one of the cows die?" "No, that's just Blagojevich's taint."

Strike Up The Band

Holy hell, my old high school marching band got selected to be in Obama's Inaugural Parade!

The band always got to do pretty cool stuff; when I was a freshman, I got to spend a week out in California and march in the Tournament of Roses...as well as Santa Monica Pier and Knott's Berry Farm. As a sophomore, we did the Orange Bowl Parade and Disney World. As a junior, it was the Cotton Bowl...and a bus crash an hour from home in an icy parking lot, but that's another story. (My best friend also ended up getting suspended because of a knife incident in the JFK museum, but that isn't nearly as bad as it looks in print.) As a senior, it was the Cherry Blossom parade in DC, which was a'ight.

But the Inaugural Parade! God-f'ing-damn. That is something I'd truly have loved to be a part of. As it is, I'm not sure if I'll be able to make it out there to spectate, let alone find a place to stay that won't break the bank.

Plan! I am going to adopt a troubled high schooler, stick 'em in the marching band, and go as a parent chaperone. That's the ticket. And when I'm done, I'll drive them to Nebraska or whatever the fuck and leave 'em at a hospital door!

Score, my friends. Score.

Rage In My Craw

Just spoke with the collection agency rep who is handling our "case". He received all the documentation that we faxed him this morning, and now he has to get in touch with Avalon, to verify that the invoice and stuff was genuine.

These fucking people. The guy speaks with such dripping condescension, already assuming, I can tell, that I'm trying to fleece him. I am so fucking pissed off at Avalon--and now I'm wondering, what's the guarantee that they'll admit that the documents are the real deal? They've dragged the process out this far already; I don't trust them to be honest and let it drop. Why not twist the knife and force me to come out there?

I will fly out and fuck them royally if I have to. I was on the verge of giving up, but now I'm revived, and goddamn furious. If this isn't resolved by today, I'm filing my complaint, and then looking at legal options.

Film Excitement!

There's a movie playing in town that I have just got to see. The title of the film is, JCVD. This film owes its title...to my favorite 80s action star, Jean-Claude Van Damme!

Seriously, I used to love this guy's stuff. You know those 6-hour VHS tapes? I had a quadruple feature of his films that I'd taped off cable. I even remember the order: Bloodsport, Cyborg, Death Warrant, Kickboxer.

I always dug the style, lo-fi production values and all. He was like Schwarzenegger on yoga, with a self-deprecating streak.

Anyway, the film at hand! It's a genre-bending mockumentary starring my #1 action dude, as a version of himself. Broke and on the verge of losing custody, he flees to back to his native city of Brussels. And that's where things go nuts. Hostage situations, epigrammatic intertitles, direct-address monologues and satire abound, all anchored by a strong turn by Mr. Van Damme himself. The flick is apparently very good, and not just in a kitschy way. I can't wait to catch it.

Maybe I'll reward myself in the next few days. Anyone interested in joining?

Avalon at Media Center: the Revenge

Remember how I said I was finally done dealing with Avalon, my criminal former landlord? Well, I still am.

Now I get to deal with a collection agency they've sent after us, despite a written agreement not to charge us anything, and an invoice they sent us reflecting such.

The letter from the agency is dated on the same day that we agreed to Avalon's "you owe nothing" offer. We sent a note of acceptance to Avalon before their business day started, which means they got our acceptance, and then forwarded our no-longer-existent "balance" to this collection agency later that day.

Are these people fucking stupid? No, scratch that. Just how stupid are they? This kind of feels like harassment to me. Maybe it's an honest mistake, but there's been a distinct dearth of honesty from Avalon thus far.

I mean, WTF, mate? This is like a goddamned Jason movie or something--not dead yet, not dead yet, not dead yet.

I guess I'll fax the information showing we owe nothing to the collection agency, and as soon as that is settled, maybe I'll file a complaint against Avalon with the Better Business Bureau. A quick review online shows that my particular Avalon already has a 'D' rating from the BBB. Maybe I can make it an 'F'--for "Fucking Criminals".

Wasting My Time

So I spent a few hours today, traveling over to the North Side and -- argh! Fucking Danny Sabourin and his brainless puck play!

Sorry, I'm watching the Penguins give up stupid goals in HD.

Anyway, I wasted the better part of my afternoon locating Equitable Gas and making the case for them to give us a damned account. Long story short: after waiting 20 minutes past my appointment time ("If you're there one minute late, we won't see you," the pricks had said), we now get to pay them a $25 fee to have our gas transferred into our name on Monday.

I still don't see how presenting my driver's license proves any further that I am who I say I am. I mean, we'd already given them names, Social Security #s, bank account numbers, and the addresses of five years of previous residences. Let's say I've stolen all that information, to avoid my debts. Would I really have a hard time faking an ID? Even with the holographic stuff they've got on PA ID's, they're relatively easy to fake.

In conclusion, screw the hell out of Equitable Gas. Thank you.

My Own Personal Dumbass

I didn't mention in my other post--my mother-in-law had her surgery today, which went off without a hitch. That's the good news of the day.

I also found out when my Uncle Ed's service date is--December 30th. Is it just me, or does it seem like that's an awfully long wait? I guess there's no urgency, since he is being cremated? Still, it seems kind of bullshit.

Speaking of bullshit!

Today, the gas company refused to put the heating bill in my name. This is because the previous (idiot) tenants in this house were behind on their bills to the tune of thousands of bucks. Apparently, the gas company is unconvinced that my wife and I are indeed who we say we are, and not just the previous tenants under an assumed name.

I can probably guess which of the tenants was responsible for the gas bills, since we get all sorts of collection agency shit for him. I won't name names, because according to Facebook, he's apparently mutual friends with a handful of people I know. I should send him a message and let him know that I keep getting his goddamned debt mail.

Meetin'

So, I got a fistful of dough from my company to put ads on Facebook for the books. It's not going quite as I'd hoped, though. Yes, I'm getting clicks--but only about 25 a day on average, which is less than I want.

On top of that, not a single one of these 80-odd clicks has resulted in a sale. I'm not sure what to do about it. There's not much I can do, save for learn how to construct a secure sales website that looks great, functions well on all web browsers, and inspires confidence in casual viewers.

I need to get some of these things sold!

Silly Bastardry

I got some more coverage from the readers at my "management" company, whatever the hell that word's supposed to mean. All I can say is...boy, I wish I could be as lackadaisical and useless at my job as these coverage folks they've got are.

I'm not asking for positive coverage across the board--far from it. But 1's out of 5 across the board--especially when they're anomalous compared to every other bit of feedback I've gotten--that's just goddamned lazy. Especially since there's little-to-no explanation/justification.

Add to that the fact that these folks are ostensibly supposed to be representing me, yet have done absolutely nothing with my material...I feel like they're wasting my time.

However, a new door should be opening quite soon, and I just may go through it unless I see a marked pickup.

Stomp the Blog

So, in order to get my blog to my New Year's goal, I've got to write 3 entries each day for the rest of the month. Sadly, I don't know if my life is quite interesting enough to fill that much. Look at today, for instance.

I worked all afternoon, pausing only to learn that my mother-in-law's knee surgery had to be delayed yet another day. On the plus side, we learned they won't have to put her under for it; a local will suffice.

This evening, I cooked some seafood pasta, with calamari and clams from the Strip. That was pretty nice; it's easy to find the motivation to cook now that our kitchen is semi-organized. It's a pretty spacious room--even with both refrigerators in it.

Now, I'm watching hockey in HD--the puck is freaking crystal in mid-slapshot!--and during the breaks, I'm reviewing the day's children's book writing. I'm experimenting with a slightly modified narrative voice for this fable-style book I'm writing. But I won't bore you with language analysis; go Penguins!

Steelers To The Max!

What a nailbiter of a game. It really shouldn't have been. My guys forced four fumbles/interceptions in the first half, plus two turnovers on downs, but somehow, they couldn't capitalize on any of it. That game should have been over after the 2nd quarter, but all that defensive prowess only netted 3 points.

Then, Romo quit acting like a little girl with a wet jumper and started completing passes, and all of a sudden it was 13-3 going into the 4th quarter.

It was starting to look like all was lost, but then with about 7 minutes left in the game, the Steelers came alive and scored 17 unanswered points, capped off by a third interception, finally returned for a TD.

This was also my first football game in HD--I upgraded our cable on Friday for a measly extra $5/month. Things really do look appreciably improved. Some things that I got to enjoy:

- Hines Ward's pearly smile is approximately 600% clearer on each play.
- You can actually see each individual lock of Troy's flowing hair as he destroys running backs and receivers alike.
- In the snap, Tony Romo's facial expression is that of a guy who has just shit his pants, and is wondering if anyone can smell it yet. In fact, now that I can see him in HD, I've noticed that he looks like that at almost every point during the game. Except for:
- When he doesn't like a ref's call. In that case, Tony Romo's facial expression is that of the mentally challenged guy who pushes carts in the Giant Eagle parking lot, right after he's noticed that you're stealing one of the carts to play with it in the snow.

Eventful Day

I worked, took care of a bunch of Christmas shopping, did a little management of the Facebook ads I put up for my books.

It's snowy and icy outside, so I've been stuck indoors most of the day, trying to keep this sore throat of mine from becoming something I'll have to miss work for. Not that I'd have spent much time outside anyway, given what else happened today.

My wife's parents were out to have lunch together, and my mom-in-law slipped in the parking lot and fractured her kneecap. My wife's still stuck at work, so I don't know everything yet--but she's in the hospital and will need surgery on Monday.

Two not-so-fun entries in a row...maybe the Steelers can turn it around for me tomorrow.

Uncle Ed

My uncle Ed had been sick for a while. A few years back, he was diagnosed with a pretty bad case of cancer. At the time, the doctors gave him six months; my uncle being the man he was, took the six months and turned it into years. So, even though he'd been sick, it's all still kind of a shock.

On Thanksgiving or the day before, my mom told me that Uncle Ed had gone into the hospital with pneumonia. His hospital stay was "indefinite".

This past Thursday, they took him off the ventilator. And that was that.

A lot of things ran through my mind when I learned about it. I thought about the times he'd brought over cigars for me and my dad. The time he gave us a thing of homemade kim chee; the hot pepper eating competitions...the man loved his spicy stuff. Even after he couldn't eat it anymore because of his condition, he still brought it over and watched us enjoy.

More than all that, I wished that my wife had gotten a chance to meet him. I'd been looking forward to my brother's wedding in June, since he and my Aunt Camille would be able to make it and I could finally introduce them. (He and my aunt had missed my wedding, due to work obligations. They traveled the country selling antique guns at expos and conventions, and their biggest such event of the year occured on the same weekend as my marriage.)

Now I've got to make a trip to Harrisburg in the next couple weeks. Uncle Ed is being cremated down in Florida, and buried in Harrisburg, where he spent his career as a police officer. I'm not sure when this will happen; the urn has to be delivered, which apparently could take some time. For some reason, I never considered an urn as something you order.

I don't know how to end this entry, so I'll just leave it there.

The Lamest of Updates

(Buy my books! -- http://store.littlelincoln.org -- /selfpromotion)

Even after my realization that there's less than a month to write sixty (60) entries of literary significance...I still managed to write nothing yesterday.

Well, I did have a reason. Sometimes, you don't write because nothing has happened; and sometimes, you don't write because something has happened that you haven't had the time to process.

Last night's tale was one of the latter variety. I'll get to it very soon.

But as for the present, well...my wife and I spent our evening (post-10pm) at the Thunderbird Cafe, likely named for the equally classy alcoholic beverage. We were there to see my friend Eric's band, The Ninth Ward. They played well, but that was to expected.

The unexpected portion of the evening had to do with all the people from my past who were in attendance. They qualify as "people from my past" not because our time together is done--but rather because I'm lazy, and bad at keeping in touch unless I have an active plan to do so. (So, does seeing all of them this evening render these folks "people of my present"?)

Either way, I caught up, chatted up, and drank up, and now I'd better sleep up, because I've got to be up with my wife at 6:30 in the aye-em.

Victory!

(Buy my books! -- http://store.littlelincoln.org -- /selfpromotion)

So, remember how I said that Avalon was trying to dick us out of about $440? Well, they are dicking no more. They've decided to waive the charges beyond our security deposit and call it even.

How nice it is to have someone in the family who works for a damn lawyer.

Time's A-Wastin'

(Buy my books! -- http://store.littlelincoln.org -- /selfpromotion)

If I want to meet my New Year's Resolution of one-post-per-day, I'd better get moving.

So here I go! Today was a moderately successful day. The highlight was, for certain, the fact that my books went on sale. But it was a day of small victories, as well.

Writing was productive, and I set up a work session with my friend Al, where I'll try and tackle some non-job writing for a change. I've also made some headway on the new kids' book, which, if it comes together as I hope, could be one of the best in my catalogue.

I walked a total of about eight miles, which felt good and allowed me to think. There are so many places in this town I want to explore and try out. Like the Istanbul Grille, which I pass every time I head for the 61c. Or the Spak Bros. pizzeria, which is only 10 blocks away, and is co-owned by a former middle school classmate of mine.

(Little known fact: the co-owner fellow and I were once in the same art class, way back in 7th or 8th grade. As a part of the class, I had to paint a portrait, so I painted a portrait of him. The painting won a Gold Key at some sort of Pennsylvania student art awards thing, and it still hangs in my parents' house. Despite the award, it marked the beginning and the end of my painting career.)

At the moment, I'm feeling pretty optimistic about things. So don't screw it up for me, reality!

It's Official!

You can now buy my books from the Little Lincoln Store!

Visit the site below:

http://store.littlelincoln.org

A caveat: the site only works with Internet Explorer at the current moment. (Sorry, Firefox users...I feel your pain, and I am dogging the proper folks to make adjustments.) The site doesn't have all the bells and whistles in place yet, but it's secure and fully functional (for I.E. users, that is).

There are currently 5 books up on the site, with book 6 soon to be released. Books 7 and 8 ought to be ready around New Years'-ish. Either way, click on the link reading, "Click here to see the entire Little Lincoln Series!"

The books are a really high-quality product. Glossy, heavy-duty pages, built to spill your apple juice on and whatnot. The illustrations are gorgeous, and the writing is, dare I say, strong.

If you're looking to get a young reader in your life something that nobody else has, the books are a damn fine option. Every story has a lesson, from why it's important to not bully, to why you have to wait in line at the grocery store. I think one of the better features of the series is its range.

If you want to know more about any of the books, let me know. I can talk your ear off about them. In the meantime, check out the site!

Waaay Behind

Sincerest apologies for the lack of updates. I don't have a great deal to add just yet. The retaliatory bullshit fee Avalon assessed is unresolved; the moving company claim remains unfinished; the car title is still not transferred to Pennsylvania.

But, we're almost done settling into the house. There are a total of probably seven or eight boxes in the whole house that are yet to be unpacked. The furniture is arranged. We might buy a new TV on mega-sale this week. 'Tis up in the air.

Anyway, I should try and squeeze some more work in before the Colbert Christmas Special. (Sorry for the brevity!)

Maintenance Lives!

The table legs came yesterday! With only a few scratches... And a note written on the inside of the box from the dudes who had them in Texas: "We enjoyed fondling your legs in ____, TX". (I can't remember which shithole town it was down there.)

So the table is assembled and ready to eat upon. It looks great in the dining room; it even fits well with all the leaves in.

That would render our moving process complete, would it not? What, it's not done?

Well, there is one last matter with Avalon Communities, it turns out. You remember Avalon, out in Burbank? You know, Avalon, with its filthy carpets upon move-in, its shitty cable hookup that I had to have the cable company replace on day one so that I could fucking work*, Avalon, with the water coming into my apartment every single time it rained, with its dead rodents in the ceiling, maggots raining from the bathroom light fixtures, with its broke-ass screens and non-sealing shitball louvred windows, which allowed a plague of flies to stream into my apartment at the height of summer--

Yeah, that Avalon. Apparently, those fucks say I owe them money.

Remember how I spent weeks painting the apartment back to white, in a bid to retain some of my security deposit--and also to thwart any petty power play Dildo Tom, the jagoff piss-ass I-smoke-while-riding-my-exercise-bike Maintenance Manager, might attempt?

Well, Tom's made his play. His verdict: I painted the apartment the wrong shade of white.

Yes, according to Forrest Tom and this brick-head community administrator (her initials, fittingly, are S.S.), "Flat White" is a "Custom Color", which merits a full repainting of the apartment. And they're trying to foist the bill for said repainting on my ass, to the tune of over $400 beyond the coverage of the security deposit.

Trouble is, they're full of fucking shit. Never was I told the specific color to paint--who knows if they don't mix the shit in a personal vat, rendering it impossible for any tenant to sufficiently restore a painted apartment. Never was I told, despite having asked for concrete specifics.

The language of the move-out checklist--the requirements of which, by the way, were never revealed to me until I notified Avalon that I couldn't take any more of their tacit rental philosophy ("Shitty Living Through Negligence")--anyhow, the language is vague. It just mentions "painting the apartment back". To what? To "back", of course. Whatever that is. I couldn't say, because I painted virtually every inch of the fuckin' place. So I painted it "back"...to white. On my own time. At my own expense.

I spent a good $200+, and over sixty manhours taping, rolling, and detailing, and I left the place better than I got it.

Four hundred forty-two dollars, please, says Avalon.

You know why they did this. Because we moved across the country; how could we fight them? Here's how:

For one, they still have not provided me adequate documentation of the charges. Sure, they sent me their general bill, but, because of all-too-common Avalon office incompetence, they only managed to mail me an illegible version of the itemized lists of charges. I can't call the painting company and follow up--I can't see the order number, or even the cost of each charge.

One might think something less-than-honest is going on, if one were the distrustful type...I'll take a step forward here.

The funny thing is, California law requires a tenant to be furnished with a complete, itemized bill of charges within 21 days of move-out. This is either post-marked, or hand delivered, within 3 weeks. "We can't be held responsible for the inner workings of the mail system," S.S. informed me. Well, you can be held responsible for not actually delivering said required documents. This half-bill Avalon sent? It's scrap. It's cage liner. I can't read and verify it--I would think that means it doesn't count.

I would have to return to Los Angeles in order to take them to small claims court--at which point I would take them for the security charges, the cost of my flight, the cost of one night's stay in an LA hotel, the cost of my rental car for traveling to court, and a charge for my wasted time. That $442 will become thousands.

Those fucking criminals. Even moving away from them has to be an ordeal.


* Albeit with a moderately less shitty cable hookup. We just can't do anything right in Burbank...heads would explode!

Steelers Time

Were those refs imported from San Diego, or what? Truly bizarro.

Anyhow, it was nice to watch the boys return to form a bit--Troy making masterful one-handed catches, Jamie Harrison getting safeties, rather than giving them to the opponent. Willie running for 115 yards, Hines topping 100 yards receiving.

There were some lapses, and definitely some momentum problems, as evidenced by the mere 1-point win...but still, it's progress. We'll see how they hold up on Thursday.

Sights, Sounds, Smells

Every walk through town catapults me through close to ten years of sensory memories. It's all coming back, and fast--almost to the point of overwhelming me.

Sights, sounds, smells. The smells interest me the most--the olfactory memories. I'm not sure why. Maybe because smells are so free-associative. Really, it's probably because my sense of smell is more acute than both my sight and hearing. Strong smells provoke strong memories, or something.

For instance: there is a string of trees all along Wilkins Ave., and they bear these heavy berries that fall all over the sidewalk. Since at least two thirds of the occupants on Wilkins are renters with no investment in the neighborhood, nobody rakes or sweeps the sidewalk.

And these berries, they just lie there until they are crushed by students hurrying along to their classes, spilling fragrant berry juice all over the place.

And the berry juice...smells like vomit.

I'm talking King Kong on a bender vomit.

And God, he's laughing his fucking ass off.

The pukeberries fall, splatter and stink from late March until the dirt starts to freeze, and even thinking about them is like a punch to the gag reflex. But for all their stench, they bring back a lot of fond memories. The Wilkins house parties...the basement DIY concerts...the basement apartment I rented at the corner of Wightman, with its perpetually broken window and lack of dedicated heating.

We had a heater, to be sure--we were, after all, in the basement--but no dial to control it. When my roommate Ben and I got cold, we had to just pray that some other tenant in the legitimate floors of the house would think, "Brr, I'm cold!", and crank up his heater, so we could bask in the seepage.

I spent lot of time hustling back and forth between my dank exposed-stone cave of an apartment, and the comparatively luxurious computer labs at Carnegie Mellon, with their fancy "plaster" and "warmth". The hustle was soundtracked by whatever shitty indie band I had on my iPod that week...and smelltracked by Pukeberries.*

I lived less than elegantly in those days, but now that they're done, I do remember them fondly. At the very least, that 10 months and change in the Wilkins & Wightman basement, a literal hole in the ground, can serve as a handy little trump card when we're all at the bar, playing "Whose College Apartment Sucked the Most?"

At any rate, when I trudge from my house to the 61C, that tenth of a mile on Wilkins where I jump from Negley to Murray pulls up fragments from every house party I ever attended, every shivering night I spent before I bought an electric blanket, every jog I took when I went on that six-month fitness rampage. It's all there for that 90 seconds, and then as I turn and walk up Murray, it fades with the smell.

It's an amazing feeling, returning home. Shame the only way you can feel it is by leaving.

* The Pukeberries, now that I think about it, might have been one of those shitty bands I had on the iPod as well.

Reconnections

I've been trying to take some time each day to reach out to old friends and colleagues who reside in town. Today, I met up with a few friends, including Chemers, who wrote the film I directed (When Tyrants Kiss), and also married me to my wife. It was great to catch up with him, and also great to see that his career is really picking up steam. His book was recently published, and he's got another coming along soon.

I'm hoping I can do a project with him soon. But first...I should write this noir script I've been jawing about the last year and a half. I'm home, and it's time to do the damn thing.

More Bee Ess

Damn, I'm starting to suck at blogging. I've got no excuses now, either--since we got the Internet yesterday! And the wireless works everywhere in the house.

So what is happenin'? Well, the table legs should have been shipped today. We'll know Friday, I guess.

The unpacking continues, as does assessment of any little problems the house might have, so that maintenance can take care of them in a timely fashion. There's nothing major, though right now the clothes dryer has this funny problem. It runs, spins, all that...but it generates no heat. Thus rendering it essentially useless. The problem is probably just that the gas is not properly hooked to it, or something relatively simple to fix. We shall see tomorrow.

What else? What else? I walked all around town today. Sixteen miles of walking, to put a number to it. Lawrenceville, to the Strip, to the South Side and back, to Squirrel Hill...I didn't really feel it until I sat down to write this thing. Now I feel like I'm about seventy years old. Which means I aged today at a rate of approximately 2 years, nine months and three weeks per mile. That's scientific fact.

Anyhow, time to rest. I'll have to write a whole bunch soon in order to catch myself up--the year is closing fast, and I'm something like 20 entries behind on my resolution.

Home Again

Apologies for the lack of updates the past couple days; it's been hectic, trying to get the car registered here, moving in and such.

But we're finally in our new place, with just about all of our stuff.

Just about? Well, you didn't think we could possibly move snag-free, did you?! The driver was operating out of Southern California, after all.

So that's why currently, the surface of my dining room table is in my dining room, while its legs are in AUSTIN, TEXAS. That's right; the stupid idiot driver and his crew unloaded a shipment in Austin, Texas, and gave them a bonus set of dining room table legs--for their hospitality, one would guess.

And I was worried that, Obama having been elected, I'd quickly run out of things to bitch about.

The table legs are the big thing the guy lost. Apparently, he even saw the erroneous unloading back in Texas--witnessed it, noted it...and then failed to do a goddamn thing about it. So now the legs are being overnighted, and then I get to put the damn thing together myself.

Speaking of reassembly...the driver also refused to reassemble any of the stuff he took apart in California. Like my wife's desk, for instance. It's one of those IKEA do-it-yourselfers--you know, the ones that aren't really built to be taken apart once you've assembled them the first time.

But still, I have all the desk parts, and I'll have the table parts soon. Which is more than I can say about my DVD cabinet.

Apparently, the movers thought it would be wise to remove the shelves from my DVD rack when they loaded it into the truck back in Burbank. I never saw it happen; maybe I was out getting those fucks water or something. Anyhow, I didn't see it happen.

So imagine my surprise when, after the movers have left, I open a box of DVDs, open the cabinet door...and discover that it's an empty shell! No shelves in the cabinet, and since I watched them unload every single piece of furniture, I can safely say they're not in the house. I'll probably never get those back, since the driver didn't even know they were lost.

Still, despite those flubs, and despite the fact that the driver broke one of my dressers while carrying it up the stairs...the move was largely okay. Our glassware is intact, as are our bookcases, vases, and the remaining wine bottles from our now-defunct wine club membership at Alapay Cellars.

We'll see what North American does to make the problems (and the lateness of the driver) right.

Scattered Reporting

Well, I spent the morning at the house, though it's still empty. I laid down near the heater in the living room and read Dennis Lehane's A Drink Before the War from cover to cover. What strong writing!

After that, it was "rename the kids' book" time, which was moderately successful. My problem is that it's a book about recycling, but the word..."recycle"...it's just an unattractive word. I just don't like the way it rolls off the tongue; it's not any fun. I'll figure it out.

I worked on some other kids-related stuff, and then returned to my folks' place for the afternoon, to spend time with my 2-year-old cousin. We read together, counted, identified shapes...he is one bright little kid. Knows his ABCs and can count as well. The one catch is that he can be very stubborn...like me. Fortunately, unlike me, he can generally be reasoned with.

Anyhow, it's time to round up my gear and pick up my lovely wife from work. Though it's a bit early to make a conclusion, I think this new store is helping her to remember why she got into healthcare in the first place. I'm so glad to see her happy with work again!

There are a lot of things I'm glad about these days. I'll have to write more about it soon.

One Last California Fuck-Up

So, our moving truck was supposed to arrive tomorrow, on the final day of the "delivery window" noted on our contract with the moving company. Well, this being a California company, with a California driver...things just had to get fucked up one last time.

I got a call yesterday, from the driver. He says that, despite having had 10 full days to get here (not including the Sundays where he had the day off), he just couldn't haul our stuff to Pittsburgh within the promised window.

So now, he's bringing our shit on the 9th, Sunday. Which will make it almost two full fucking weeks we've had to wait for a bed, the remainder of the clothes...and oh, things like the sales slip for the car we bought in LA, which is apparently necessary to have if you want to change your damn registration to Pennsylvania. (They want to make sure we've paid enough taxes on it.*)

Whatever. I'm just pissed, because it's a real goddamn inconvenience to still be couch-hopping (even though I've quite enjoyed the time with both sets of parents). Not only that, but staying out here in the North Hills has turned a 4-mile commute to a 20-mile one, each way, for my wife. We came out here to drive less, you Angeleno fucks!

As far as I am concerned, delivering our stuff late is a breach of contract. They'd given a window, Nov. 3rd-7th, and then the driver, on move day, told us it'd be the 7th. I'm just glad I didn't trust the man enough to pay for a parking permit in front of my place on that day.

In conclusion, this two days late bullshit had better be made right, or I'm catching a flight and cracking skulls.


* Speaking of taxes, holy hell am I glad we left California when we did! (Despite all the griping about my moronic movers.) The Governator just announced a sales tax hike of 1.5%, which will bring sales tax in California to an insane 9.75%--which, had it been applied to our car, for example, would have translated to an extra $300 or so. Ugh.

And Next...

I had been telling my mother-in-law that Obama would win the election so handily that the Republicans wouldn't be able to steal it. I had been saying this, maybe not 100% believing it, maybe trying to convince myself just as much as set her at ease.

But it happened.

In fact, almost every race that interested me turned out the way I'd hoped. That Bachmann psycho somehow survived, but Melissa "Horse" Hart remained rejected. Dems made huge gains, but Prop 8 got affirmed. For those who don't mainline politics, that's the gay marriage ban proposition in California that my wife and I voted on.

Prop 8 is...well, it fucking sucks. I'd hoped that Prop 8 would be rejected by a landslide, of course. But at the same time, somewhere deep down I had been hoping that Prop 8 would be rejected by a single vote, because then my move out there would have had some sort of Purpose. There's a delusion of grandeur for you, eh? But either way, it didn't happen.

It didn't happen; intolerance won the day. And make no mistake, Prop 8 supporters--you voted for bigotry. Thus making you...bigots! There's no way around it. There is no logical argument for Prop 8 that does not rest upon bigotry.

A lot of Prop 8-ers argue that "they're protecting marriage, they're protecting marriage". They're not bigots--just protecting marriage. But honestly, given the diminishing success rate of heterosexual marriages, why not give the alternative lifers a shot? Institutions grow stronger when you open up the membership. Of course, I'm making a mistake here already; I'm treating this "protecting marriage" argument like it's a sincere one.

The cornerstone of this "protecting marriage" argument is this "slippery slope" argument. Gay marriage, like a gateway drug, will lead to even more terrible perversion. "If we let dudes marry dudes, it'll lead to all sorts of weird marriage. Grown ups and toddlers, hunters and their dogs, cat ladies and their cats!"

The argument's more than a little disingenuous. If these "protecting marriage" folks were truly concerned about...I don't know, coal miners marrying their fucking shovels, or whatever...and not simply anti-gay, they would fight to define marriage as a union between one consenting human adult, and a second consenting human adult. It's bullshit.

I have many more thoughts and a lot more anger stored up on this...but I'll save any further ranting for another day. I started writing to celebrate the first election I've felt good about in my adult life. So, hooray for that!

GO VOTE!

Get the hell out there, you bastards! (Unless, like me, you've already voted.)

Redskins Go Down!

My wife and I are in a hotel room in the Oakland area, celebrating the first anniversary of our union with seafood and sweet Steelers victory.

The Steelers played the Redskins and won quite convincingly, despite Roethlisberger and Heath Miller injuries. The game is significant not only as a Steelers fan, but for historical reasons as well.

Apparently, if one goes back through every Redskins game that precedes a Presidential election, a pattern emerges. If the Redskins win, the sitting president's party remains in power. If they lose, that party remains unseated. So I was, let's say, unconflicted as I watched.

Outside of the Steelers being 6-2 at the half mark...let's see. Tomorrow my wife begins work, and I have my first face-to-face job meeting in 18 months. I'm looking forward to it. Time to crash in this damn comfortable bed.

Behind, Behind, Behind

What's happened in the past few days? Well...I got a new tattoo on my forearm. That was Friday. My very first appointment in town was not to get my haircut, or even to get my damned wisdom teeth pulled, but to have an image permanently emblazoned on my flesh. This one is number 11 for me, and I got it for my 1st wedding anniversary.

Which is today! As with consistent blogging, it's tricky to celebrate an anniversary without your own place--but I'm sure we'll manage, and it'll be memorable as all get-out.

The new house looks wonderful, with its newly cleaned carpets, and I'm nearly finished with the new book.

The old books have been universally enjoyed. My cousins, aged 2 and 7, can't get enough of them. Nelson (the almost-three-year-old) has tricked several people into reading my books to him. What he'll do is bring a book over to you, offer to read it to you, and then he'll sit on your lap for the reading. The catch is--he can't read. He knows letters, he knows numbers, he has a great vocabulary, but he can't do sentences just yet. But he's got the book open, he's on your lap, so what are you going to do...not read to him? Anyhow, he's probably sat through the five books three or four times apiece, and that's just since I've gotten home. His older sister, the 7-year-old, sits and reads them on her own--it's ridiculously rewarding to see.

There will be more, but it's anniversary breakfast time!

Falling Behind

Boy, it's hard to keep up with this thing without a home to call ones own. We've been staying at our parents' homes the past few days, which has made it a wee bit difficult to be consistent.

I had my cousin's wedding today, which was a very fun time. I enjoy weddings quite a bit. Receptions, even more so. Cannoli cake, meatballs...you know, Italian shit. Good times for all. Now, we're in between the wedding reception, and the after party at my parents' place. Here, it's beer, bacon-wrapped hotdogs, and controlled fires on the porch.

I'd better go purge all that ziti!

Poppin' Off A Quick One

A quick blog entry, that is. It's late, and I'm wiped out, so here are some notes from the Burgh.

- I saw my new house for the first time in person this morning. The space...my god! This place has more than twice the room of my crap Burbank apartment, with 400% better neighbors, according to a recent poll. Speaking of polls...

- If you're planning a cross-country drive, aim that fucker through battleground states during the few weeks preceding an election. The gas is cheap as shit! For our drive, which totaled 2665 miles door to door (this included a detour to visit Grand Canyon)...we spent just a hair over $200 on gas. Thanks, Big Oil! (But I still hope your guys get drill, baby, drilled in the pooper on E-Day.)

- Lastly...I got to run a barbecue for the first time in 18 months this evening. It was a lot of fun, lemme tell you, and I cannot wait to have you all over and grill you some tasty burgers. Yes, all of y'all. The truck arrives in a week, so shortly thereafter...it's BBQ time.

Arrival!

No, I'm not dead; I just got too wrapped up in teary family greetings and such to write last night. Anyhow. I'm back in the Burgh, I still know my way around, and we've already gotten our first taste of snow, which is pretty neat. My wife and I are doing pretty well with the temperature jump. I just like seeing seasons again.

Today, we get a first look at our new home, and we begin the process of seeing which places have changed, what's newly unfamiliar, etc. More on that later!

Last Night On The Road

Today was pretty uneventful--no awful acts, no splendorous natural scenery, no almost-murder by campaign buses...just a hustle of 500 miles, landing in Terre Haute, Indiana.

It was uneventful...but because of that, we've ended up quite a bit further along than I'd initially planned when laying out the trip. So, we'll be getting to Pittsburgh tomorrow night!

Hooray!

John McCain Tried To Kill Me Today

So my wife and I are driving along at 75 miles per hour in Oklahoma around 5 o'clock. The sun's starting to set, the road is relatively clear, and our McDonald's coffee is finally getting to that temperature where it's actually safe to drink, when suddenly...

This big-ass bus roars up behind us doing almost 95, rips around us, and then cuts us off so close that we've got to hit the brakes. "That fucking asshole!" I yell. Who was that asshole? John Sidney McCain.

Yeah, we almost got run off the road by the Straight Talk Express today. The honest-to-Christ Straight Talk Express. Don't believe me? Look:

That's the snap I took as soon as I was able to whip out the camera. There it goes, wobbling down I-40 doing close to a damn buck. No wonder their slogan is Drill, Baby, Drill, the way that fucker must guzzle. What was else was he doing driving that fast, if not trying to kill me? What, was he hoping to hit that magical 88-miles-per-hour that'd allow him to travel back in time to just before he picked Palin? That's absurd. He'd never be able to simultaneously harness the necessary 1.21 jigowatts--he can't even fix the economy and campaign at the same time. It was attempted murder, for my besmirching of his home state yesterday.

Okay, okay, I'll admit it. I know for a fact that McCain wasn't even on the bus; he was in Pennsylvania. But isn't that just the perfect alibi? I'm on to you, McCain--and you're too damn late, anyway: I already voted.

Awful Things I Have Done Today

First, while having breakfast at Grand Canyon, I forced an elderly woman with a walker to limp a hundred meters and fetch me a lid for my coffee cup.

In fairness, she did work at the cafe, and she was the only employee in sight. Also, I had known neither that a) the small coffee lids were all in the supply room, nor b) how far away from her post the supply room was, nor c) that she used a damn walker. When she hefted the thing out from under the counter, I immediately insisted that I really didn't need the lid, that I'd just carry it in the car. But she was undeterred. After about ten minutes, she was back with the lids, and I felt like a major league heel, let me tell you.

The second awful thing I did was a couple hours later. While preparing to watch the Steelers play, I plowed over a toddler, sending her screaming to the tile floor. Oh, and how about I did this in front of a line of ten people waiting to be seated, not to mention the girl's mother? Yeah, it was a little girl, playing the stuffed-animal claw game with her mum. Classy.

I had been exiting to retrieve my wife's Terrible Towel from the car; I saw them both, and I had walked carefully around the pair. But as I rounded the corner where they were playing grab-the-piggy-doll, the girl jumped out from in front of her mother, into my path. Really, she more ran into me, than I plowed her over. No blood or anything, tears; her mom wasn't even mad. But I'm convinced, the moment where I wasn't sure if the girl was okay took a couple years off my life expectancy (don't tell the insurance company, they'll fuck my rates up).

The third awful thing I did was a couple hours later still. That was when I made the Steelers lose, by watching them in John McCain's home state. Sorry, Pittsburgh!

Actually, the Steelers basically gift wrapped this game for Eli and the Giants. "Here," said the offensive line, "we brought you 30 consecutive yards in stupid penalties!" "I have an idea," said Dick LeBeau. "Let's play a softy, cream puff-style defense until the Giants make it to 1st and goal." "Surprise!" said Big Ben. "Take these four interceptions!" "And last but not least," said James Harrison, as he snapped the ball into the river, "why don't you guys have this safety?"

So, maybe I didn't do any awful things today, persay...but I sure was involved in it.

Anyhow, we're in a city thirty miles east of Albuquerque, called Moriarty. I figure it's either named for:

1) The villain from Sherlock Holmes, who founded this town, and continues to rule it with an iron fist. OR:

2) Cathy Moriarty, the actress of Raging Bull almost-fame, who founded this town, and continues to rule it with an iron fist.

Word From Williams

So...remember how I said we were going to leave at midnight on Saturday? Well, we decided to leave at noon instead.

The day began as planned, with a visit to Bob's Big Boy, and then a call to the police in order to handle the three idiots who had not heeded our "no parking" sign. The cops tried to get in touch with the cars' owners, but alas, they did not answer their phones--so all three morons were tagged and towed.

The movers came promptly at 8am, and worked steadily until 11:30am, when they took off with everything we own in their truck. Since they were done so quickly, we saw no point in waiting.

So here we are, in Williams, AZ, 50 miles south of the Grand Canyon. At sunrise, we're grabbing breakfast at a cute diner down the street, and checking out the G.C. And then, it's Pittsburgh Steeler Time!

(Right now, though, it's Scotto Sleep Time.)

Final Burbank Blog

This is my last night in Los Angeles. Tomorrow, we pack the truck and get the hell gone. Even now, with everything boxed, all our goodbyes said, extraneous furniture sold or tossed...even now, I'm still not the least bit sad to leave. I thought it would be harder at the end, perhaps some nostalgia creeping in--but this is it.

Well, there is the one thing: I am going to miss Timmy Nolan's, the best bar on the West Coast. Owned and operated by wonderful people, they made me and my wife feel like family, not just customers. It's the one place I can recommend anyone out here visit, without any hesitation. In fact, my wife and I are about to have one final dinner there now--I think there's no place I'd rather dine on my final night in town.

I'd sum up my "journey" out here, get all analytical about my life and times, but I've exhausted much energy doing just that over the past 10 months in this sprawling, unfocused document. For those not keeping score, here are the things I'll miss out in L.A. (things, I say, not people--I won't even get into the people here):

• Frank's Coffee and Steakhouse
• Limited Release Movie Premieres
• Metro and Coastal Train Travel
• Ubiquitous Guacamole
• Timmy Nolan's

And here's what's left.

Burbank, Los Angeles, California: I bid you adieu. I can't say I'll miss you, but at least I can say I knew you--and that's good enough for me.

I Knew It!

Get this knowledge:

McCain Supporter Admits Making Up Story

Throw the book at her; what she did is not only politically despicable, but it's also an insult to anyone who's actually suffered from a violent crime.

On the Subject of that "Mutilated McCain Supporter"

As a soon to be Pittsburgh re-pat, I thought I should comment on this situation that's in the news. Have you heard about it? Apparently, some McCain supporter girl, one Ashley Todd, got mugged in Bloomfield, at a well-lit, heavily trafficked intersection at 9pm on a weeknight. And, the Big Black Scary Mugger, it turns out, was an Obama supporter; he became so enraged at the "McCain" bumper sticker on the girl's car, that he punched her in the face and then carved a "B" into her face.

I think she's hoaxing. There's just too much that doesn't add up. For one, the B was carved backwards--mirror-style, not like a person was doing it on her face. For two, in the image, the B doesn't even look like it broke the skin. You mean to say this guy was enraged enough to give the girl a black eye, but then delicate enough to lightly scratch her with a knife? For three, a 6'4 black man carved a letter on a girl's face at the corner of Liberty & Pearl?--all the while, oh-so-cleverly avoiding the view of the ATM's security camera, any 54C waiters at the bus stop, or headed to BBT's Drum-n-Bass night (there is a surprising number of regulars), and any patrons who might happen to be dining out on Thai food, or a sweet-ass Tessaro's burger. Oh-kay.

And fourth: a perfectly-formed reverse "B"? Really? What, for Biden? How about for bullshit?

There's just too much that doesn't add up. She's all "mutilated", but feels the need to Twitter about it immediately after? Not to mention the not-so-subtle setup, were this a hoax: "I think I'm on the bad side of town." Side note: Bloomfield = the bad side of town? Perhaps if you've never left Sewickley. Idiot.

On top of that...some stranger carves a letter into her face, yet she refuses medical attention? Really? Not even some damn peroxide? She's got bruises around the eye, evidence of being "punched and kicked"--again, in a well-lit, heavily-trafficked area. But no bloodshot eye? No swelling? What, was she wearing kick-proof goggles that protected the blood vessels? Something doesn't smell right.

And hold the phone, Ms. Todd--you were "stubbornly looking for a Bank of America ATM", and yet you decide to give up in, by your vapid assessment, "the bad side of town"? That's just stupidity. If you're going to get charged, why not backtrack half a mile, go somewhere you at least feel safe? Or better yet, just stay in the fucking suburbs.

I call bullshit on you, Ashley Todd. Bullshit on you. I hope the police call it on you too.

Tidbits

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way Back To Pittsburgh.

Actually, a couple funny things happened. First, with only 48 hours till we leave for good, my wife, the most cautious driver and parker in the city, got her very first Los Angeles parking ticket. She was about 5 minutes late to getting the car from its meter (due to an errant waiter who took 20 minutes to bring her check). Ain't life grand?

Second, remember how I put up those FORCE OF LAW signs yesterday, and how powerful I felt? Well, some jerkoff in my apartment building ripped one down. I found it, put it back up, a zero sum game--but goddammit, I would like to beat the hell out of the kid who did it. (I have very specific ideas as to whom the guilty party is.)

Third, I did something utterly...Charlie Chaplin spectacular. I had been cleaning the bathroom with bleach. Since I was using bleach, I was wearing only an undershirt, and a pair of boxers, as I didn't want to inadvertently stain one of my few remaining unpacked clothing items. Anyhow, I'm in my boxers, scrubbing the floor with a brush, when my phone rings, back in the dining room.

I rush to get the phone. I had had an offer on the TV stand I'm trying to sell a couple hours earlier, so I figure it's the girl calling me to arrange a pick-up. I have to squeeze past the dining room chair and the credenza to reach the phone. Well...

As I try to run sideways through the gap, I manage to snag the fly of my boxers on the knob of a credenza drawer. Not noticing, I keep on moving...

And tear my damn boxer shorts clean off. So, apparently, that shit can actually happen. I apologize to every hack film and TV writer who has used the clothes-tearing-off gag.

I did answer the phone, and it was the girl--and I negotiated the sale of this table without any underpants on.

I kind of hope she doesn't find my blog, now that I think about it.