The Height of Laziness

I have a few pieces for you all, but no time to write them today. It is busy season after all, as Mary, Timmy and Bia can attest. But in the interest of giving you at least SOMETHING to read, here is a post I wrote for my MySpace blog on Friday when I was in an exceptionally bad mood. As bonus material I will include the comment from it left by my new friend Kat, who is extremely funny and should have her own blog. I know moving material around from one place to another doesn't technically qualify as a "new" post, but try and work with me on this one, alright?

Friday, July 29, 2005

Shit that pisses me off
Current mood: aggravated

- People who say "nine-one-one" instead of "nine-eleven". 9-1-1 is a telephone number you call when your grandma mistakes your heroin for her insulin. 9/11 is the date of a horrible tragedy with massive civilian casualties. Get it straight. My boss just did this in a meeting - twice. If we were setting a meeting for that day, would he say "Are you available on September one one"? NO OF COURSE NOT. Because it makes no sense. STOP DOING THIS.

- My cat getting bizarre knots in her fur. WTF??? This just starts all of a sudden? How the hell is she doing this? And Fish even bought me a special shedder brush which I brush her with EVERY SINGLE DAY and yet somehow when I'm brushing her yesterday I still find a knot! Kristen Ann, this has to stop. Seriously. Are you doing this on purpose? Do you grab my brush when I leave for work and tease your fur like it's 1986? I can't figure out how you are managing this feat. But cut it out.

- The bartender's roommate has a swollen lymph node that they are removing on Tuesday and doing a biopsy to see if it's cancer. I assure you, it is. This will be the THIRD FUCKING TIME. Testicular cancer, followed by two brain tumors, radiation and chemo both times...and more fucking cancer. The kid is like 24 years old for fuck's sake. CAN WE CUT THIS POOR GUY A BREAK PLEASE? There is no one I can punch in the face to make me feel better about this. And I'm not even the one with the cancer.

-Ann Arbor, Michigan and all things contained therein. This should be pretty self-explanatory. Maize and blue are shitty colors and they can suck the shit out of my ass. Lloyd Carr is an asshat. Go Bucks. Scarlet and gray baby! Let's start the football already, I'm tired of waiting.

- Not having a garbage disposal. This is the single most important appliance in the house people. Scraping plates into the garbage a) sucks and b) means your garbage is going to stink when the food rots which means you have to take it out more often, which is another thing I hate doing. And also, when you have to clean the little trap out in the sink? Fucking grossenating. Who wants to stick their hands in that shit? It should be a law: all kitchens must be equipped with a garbage disposal. If landlords fail to provide said appliance, they shall be made to lick the trap in the sink every day until one is provided. Seriously, this is not the 50's. Not having a garbage disposal is like not having a flush toilet and having to use an outhouse. I can't live like this anymore.

Kat's comment:
haha, i like your cynicism. this is going to be a BEAUTIFUL friendship.
i just thought i'd add a couple things that i, myself, hate:

i hate that Mariah Carey still has a career, i hate when people call scissors "skizzors", i hate PEOPLE WHO TYPE EMAILS IN CAPS LIKE THEY DONT REALIZE THAT ITS REALLY INTERNET CODE FOR OBNOXIOUS, i hate dying (but not quite dead) bugs that walk away when you're trying to kill them, i hate when you walk into wal-mart to buy, like, toothpaste and walked out with $361.00 worth of stuff thinking "thank god i didn't buy the fishtank.", i hate pretentious middle initials, i hate MLA format, and i hate how i have to suddenly buy ALL my movies on vhs ALL OVER AGAIN because vhs is the new beta.

but thats just me, i hate everything.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

I am. I love football. I love Chicago. I love IM conversations all day long at work.


PGS DenMILF: i downloaded a desktop theme for my 'puter today!
PGS DenMILF: GO BROWNS MOTHER FUCKER!!!!!!!!!
Fish: setting yourself up for disappointment
PGS DenMILF: The "waiting" cursor is a little tiny referee
PGS DenMILF: am not. dude listen, we've got romeo coaching now AWESOME
PGS DenMILF: and
PGS DenMILF: AND
PGS DenMILF: Braylon Edwards
PGS DenMILF: BRAYLON EDWARDS!!
PGS DenMILF: no, this year will be awesome
PGS DenMILF: romeo: defense covered. edwards: offense covered
PGS DenMILF: it's going to be awesome
PGS DenMILF: AWESOME
Fish: oh ok
PGS DenMILF: so awesome that i have to keep repeating key words twice
PGS DenMILF: Hey
PGS DenMILF: Did you know the Browns actually play the Bears this year? During the season?
Fish: battle of the titans
PGS DenMILF: They play twice, pre-season and week 5
PGS DenMILF: we have a bye the week before, we will be rested
PGS DenMILF: too bad it's in Cleveland, it would have been awesome to go
PGS DenMILF: in my brown and orange
PGS DenMILF: fuck some bears
Fish: they probably will too
Fish: the bears suck
PGS DenMILF: i know, that's why i feel so at home here.
PGS DenMILF: white sox are fucking up my shit this year. i can't handle living somewhere with teams that are good
PGS DenMILF: it confuses me and screws up my world

An Important Announcement

After many years of abstinence I have rediscovered the mouthwatering joy of Nacho Cheesier Doritos.

Carry on.

Sheep Counting Alternatives

Things to try when you find yourself wide awake for no apparent reason at 2:00 a.m.

1. Call your cat. Over and over and over until she gets sick of listening to you and climbs in your bed.

2. Pet the cat. Then grab the brush and try brushing her.

3. After the cat runs away, drink a glass of warm milk.

4. Send a text message to your bartender. Wait 30 minutes for him to either call or text you back. Give up.

5. Lay in your bed, stare at the ceiling and think "I have to fall asleep. I really really need to fall asleep right now."

6. Masturbate. Um, for a while.

7. Lay there for 10 minutes wondering why you're not asleep after all that masturbation. Make a mental note to put batteries on your grocery list.

8. Sing. Out loud. To yourself. Christmas carols.

9. Ponder what your friends would say if they knew you were singing Christmas carols to yourself in the middle of the night in July. Make a note to post it on your blog so you can find out.

10. Masturbate. Er, again.

By following these simple steps you should finally fall asleep around 5:00 a.m.






The phone call you gave up on getting from the bartender will come at 5:30 a.m.

I Hate Feet

My feet are going to be the death of me, I swear it. I was awake all night because of them.

Here is the problem: It's hot in Chicago right now. Really hot. Even with the air on in my apartment it's freaking hot in there. Consequently I am hot in there. Especially my feet, which seem to be the temperature control center for my entire body. If my feet are cold the rest of my body is freezing; if my feet are hot my body is on fire. Fix the temperature of my feet and everything else will follow. I do have air conditioning, and also a fan. So when I go to bed, if I could just put my feet by the fan, all would be well, right?

Well probably, but I can't do that you see. In order for me to sleep, my feet have to be covered. Because if my feet are covered, nothing can get me. And I'm not talking about some flimsy bedsheet either, I mean a substantial blanket must completely enclose them or I risk being dragged off by the boogyman. Currently I am being guarded by an old Pokemon comforter that used to belong to my youngest son (before I did his entire room up in Ohio State colors, the way a boy from Ohio's room should be decorated). It is thick and comfy, but above all it is warm. Extremely, unrelentingly warm. So not only am I not able to put my feet by the fan, but I am also having to tuck them away inside a poly/cotton blended furnace.

I tried making a little hole at the bottom for the air from the fan to get in, but the boogyman could penetrate that so easily I might as well not have a blanket at all. I tried covering just my feet and nothing else, but since my whole body is controlled by my feet, that exercise was pointless. I tossed and turned all freaking night, staring at my clock and waiting for daybreak so that I could stick my feet out (the boogyman melts in the sun, you know). Tonight doesn't look too promising either. I hate my feet.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Bookworm

Lest you think that I'm faking this whole "Amber is a geek" thing so I can score with nerds, let me tell you about my weekend. I read the new Harry Potter book. And pretty much that's it.

Well, not entirely. Steve and Chris G. decided they would like to have pork for dinner Saturday, so they roasted a 100 pound pig and invited several hundred of their closest friends over to share. I stopped in for a few hours, but I couldn't fully perform the requisite mingling as my mind kept wandering back to the shiny new book I knew was sitting on my coffee table. The bartender had stopped over as well, but had to be at work by midnight, so I used the fact that he's been borrowing my car to get him to drop me off at home on his way to work (a figure of speech as coming from Steve and Chris' place, my house is not remotely on the way). That way I could get a few chapters in before bedtime (which, because I'm lame, is usually right about the time the parties are getting started anyway). I fell asleep at some point during the train ride to Hogwarts and dreamed of wands, and cauldrons, and bland English food.

I was jolted from my slumber at 5:45 in the morning on Sunday by a text message from the bartender, which was basically a commercial: SOCIAL DISTORTION AT HOB SEPT 25. TICKETS ON SALE NOW! I was briefly annoyed at being awakened at dawn on a Sunday to be told that there will be a concert two months from now. That is until I realized that as long as I was up anyway, I might as well use the time constructively and read me some Harry Potter. Consequently, when Fish arrived around 2:00 I was four chapters from the end while he was only four chapters in. This proved to be disastrous. I will not put any spoilers in here, but by the end of the book I was, quite literally, sobbing. Bad enough for Fish to get up and bring me some Kleenex. I was completely heartbroken. I needed someone to talk to, to commiserate with and pool our collective sorrow, and Fish was only on fucking chapter 10. I snapped at him when he put his book down to try and comfort me. "KEEP READING!" I shrieked. "The longer you try to make me feel better, the longer I have to wait to talk about it!" Of course he left before he finished it, so I had to wait all the way until today to talk about it with someone.

I really don't see how this is a children's book. I mean AT ALL. People die horrible deaths, or get gruesome injuries. There's a whole bunch of reanimated dead bodies running around doing whatever reanimated dead bodies do. People are swearing. People are sucking face like it's an Olympic sport. Don't get me wrong, the book is AWESOME. I just wouldn't give it to my 10 year old any faster than I'd give him a copy of Playboy or front row tickets to a beheading. I was so depressed by the end of it I started reading a book of Dilbert comics to cheer me up. Then I got all depressed again when I realized I would have to wait years, YEARS to find out how it all ends. That is just completely not fair. Oh Madam Rowling, you torment me so.

That's What It's All About

Do you know any of those people who think the entire world revolves around them? You know the type: Constantly steer the conversation to themselves no matter what it was originally about, overdeveloped sense of entitlement, little if any consideration for the feelings of others, excuses for every untoward thing that they do, obsession with their own appearance, bound and determined to be offended and hurt by remarks not directed at them? For example, you say something like, "I'm enjoying being in a committed relationship." and they respond with "Oh, what, so I'm a big fucking whore? You're calling me a whore? Where do you get off saying something like that to me?" Or maybe they run a traffic light and hit someone else's car, and then insist that it isn't their fault at all because they were being rushed to get somewhere, and in fact, the driver they hit should be at fault for making them more late? They're the ones who frequently leave you thinking "Where the hell did THAT come from?" or potentially "What a fucking asshat." Do you know any people like that? Or worse, are you, maybe, one of them?

If so, then let me let you in on a little secret: It's not about you. Really, it's not. I know it seems like everyone is trying to hurt you, or that the length of your hair is important enough to effect the tides, but none of that has anything to do with you. At all. Trust me on this one; I know.

Because it's about me.

Seriously, look at the evidence! The spiders? They're all after me. They seek out not only the location of my bedroom, but then position themselves directly above my bed to maximize their ability to jump on me. They've even taken to attacking my friend Heather in an attempt to torture her into betraying me. Also, baseball: directly related to me. I lived in Cleveland and rooted for the Indians and they sucked. But I move to Chicago and start rooting for the Cubs, and suddenly the Indians are pretty darn good, but now the Cubs suck. Sorry Cubbies fans, that was me. And the nastygrams I get from people if I don't update my blog for a week? I'm obviously the primary entertainment in the lives of millions, checking back day after day in the hopes of learning more about me. Just the other day the entire city of Chicago turned around to check out my ass. The bar around the corner from me keeps my favorite Cleveland microbrew ON TAP. Why? Clearly, it is for me. The crew at my local D'Agostino's knows me by name, I just have to tell them my phone number and they know it's me*. My cat cries if I don't pay enough attention to her (though strangely enough that only happens in the kitchen). My favorite color is green, and the leaves on the tree outside my front window are green. Coincidence? I think not.

See? It's so clear. It's not about you, people. It's about me.



*Actually, Fish has to give them my number. I'm scared talk to the pizza man on my own.

The Funniest Geek You Know

Excerpted from an IM conversation I was having with Thugglife yesterday:

Amberance: The stupid thing is that I warned him this is what would happen, and then I turned around and did it anyway. Everything is proceeding exactly as I have foreseen.

Thugglife: Dork.

Amberance: Who is the bigger dork, the dork, or the dork who gets it?

I crack myself up sometimes.

(It's a Star Wars reference for those of you who don't get it. (Mary))

Shopping Misadventures

I'm not good at shopping. Like, really not good at it. It involves a whole host of things that I'd rather avoid: going out in public, talking to strangers and more recently, finding parking. None of these are my forte, which is why I try to shop online as much as possible. Nevertheless, I found myself out shopping yesterday, being that it's Fishy's birthday tomorrow and I was pressed for time.

I did start out online, though. I started out online some time ago when I was reading Dear Abby and she mentioned this cat book, about the history of cats. Fish loves cats, and also Mary loves cats, the bartender loves cats, Kelly and Simone both love cats, and so on. So being the quick thinker I am, I carefully write down the title and author of said book, figuring that I'd hit up a book store and buy half a dozen or so of them and hand them out to the cat people as opportunities arose (also one for me!). I wrote it on a post-it, stuck the post it to a receipt and stuck the receipt back in my purse. And went about my life.

So now weeks have gone by, it's too late to get the damn thing from Amazon and I need to find a bookstore. My awesome brother, practically a north side native now, informs me that I can find a great big Borders at Clark and Diversey and not only that, the mall across the street has a garage I can park in. Which of course, since I'm not paying attention I pass the first time and have to go around the block and start over. But hey, at least I found the place. So I hide my backpack under the seat, grab my purse and head for Borders.

I find the animals section and reach into my purse to get the receipt with the sticky note on it. Surprise! It's not in there. And since I wrote it down, I didn't bother to memorize the title, let alone the author. As I'm making a mental note to flog my smug self, I hear a voice behind me say "Can I help you?"

OK, let me just say something right here. I do not like talking to people who are strangers. Most especially I don't like talking to people who I perceive as having greater knowledge about the subject at hand than I do. For example, I am terrified of asking for drinks in a bar, because the bartender knows more about making drinks than I do. Even with my bartender friend I am afraid (blessedly he pretty much knows what I like and rarely asks me anymore). The most feared groups for me are bartenders, librarians, and the pizza guy. But just about anyone who is working somewhere when I need something will turn me into a quivering pile of jelly. So whereas a normal person hears "Can I help you?" and is grateful, when I hear it I turn into a stammering nut. The fact that I have no idea what my book is called or who wrote it is not particularly helpful. Not surprisingly, the guy can't find my book based on my half-assed description. I try to explain about the note, that it must have fallen out of my purse, but the guy obviously didn't care and scuttled off to go make fun of me behind the counter with the other people who are smart at finding books and remembering what they're called.

I continued to shop, making it a point to avoid the area where the guy tried to "help" me and eventually find a few things I think Fish would like and buy them. And go back to my car. The parking garage I'm parked at is an unattended lot. To get out you have to go to the little kiosk, put your ticket in and some money, and it will validate your ticket so that the gate will let you out. I put my ticket in the kiosk. $9. I have $5 in my purse. Fuck. I hit cancel and start thinking about where I can find an ATM. But then I see the sign that says I can pay with a credit card. So I put my ticket back in. And now I can't find a slot for my credit card. I tried one slot and realized it was for bills. I hit cancel again. Maybe it's broken? It doesn't look broken. I put my ticket back in. I look around me. No credit card slot that I can see. Hit cancel. Debate whether I want to walk up to the one on the 4th floor and try it there. Decide there has to be something I'm missing. Put my ticket back in. Nothing. Hit cancel.

Finally it dawns on me, what the little pictures are trying to say. That the credit card goes in the same slot as the ticket! Who knew? I smack myself on the forehead. Problem solved, I put my ticket back in the slot. And the machine spits it right back out at me. "Invalid ticket" the machine tells me. What? I try again. Same thing. Apparently, you can only put your ticket in the thing so many times before they decide you are so stupid you should have to pay full price for a lost ticket. Swell.

When I finally got out of the garage I went over to Target because I needed some wrapping paper for Fish's gifts. In the aisle labeled "wrapping paper" I find all kinds of great paper...for weddings, baby showers and graduations. For your average birthday boy there is nothing. NOTHING. The aisle on one side has greeting cards, on the other side candles. This is the only paper they have? I think. What the hell kind of Target is this? I start thinking maybe I can get one of the plain white bags for weddings and color it or something. Which seems ridiculous for anyone over 12, but I am desperate here. I decide to think on it a while I wander over to the toy section to find some goofy Star Wars thing I can give to Fish (which I found: a Darth Vader bobble head pen). Heading back over to the wrapping paper, something brightly colored caught my eye. It was more wrapping paper! Four aisles away from the other wrapping paper aisle. Seriously, whose idea was that to put wrapping paper in two totally different places in the same store? I find some paper appropriate for a mid-20's male and make for the registers.

Walking across the parking lot, I pass a guy who is sitting in his running car with gansta rap blaring loud enough you can hear it 6 blocks away. As I walk by he turns the music off, leans halfway out the window and SCREAMS at me, "Woo! That is a fine ass! I mean, that is a FINE ass! Can I PLEASE get your number?" The entire city of Chicago turned around to look at me. People, I know I am an attention whore, but there are limits. For instance, calling everyone within a 10 mile radius to examine my ass.

I get in Alistair and curse myself for losing my sticky note, being unable to figure out a garage pay booth by myself and not having a stash of wrapping paper already in my house.

From now on I am only shopping on the internet.



Post script: Today on the train to work, I pull the book I am reading out of my backpack, to discover my receipt/post-it combo marking the place where I left off. Fucking A.

Shiv & Lemon

Yesterday I had lunch with His Holy Fishness and spent a good part of the afternoon hanging out with him and Thugglife Chris at their place of employment. And I'm pretty sure I'll never be invited to do that ever again. Also, it is clear to me that, while they think I am the crazy one, the reality is that they just fail to see the incredible brilliance of my idea.

I'm hanging out in the store talking small gamer talk (ok listening. Truthfully I had no fucking idea what they were talking about) and wound up somehow having two items in my hands: A Nerf-like lemon thingy from Jamba Juice and one of those little metal hook-like hanging-thingies you put on the wall and hang shit from when you want to display it (Fish is currently shaking his head at my extremely articulate description of this. But you all knew what I was talking about right?).

And being that I'm hanging out in a video game store, as well as the fact that I'm a jackass, I randomly start slashing at things with my display hook. Which I've now begun to imagine is some type of shiv. After a particularly vicious slice to Thugglife's chest, I remember my "lemon" and say "Oh hey, wouldn't it suck if I had actually cut you? and then squeezed some lemon juice into it with my real lemon? If I had one? Boy that would be totally mean."

That was when it hit me, and what hit me is this: Wouldn't that be an awesome video game? Your character slashes people in battle, pretty bad alone, but then he squeezes some lemon juice in the open wound? I mean, that's just brutal. Did you ever get some lemon juice in a cut? That shit hurts! Why simply cut your enemy when you also pour citric acid in the wound? Man , I am so brilliant.

I run this great discovery by Fish and Thugglife. Their identical reaction being to stare fixedly at me and blink. But no matter, I'm on a roll now.

The patented move in the game is this spin move, see. You spin around so that you lead with your slasher hand, cutting your enemy, and then the spin carries you through for the follow through with the lemon squeeze. I twirled around the store in demonstration* of the beauty of this move. "and I even know what I'm going to call it," I announced. "It's great. I'm going to call it Shiv & Lemon."

"That is never going to sell," announced Fish in his Retail Voice of Authority. "Never. You're better off with your original idea." The original idea he was referring to was my first attempt at video game concept generation, a game I tentatively titled "Kill Things and Take Pictures". The inspiration of this was my horror at a story Fish told me. Apparently, back when he was the Ubernerd, he once was playing Everquest and killed the same frog over and over again for 12 and a half hours. That's real time folks. His motivation? It had a pretty earring, and Fish wanted his character to have the pretty earring, and to get it he had to sit there for over 12 hours repeatedly killing a frog. And, living in reality (or rather next door) as I do, I found that to be...a tad excessive. As in, when I want an earring I got to the store and buy one. I don't massacre tiny reptiles just so I can look pretty. But apparently, in Everquest, that is what you do. And it seemed, I don't know, fruity? that boys were bludgeoning things to death for charms and body glitter. So I was trying to think up another reward system for all that brutality. And what I came up with is, every character has a little camera, and when you maul something to death, you get to take a picture. Then you can show it off online to all your other reality challenged fantasy gaming friends and prove what a manly stud you are. At the time Fish insisted that that was the dumbest gaming idea ever, but now he had cast his previous disdain onto Shiv & Lemon.

"No," I insisted, "You don't understand. It will have a cult following. It will be bought by people like me just because they think the title is funny. I mean, c'mon, Shiv & Lemon! And what will happen then is, they will like the game so much, they will tell others, and they will like it, and tell more people, and suddenly it will be flying off the shelves. You won't be able to keep them in stock. AND THEN, after Shiv & Lemon is such a big hit, then I will release Kill Things and Take Pictures. I'll get James Earl Jones to voice the commercials. Like this (in my best girl-trying-to-sound-like James-Earl-Jones-voice), 'From the makers of Shiv & Lemon (long dramatic pause) comes Kill Things (shorter, but equally dramatic pause) and Take Pictures'. Oh, this is so going to rock."

"No, it's really not. No one is going to buy that, I'm telling you. No one." Fish, obviously just jealous that I thought of it first, continued to try raining on my parade, with Thugglife Chris standing behind him nodding in hardcore agreement.

They refused to understand, and also refused to let me go get a second opinion at Best Buy. I refused to shut up about it, and also refused to stop running around the store like an ADHD toddler.

Shiv & Lemon people. I am telling you. It's genius.

*Yes there were customers in the store. Yes, I asked them if they thought Shiv & Lemon was the greatest idea ever. Yes, they left quickly without buying anything.

Back With A Vengeance

Let me preface this post by saying that my boss is really a lovely person. He is very sweet and very thoughtful, kind, mostly cheerful, loves his partner and absolutely adores his dogs. He asks after my kitty, brings me chocolate for no reason and remembers to call his mother.

On the other side of that particular fence, you have the fact that the guy is a complete spastic. Everything in the world is a major crisis. He flits around the office in a panic all day long, frets over tiny details, hems and haws, gets underfoot, and makes a general nuisance of himself.

He was just out of town for three weeks, two of which he was out of the country, and moreover off the continent. Today is his first day back in the office.

I am going to kill him.

I don't mean that I am going to just hurt him. I mean that I am going to push him right out yonder 28th floor window, with nary so much as an umbrella to break his fall. I had gotten so used to being able to get things done, uninterrupted, being able to concentrate, and now....now it is gone. So, so gone.

So far today he has:

-Forwarded me 27 e-mails that he received while he was out, with a note attached to each: "Did you get this?" ...right above the original header containing my e-mail address.
-Brought an old copy of Baron's to my desk to look up something wasn't even in it in the first place, and left it here.
-Spent over 2 hours trying to figure out the answer to a question I answered for a client three weeks ago. Despite my telling him it had been handled, he resolved the problem, got the same answer I did, and copied me on the e-mail he sent to the client.
-Actually asked me if I was positive that EuroPacific Growth was an American Fund (apologies to those of you who don't work in this industry. Let me assure you, my readers who do are currently smacking their foreheads incredulously.)
- Came back to see if perchance he'd left the Baron's over here, looked in it for 10 minutes, and left it here again.
-Came to ask me if a client's June 30th statement came to me in the mail last Friday, that day being mere hours after the markets closed on the month of June (i.e. NO).
-Called because he thought he needed a password to open an e-mail attachment, then actually tried clicking on it after he called me, and found out he didn't need a password after all.
-Called to ask me to e-mail him something so that he could then e-mail the same thing to someone else...and copy me on it.
-Called back after I e-mailed it to him to say nevermind, just tell him where to find it on the network.

I'm going to get some lunch right now before he does one more completely irritating thing.

Going on a Golf Trip With Your Bar

The staff and friends of Tai's Til 4 returned Monday night from a Golf Trip to Galena, Illinois. I attended this trip with them, and had a purely lovely time. I've spent the last few days compiling a list of Dos and Don'ts so that you'll be able to glean the maximum enjoyment out of a trip with your bar, should you have the chance to go on one.

• DO ride there with your bartender. He already knows how to get there and he'll buy you lunch and play the Cow Game* with you**. He will also take you on a very fun and entertaining "Girls I fucked in Galena" tour.
• DON'T expect a direct route to Galena when riding with your bartender. He will stop repeatedly, including an hour and a half detour to take his niece for a throat culture at the hospital. Go with the flow. It will be worth it when he announces he knows how to cure his niece's sore throat, then walks over and farts on her.
• DO remember to bring your bathing suit, lest you find yourself doing some emergency shopping at the brand new 24 hour Galena Wal Mart.
• DON'T just decide "Aw, fuck it" and go swimming in your underwear. Especially if your underwear are a pair of white boxer shorts. And if you forget and do go swimming in your see through undies, please, please don't get out of the pool and go running around the banquet room where everyone can see your drippy wiener. Trust me: NO ONE wants to see that shit.
• DO room with your bartender. He will handle check in and check out and will carry your bags in for you.
• DON'T expect to get any sleep if you room with your bartender, between his snoring and his jumping on your bed at 4:30 in the morning when he gets done drinking while asking you why you disappeared an hour earlier. You can nap when you get home. (and at the golf course clubhouse under a table before dinner)
• DO steal a golf cart and ride around the course harassing the people who actually went on the trip to golf.
• DO partake heavily of the free alcohol the bar owner provided at the convenient filling stations placed strategically around the course. DO also take advantage of the tiny bottles of Captain and Jaeger the bar owner has stashed in his golf cart.
• DON'T forget sunscreen if you're going to be driving around harassing golfers in a stolen golf cart all day.
• DO invite the little boy bringing you ice to have dinner with the group. Do engage him in a deep conversation about the life of a dairy farming family when he tells you he can't have dinner with you because tonight is his turn to milk the cows.
• DON'T ask him if he has to milk the cows by hand. He'll look at you with scorn and say "no one milks by hand anymore" and then you will feel stupid. Or go ahead and ask if you don't mind feeling stupid.
• DO hang out with an ex-marine CPD sharpshooter and watch him try to cure someone else of the hiccups through Extreme Breathing Relaxation techniques. DO laugh about this with a guy who has a master's degree in religion but dropped out of seminary to be a bouncer.
• DON'T leave your arm hanging out the window for the duration of the 2 1/2 hour return trip - especially if you burned it on the golf course the day before because you forgot your sunscreen.

* The Cow Game is this thing my mother invented when Cap and I were kids. When you go on long car trips, you look out the window on your side. Any cows that you see you count out loud. How ever many cows you count is how many you get to have. As you pass more cows, you add them to the cows you already have. If you pass a cemetery on your side, you have to bury all of your cows and start over. Whoever has the most cows at the end of the trip wins. It took me until high school to figure out that my mother only invented this game to get us kids to shut the hell up and stop touching each other.
**He'll play it but he won't play it right. For instance he'll see a field of cows, and instead of counting them, he'll just estimate "Oh, 100 cows." when clearly there aren't more than maybe 30. Or neither of you will pass any cows for a long time, and then suddenly there will be some on your side, so while you're basking in the glow of your hard earned 4 cows, he'll say, "Well yeah, but I've got like 60 horses." You can try to tell him horses don't count, but he won't listen. At this point I advise that you just sigh and be content with the fact that you got him to play your asinine game in the first place.

Drama-o-rama

So my friend gets very sick while he's on vacation with his family out of the country, right? If you were his girlfriend back in the states, what would you do? Would you:

a. Send him cute e-mails with pictures of soup and ginger ale and other sickbed items, along with messages about how you miss him and hope he feels better;

b. Try not to bother him, but plan a big "Welcome Home!" surprise for him when he returns;

c. Jump on an emergency flight packing a thermometer, throat drops and Vitamin C and rescue him in his hour of overseas need;

d. Have your ex sleep over your house, cheat on your boyfriend with him, tell him about it in an e-mail when he's ill and far from home and friends, then get upset when he breaks up with you and go cry to HIS friends expecting sympathy.

I'll let you think through your answer for a bit while I discuss the concept of consequences. Dictionary.com gives the following definitions for consequence:

1. Something that logically or naturally follows from an action or condition.
2. The relation of a result to its cause.
3. A logical conclusion or inference.

It seems a very simple concept, no? Yet people seem to be struggling with this concept at present. For example, if you should, say, cheat on your boyfriend, the naturally following action is that he may break up with you. This should not be a surprise; it is the consequence that fits your particular action. That you e-mailed him and admitted it really has little bearing here. Nor does your being remorseful about it after the fact. Cheat on boyfriend = no more boyfriend. Similarly, assume that now you have cheated on your boyfriend and he dumped your ass, you decide to call his friends looking for advice because you are hurt. Whose friends are they? They are his. Who is their loyalty to? To him. So if you call them up and try to play the "I'm the victim" card, the logical conclusion of that is that rather than the validation you crave, you will end up getting a big "Fuck you". That is the consequence for deliberately hurting that person's buddy. How you feel about the whole situation: irrelevant. See? Consequence. It's simple.

Now, back to the SAT question at the top of the post. In the context of this recent discussion of the consequence principle, which of these options seems like a good way to NOT keep your boyfriend hanging around?

Epilogue

After drying my body and hair with paper towels and throwing some clothes on, I headed for work. As I stepped out onto the front porch and locked the door behind me, I glanced into the laundry basket.

Mother fucker was still in there.

Amberance and The Visitor (a comedy in three acts)- Part III

Part III

I woke up this morning long before dawn. As in 4 a.m. Usually if I'm up at 4 a.m. it's because a) I haven't been to bed yet or b) the bartender has called me because he 1) is drunk 2) is angry 3) has a bar story to tell 4) feels like making fun of me 5) some combination of the above. Today however, I set my alarm for 4 a.m. on purpose because I needed to be in super early today to run some last minute Monte Carlo simulations (Fish insists on referring to these as "Monty Python" simulations, and to be honest, with as well as this endeavor has gone for me today, that is probably more appropriate. But I digress). Let me just say that because of the bartender's bizarre phone-in hours, I'm generally awake at 4 a.m. as often as not. Somehow though, when you are doing it on purpose for work related reasons, it is almost unbearable.

By 4:45 I had finally tired of bashing my alarm clock to death every 9 minutes, and so I stumbled out of my room and toward the general direction of the shower.

Ah, the shower. The shower is a special place for me. How I love to lather up my head with shampoo and twist it into funny shapes. Or to draw little cartoons on the steamed up window. Or endlessly play with my navel (which contains a small shiny object, which I have mentioned before I am fascinated by). But also I do some of my best thinking in the shower.

Today's shower was a fairly long one since it was far too early to be functional and the longer I stayed in there, the longer I could avoid going to work. Meaning I had a lot of time to think. So there I was scrubbing away and thinking about my waking nightmare the prior evening. I went over my decisions for errors, now that I was out of any immediate spider danger, but concluded that at each turn I had done the only thing I could have done to survive. I was quite pleased with my outer calm and rational* behavior. Concluding that that particular hellish episode was behind me, I turned my thoughts to the few scraps of clothes I had in my closet (since my laundry was still in the car) and attempted to make a reasonable professional ensemble for work. Dark gray slacks and a red mandarin shirt were still available, so I was all set. So, having done the best thinking I was going to do for the day, I rinsed myself off and shut off the water.

Which is when it hit me.

Every single towel that I own is in the backseat of my car.

And "every single towel" literally means every single towel, including beach towel, hand towels, dish towels from the kitchen, even my tiny little scrap of wash rag were all outside and a block away from naked, wet, dripping me. Folks, this is my life. This is the way it is in my world all the time. Every single day is some variation on my being trapped in the shower, dripping wet and cold, with no towel in sight, because of a teeny tiny fucking bug.

I started laughing. I laughed and laughed, so hard that it hurt. And then I laughed some more, so greatful was I for having with a sense of humor about myself.

*or at minimum, rationalized.

Amberance and The Visitor (a comedy in three acts)- Part II

Part II

I'm really not a fan of doing laundry, which is why I own enough underwear that I can go 3 weeks to a month without washing clothes. The drawback to this is that by the time I sack it up and do my laundry, there are TONS of clothes. Enough to usually require me to make several trips when transporting them from house to car, car to laundromat, laundromat to car, and car to house. Also I will be standing there listening to Spanish language television and folding them for a really long time.

Aside from the Mexican soap opera blaring from all corners of the room, laundry goes fairly well. I have enough laundry to use the Big Washers, which for some as yet unexplained reason, I think are really neato. So I'm happy about that. I also get a surprise call from my friend Minnick in Cleveland, who may potentially visit me late next week, so I'm also happy about that. And by the time I'm done washing and drying my metric ton of laundry, almost everyone else has left, and I have the folding table all to myself. So I'm happy about that. While I'm merrily folding my underwear in thirds (not even kidding you), Fish calls. He's on his way home from work, and I tell him how the laundry's going and that my buddy called and so forth. Fish says, "So what about your visitor?" I am momentarily perplexed. We had just discussed the possibility of Minnick visiting, so he couldn't be talking about that. And boys don't typically refer to women's periods as a "visitor" (as we girls do), and in fact, generally don't bring up such topics at all, so I'm pretty sure he's not talking about that.

It is then that I remember: There is a spider on my porch. And it's dark. It will be waiting for me. Waiting for me to struggle up the steps with heavy bags of laundry, repeatedly. Waiting for it's chance to jump on my head and Eat Me. "Oh God," I say in dismay. "Um, can I sleep at your house?" This would seem almost reasonable (almost, because who sleeps over someone else's house because of a spider on the porch?) except for the fact that Fish lives a solid hour away from me, and it is now 10:30. And I have to be at work early. Which gives me another idea. "Oh! Or, I could just go to work now, and sleep under my desk. That might work. There's no spiders in the Loop."

"I'm pretty sure that's not true," said the wise Fish.

I park my car while talking to Fish. Fish tells me about some games he's playing and we chat amicably. Ten minutes later he asks "Are you still in your car?"

Me, sheepishly, "Yeah. But it's because I was watching this little bunny hop around."

"Amber, you have to go in the house."

"No. I'm sleeping in the car. With my laundry." I had already determined that I was going to have a hard enough time getting myself back in the house without having to lug a clumsy, not to mention heavy bag of clothes up the stairs. It would slow me down and give the spider more surface area to use in order to get ON ME. My plan was to leave the laundry in the car overnight, and bring it in the following evening, when it was still light out and I could watch for the spider. I had a few scraps of clothes still in the house that I could wear to work the next day. Assuming, of course, I could find the inner strength to go in the house.

"You are not sleeping in your car. Go in the house."

I meandered my way towards home. Passing my neighbors, whom I've never spoken to, I wondered if maybe they wouldn't mind my crashing on their couch for the night. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked up, paralyzed. He's up there. Waiting for me. Waiting to jump ON ME. And I realized that as I stood there quaking with fear, directly above me was an enormous tree. And everyone knows that trees are giant spider army bases. Any second one or 50 of them would be parachuting onto my head. I was trapped between a spider infested tree and a spider infested porch with nowhere to run. I narrated for Fish, in case something happened to me, so he could explain to the police when they found my half-eaten corpse halfway up the stairs. "Ok. Ok, Fish? I'm going. I'm going up the stairs right now. I can't see anything. Oh God. What if they've built a web across the stairs and I walk right into it in the dark?" (Seriously, these are things I was actually thinking. In my head, I imbue them with an overwhelming intelligence, malice and superior organizational skills. And so, so much evil.) I felt something touch my head. "AAAAAAAGGHH! AAAAAAGH? WHAT WAS THAT? WHAT TOUCHED MY HEAD? (pause for hyperventilation) All right. Ok. I think I'm ok. I'm pretty sure that was just a tree branch. All right, I'm almost there..." Fish's patience is absolutely astounding, I'm telling you.

After my flight through the gaunlet of terror, I slammed the door behind me and locked it (you know, so they can't turn the knob and just walk right in). I made Kristen sniff my head for any spiders that may have transferred there from the tree branch, but she didn't find anything she wanted to play with, so I figured I'd lucked out on that one. Fish kindly listened to me wax psychotic about how they have magical powers and can fit into tiny spaces and come out huge again on the other side, and that I could feel them crawling on me,and about how they are Dastardly, in the way the villains from the pre-talkie cinema days were dastardly, laughing maniacally and twisting their mustaches while the train bears down on the damsel they tied to the tracks.

Finally Fish talked me into going to bed, and I fell asleep, waking only occasionally with the sensation of evil eight legged monsters crawling all over my skin...

Amberance and The Visitor, (a comedy in three acts)- Part I

Note: The only, and I mean ONLY reason that any of this happened is because I was dumb enough to actually laugh and enjoy Heather's story about her own run in with a spider. In the future I will take better care when tempting fate.

Act I

I stand in my dining room, staring fixedly at the laundry basket on top of my dining room table. I have my phone to my ear. Fish cheerily picks up the phone on his end and hears me say "Fish, there is a fucking *spider* In. My. Laundry basket."

Fish is 35 miles away and at work. How exactly I thought he was going to be helpful in this situation I have no freaking clue. "Uh oh," says Fish.

"Fish! What am I going to do?! It's inside my dining room!"

I love Fish. I love him because he is possessed of much logic. Unfortunately for me, logic does not help in these types of situations. "Kick it down the stairs and outside. It will come out."

"ARE YOU CRAZY?! I can't touch the laundry basket! It's IN THERE! It could GET ON ME! It's contaminated now. I'll have to throw it out." I am entirely serious when I am saying this. Under no circumstances can I put clothes that touch my body into a container that once harbored a spider. Clearly I must buy a new laundry basket. Eventually. But someone else has to get it the hell out of my house because I can't touch it.

Fish calmly tries again. "Do you have a spray bottle? Spray it with water, and it will crawl to the middle of the basket, and then you can kill it with a shoe or something."

I'm not having it. "You want me to SPRAY IT WITH SOMETHING?! And piss it off even more? No way. No. Fucking. Way. If I spray it, it will *move* more! And my shoe? I can't kill it with my shoe. It could get ON ME FISH. And I'd have to throw my shoe out too. Think of something else."

"I'll call you back," he replied. This is not because he was thinking of solutions for me so much as it was because he had customers with problems he could actually solve and thus, wisely decided to focus on them instead.

I am left to deal with the spider alone. We are having somewhat of a staring contest (I think at one point I even said to Fish in my best crazy-talk voice "He's staring at me!"). I have to get my laundry done tonight. And I can't just leave when there's a spider in my house. There is no way around it. I must pluck up the courage and Act.

I run to my front door and open it wide. I am going to carry the basket out there, but I can't pause to open the door with the basket in my hand, because the thing might get ON ME. So I do it ahead of time (score one for advance planning). I go back to the dining room. Carefully I check all over the outside of the basket, looking for more of them (another of my irrational spiderisms is that if I see one, there is obviously an army of 65 others hiding nearby waiting to pounce). Finding no other interlopers, I grasp the edge of the basket and start walking quickly toward my front door. As soon as I start moving, IT starts moving. Blood curdling screams fill the house, if not most of the neighborhood. Immediately upon getting to the porch, I drop the thing like it's on fire. The spider bounces and almost falls out one of the side holes. I shriek again, because if it is airborne it could get ON ME. But he falls back into the basket and scrambles back to his post to stare at me some more.

Quickly as I can I make several trips to the car, always watching for movement from the basket, and skirting it as much as possible. I get everything into the car and lock myself in. Paranoid, I check every surface of my car for the elusive Spider Army. Fish calls back in the middle of this sweep. "Any progress?"

"Um. Um. Um. (I struggle with words when I'm on the verge of panic.) Lateral progress. The basket with spider is outside on my porch, and I am in my car with my laundry."

"Well good! How is that lateral?"

"Um. Yeah. Um. Well, you see, I'm going to go do my laundry now, but when I get back it will be dark. And I won't be able to SEE where it is. So. I have no idea how I'm going to get back in my house. But I don't have to deal with it for a few hours, so the problem is temporarily solved."

Fish talks to me calmly while I drive to the laundromat. He graciously gets online to research characteristics of the Brown Recluse, since I have now convinced myself that that is what this creepy fucker is. He is patient and makes affirmative sounds as I ramble on about how they are Evil, and Conniving, and Dastardly, and most importantly, Trying To Eat Me. My blood pressure has nearly returned to normal by the time I pull into the parking lot.

You Bastard(s)

I am tired. I am exhausted beyond belief. I sleep and I sleep, and I'm just as tired as before. I also have a sore throat and a headache, and my body is sore. And because I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express last night, I know that what I have is mono.

Alright now, who was it? Come on, fess up. Which one of you fuckos that I've been kissing was sick and didn't fucking tell me? You know who you are. Hell, you know who each other are (hint: if you haven't been in the Chicago area in the last two weeks, it's probably not you). I swear to you, next month when I have the energy to stand for longer than 4 minutes at a time, you'll pay big.

You just think about owning up, you germ-leaving kissing bandit you. You think about it...while I go take (another) nap...

Mini-Update

Someday, and someday soon, you will stop by Bizzybiz and, lo and behold, there will be a long and involved post about the serious and intense drama I've somehow managed to let envelop me yet again in my life. It will make you laugh and it will make you cry. Mostly it will make you smack your forehead and say, "How does she continually get herself into these types of things time and time again?" That day is not today.

Today what you get is a link over to Heather's Blog where you can find details of an experiment the two of us have cooked up for your inevitable amusement and our probable embarrassment. Though honestly I can't wait for my dare. I'm never happier then when I'm making a complete ass of myself and then photographing/writing about it so that the general public can see me for the shitpencil I really am.

So, to recap, and in the interest of brevity: Drama abounds. Hilarity ensues. Posts are forthcoming.

Heather & Amber: Clearly Not Punks

VelociHeather: hey, does the PGS in your name stand for pukey girl socks?
VelociHeather: pungent gritty soda?
VelociHeather: perfect green silk?
VelociHeather: pussy goat shit?
VelociHeather: ugh, that was gross, sorry
VelociHeather: prancing gargantuan sweeties?
PGS DenMILF: haha
PGS DenMILF: i'll suggest those to joe
PGS DenMILF: it joe and jim's band
VelociHeather: putty grape stains
PGS DenMILF: pale green stars
PGS DenMILF: seriously
VelociHeather: haha, gay
PGS DenMILF: is that the worst name for a punk rock band ever?
VelociHeather: lol
VelociHeather: looks like we feel that same about the name
PGS DenMILF: it would explain why joe was rubbing jim's nipple the other day anyway
VelociHeather: pale green stars for a punk band?
VelociHeather: lame
VelociHeather: iron fist of death
VelociHeather: punch the throat
VelociHeather: ass kickers
VelociHeather: those are names
PGS DenMILF: fucked your sister, thad be good
VelociHeather: suck my wang
VelociHeather: punch that bitch
VelociHeather: something like that, you know? needs more rage
PGS DenMILF: indeed. rage is important
PGS DenMILF: it's the main reason i can't be a punk myself
VelociHeather: they could use one of our awesome insults for a name
VelociHeather: like shitpencil
PGS DenMILF: people are like "FUCK YOU" and I go, "okay"
VelociHeather: tinselfucker
VelociHeather: You have no rage?
PGS DenMILF: not enough to fit in with the anarchists
VelociHeather: hmm
VelociHeather: don't they have punk rock for passive aggressive people?
VelociHeather: Groups with names like, "Whatever, go ahead and do it, I don't care"
VelociHeather: "Sure, fine, whatever"
PGS DenMILF: yeah. bouncing souls
PGS DenMILF: also an incredibly bad punk rock name
VelociHeather: hmm, but not as bad as the pgs one
PGS DenMILF: no that sucks mad dick
VelociHeather: there you go
VelociHeather: "sucks mad dick"
VelociHeather: for you avg homo punk band
PGS DenMILF: oh, i like it

This Is Ponderous, Man. Really Ponderous.

Recent events have got me debating: Is it better to have a fuck-friend, or a friend-fuck?

Now I know you're saying, "Amber, you tawdry slut! Perhaps you should be less of a tart and get into an actual relationship."

Someday kids, someday. But the truth is, I'm not over the ex, and I'm even more not over the kids, and I'm having a good time justifying this behavior as "finding myself". So, kindly blow it out your ass.

"Fair enough," you say. "But what in Bilbo's pocket is the difference between a fuck-friend and a friend-fuck?"

The difference is this: A fuck-friend is someone you are sleeping with and that's it. You don't hang out with them, you don't go for drinks or have long telephone conversations, you don't get them a nice birthday card. In fact, you may not otherwise even be able to stand each other. There is nothing there but the physical. A good example of this is the Rusty Nail (nickname compliments of my dear friend TupperDoug, who explains, "Rusty, because he's old. And Nail, because he likes to nail you." Thanks, D). The Rusty Nail used to work with me several jobs ago. He was an ornery bastard who never turned his timecards in on time, and resented having this 21-year old fresh from college with her fancy degree little lassy nagging him about it. For my part, I thought he was a stubborn mule and general all around asshole. We used to get together on Tuesday nights and make hate to each other. The next day we'd be back at each other's throats. This went on for an entire summer. We never started hanging out, we never went to dinner. Hell, we never even learned to get along. I haven't seen him even one time since I quit that job. That's a fuck-friend.

A friend-fuck is someone that is just exactly like your other friends. You get together, hang out, go to parties, talk on the phone, e-mail, whatever. You also happen to occasionally fall into the same bed, and subsequently each other. Everything else stays the same. You don't start holding hands in public, or buying them flowers or shit like that. You're just friends. Friends with a cherry on top.

So which is better? With the fuck-friend, there is no chance of getting any more deeply involved. There are no feelings there, even of the non-romantic variety, and therefore no real chance of getting hurt. But along with that, there is never going to be anything deeper, and if it goes on long enough it will start to get hollow (read: boring). Conversely, with your friend-fuck, you have the benefit of being with someone you really care about. You actually have something to talk about in between takes or what have you. But what you also have is a connection. A connection that can grow into romantic feelings on the part of one or both parties. A connection that can lead you down a path of fear and jealousy. The dark side of friend-fucking if you will. The kind of stuff that if you don't tread very, very carefully could unravel your entire friendship.

Over the years I have found myself in both of these situations a number of times, and I have to tell you people: I still don't have an answer for you. Or, for that matter, for me. The benefits and drawbacks for each still appear pretty evenly balanced.

It's a mystery kids. And that's why, so is mankind.

Murphy's Law

Today I'm wearing a dress. It has material of three colors: white, red and black. Also today, I stopped for a very rare cup of Starbucks finest on my way in. Because I am Captain Klutzo, I spilled it within seconds of leaving the shop. Where did it land?

Yes. Only on the two white parts.

6th Grade English

Remember when you were in junior high or middle school, and your English teacher made you write in reflective sentences? An example:

Homework question: Did Suzy go to the grocery store with her mother?
Your answer: Yes, Suzy did go to the store with her mother.

Some guy was talking like that on the train the other day:

Reflective Sentence Guy: What do you want to do tonight?
Aquaintance: I don't know. Would you like to get some dinner on the way home?
RSG: I would like to get some dinner on the way.
A: Do you think we should just grab takeout?
RSG: We should just grab some takeout.
A: Oh! I think I have some leftover cake for dessert!
RSG: Yes, leftover cake would be good for dessert.

This went on from the Loop all the way to Belmont. You know what? It's annoying.

This Is Why My Friends Always Run Away

Have I mentioned my childlike awe surrounding small shiny objects? Fascinating I assure you.

Such as yesterday. I took a break from working* to use the latrine yesterday. I was sitting there (as girls do) looking at the floor, and I noticed some little tiny silver pieces of something I couldn't identify.

Which obviously made me think of mercury. You know, the mysteriously expanding-with-heat, in a liquid state at room temperature metallic element, formerly of thermometers**? That's what tiny silver specks on the bathroom floor remind you of right? Right?

So anyway, I'm in the can, pondering mercury. I once spilled some mercury by dropping a thermometer on the floor. And immediately panicked because, you see, I have a cat. A special one. A young one. Who, like many young animals of various species, likes to put things in her mouth. And completely brain-addled person that I am, in my head I start picturing my cat, floating in water upside-down with x-shaped eyes. Because that's how they always draw mercury-poisoned fish, so I figured Kristen would eat some, draw x's on her eyelids, find a body of water, willingly get in it, and keel over dead if I didn't do something to clean up the mercury right then.

Have you ever tried to clean up mercury? It's hard. It beads up all weird-like and rolls around on the floor. Eventually I discovered that if I blew on it, the whole mess would gather as one large quivering silvery bead. Once I did that, all I had to do was get a paper towel and mop it up right? Because, hey, liquid!

But that didn't work - I did successfully get the mercury bead on top of the paper towel, but instead of absorbing, it just rolled around on top like a spineless marble.

All of this went through my head while I looked at the shiny metal things on the floor of the bathroom. When I got back to my desk I asked my friend Fish via AIM what he thought about my bead of mercury, and his take was the same as mine: that the molecular structure of the mercury must simply be too big to fit into the holes in my paper towel. It is a metal after all, despite it's viscosity. But then, as always happens, Fish wanted to know where I even came up with such a question.

And that is why my friends consistently end up running away.

*carrying on multiple IM conversations with Fish, Vicodin Jim and PGS JoE.
** Hot Heather informed me last night that thermometers are now made with alcohol instead of mercury, assuming you can even find one that isn't digital.

I'd Tell You About It, But I'd Have To Kill You

Just coming off of one of the most awesome weekends ever. It was beautiful! There was sex! There was booze! There was rock and roll! (though, not all at once nor necessarily in that order)

I had so much fun that, unfortunately, I can't really tell you about it. There are people who are reading who will barf if I post all the gory details, and other people who might read them and find out Things of Which They Need Not Know (T.W.T.N.N.K.).

What I can tell you is that the guys from Sum 41 are really nice guys. And that that opinion is based on spending 35 seconds watching them sign a big glossy photograph for me and the collective 6 words they spoke to me. But they did it while smiling, so obviously they are very nice.

I can also tell you that Rise Against rocks so much ass I started to think that maybe I should become a punker. And I can tell you that when Rise Against is rocking out all hardcore-like, and a torrential downpour starts, that it is very cool and punk rock to just keep jumping up and down and waving your fist (or potentially your "rock on" finger-pose) while getting thoroughly drenched. Until they are done playing, and you are cold and wet, and no one knows if Sum 41 is even going to get to play, let alone what time it will be, so you go home. (Note: after careful consideration of this last part, I have decided that being punk is still not quite for me.)

I can also tell you that my brother makes a mean Long Island, and that by "mean" I mean "Gets You Fucking Drunk". And that if you're ever at a party of my brother's, make sure to order his very tasty self-invented shot called Barney's Balls (it's purple). Just be prepared to wait 20 minutes for it, as it involves about 17 kinds of liquor, a shaker that leaks and the ice which he stores in a separate room.

I'd like to tell you about how cool my cousin Sarah is, but much of her visit occurred during the T.W.T.N.N.K. So I'll just say this: she's really fucking cool.

So is my friend Fish, but again T.W.T.N.N.K. prevents me from elaborating.

So you see, a good time was had by all, but really you don't see, because the best parts happened during T.W.T.N.N.K. and I've entered into a C.T.K.S. (Conspiracy To Keep Secrets) even though in my humble and sober opinion, the T.W.T.N.N.K. wasn't really as B.A.D.A.P.A.M.I.O.T.B. (Big A Deal As People Are Making It Out To Be).

But whatever, y'all. It kinda harkens back to the days of Tim Doesn't Know and that's never not fun. My advice? Come visit me if you don't already live here. We will create our own nights of T.W.T.N.N.K. and you too will have something to hold over the heads of your friends and torture them with.

*Addendum: Hot Heather would like me to add that she was present for nearly every event chronicled and not chronicled in this post.

Tai's Til Noon

Hey, you know what's weird? Being in the neighborhood bar all by yourself. And I'm not talking about when the bar just opened, the bartender is in the corner playing video games, and you're the first person to show up. What I'm talking about is, it's 7:30 in the morning, the staff has left, the sun is shining and the only noise is coming from the TV that the owner left on for you, which is blaring a story about Danika Patrick only being 100 pounds for the 15th time in a row on ESPN News. You are in the bar and you are alone. Dude, it's really weird.

I found out that being in a bar all by yourself on a Sunday morning is weird this past Sunday morning, when I was in Tai's all by myself, feeling weird.

No, I didn't pass out under the pool table unnoticed and get locked in. And no, no one suggested that since I'm there all the time anyway, I might as well just stay there. No, I was there all alone because I was painting the bathrooms. And I was painting the bathrooms because, well, because they really needed painted.

The owner had patched the walls some three months ago, but never got around to painting them. And, you know, I'm always taken care of in that bar. My friend the bartender has been known on occasion to pay for my drinks, and even when he doesn't, I don't have to worry about having cash on me, because the owner is always cool with me paying my tab at some point in the future (the reason this works, for those of you who are thinking about walking out on a tab at Tai's, is that he knows I will, in fact, come back and pay it). So I got to thinking about that, and the half dozen people who were quickly tossed out for their inappropriate handling of me by the wonderfully attentive staff, and I felt like I should give something back for all their generosity, so I decided to offer to paint the bar.

Aw, who am I kidding? The walls looked like seven kinds of shit and it was driving me up a fucking wall every time I had to pee. I had to paint them. I begged to paint them. For free. Anything. I would have done anything to get those walls painted.

Luckily, the owner was sympathetic to my plight*, and agreed that indeed I should paint the walls, I should paint them whenever I wanted, and I should paint them whatever color I wanted. So after much consideration, I painted the walls a very dark blue right after close on Saturday. After close to give them the maximum time to dry before they opened again, and dark blue because it seemed like one of the more difficult colors to write people's phone numbers/leave kiss marks with lipstick/draw cartoon penises on. And they look really good. The owner and the bartender and others all stopped by during the day just to check out my handiwork, and all called to say how nice of a job I did.

But man is it an eerie feeling being locked in a bar by yourself for 6 hours on a Sunday morning.

*wanted his walls painted inexpensively

Ladies and Gentlemen: He's Done It

If you have not yet been to see Star Wars III: Revenge of the Sith, stop reading this right now and go see it. I mean it. Drop whatever it is you are doing: tell your boss you are ill, take the kids to the sitter, turn the lawnmower off, get off the phone, take your hand off your dick...whatever it takes, and get thee to the nearest movie theater. Because George Lucas has done something wonderful.

I know, I know. Twice burned you were. Trust in George you do not. A bunch of crap lately he has made.

Listen. The Force is strong in that one. He has turned back to the good side, and just in time for Anakin to turn away. I cannot express to you properly how impressed I was with that film. The best I can do to illustrate is to tell you that I have completely forgiven him for Jarjar, indeed, for Phantom Menace in it's entirety. What I saw, at 12:01 on Thursday morning was truly, truly a Star Wars movie. Without spoilers, here is my review:

Anakin Skywalker's descent into darkness is absolutely heartbreaking. Peeps, the kid tried so hard to do the right thing, but in the end he just wasn't strong enough. He did all the wrong things for all the right reasons and it cost him absolutely everything. Watching the original trilogy will be for me like watching brand new movies, because I will now see them through the filter of what Anakin went through to become Darth Vader. He is finally a three-dimensional character, rather than the two-dementional character that I grew up with.

And speaking of Darth, the scene where he first suits up is everything I ever dreamed of. There was complete and utter stillness as the entire theater held their collective breaths and watched the mask go on, the helmet come down, a pregnant pause, and then...he take his first hollow, mechanical breath. But it doesn't end there. I don't know why this didn't register with me, because I knew it would have to happen, but when they tip him upright and Palpatine asks him, "Lord Vader, can you hear me?", hearing the answer come from the voice of James Earl Jones rocked me through to my core. It felt like I had been waiting my entire life to hear that sound.

Palpatine, by the way, steals the show. Steals it. That guy is just such an incredible actor. He is so evil I actually felt colder whenever he was on the screen.

Yoda too. Yoda rips some shit up in this one in a way that makes his battle with Dooku look like an afternoon at the ballet. I would not want to mess with that little green dude, I shit you not. The things they can do with CGI these days, I'm telling you.

Natalie Portman. It is ri-fucking-diculous how incredibly fucking hot that chick is.


The viewing itself was an interesting experience. I'd talked this thing up for weeks, and when the day finally came, my boss showed up at the office with a HUGE cake for me as a surprise. It has little action figures of Obi Wan and Jango Fett from their fight scene in Clones, complete with a backdrop. He had written "Happy Premiere Amber!" on it. By the way, did I mention that my boss is cooler than your boss? He is.

I took the cake with me over to Heather's house where I prepared for the movie dressing up as Padme, making Heather take pictures of me sitting outside in the grass like the scene I copied my outfit from, eating the cake and doing shots of DayQuil with Jim since we were both feeling shitty.

We headed for the theater early and were in our seats nearly two hours before showtime. As was almost everyone else. We sat and we sat, until finally two nerds generously offered their fancy, hundred dollar lightsabers up to any volunteers who wanted to duel. The most popular duel was the one between two girls in their pajamas. By the way, if you're a single gal who likes pimply nerdy guys who have never been laid, midnight premieres of sci-fi fantasy movies are the place to be. Dudes outnumbered chicks by my estimate at about 6 to 1. If was a festival of self-abused sausages in there.

Few people were dressed up, although I did see a 4 year old Vader (It's midnight! WHAT ARE YOUR PARENTS THINKING?), but it seemed like everyone had a lightsaber. I had left mine at Heather's and felt slightly left out, but being that all the geeks treated me like it was Padme Appreciation Day I didn't dwell on it much.


Hey! What are you people still doing here? Didn't I just tell you to get your ass off the internet and go to the damn movies? Scram, and may the Force be with you.

Star Wars Day

Hey everyone! It's Star Wars day! Look for a post tomorrow or Friday on:

-My spoiler-free review of the film.

-What it's like to be at a midnight Star Wars showing.

-Photos of me and the other geeks dressed up like complete morons.

-Photos of the cake my boss gave me this morning.

Also, if you haven't checked it out yet, it looks like today is the last entry for the Darthside Blog. I will be sad to see it go.

Eleven hours and counting! May the Force be with you.

Grillin' With Chef Vinny

With summer fast approaching I am reminded of another story involving Vinny the Guinea. (I know it doesn't seem that summer is fast, or at all approaching, but work with me on this one people.)

Back in the day, Vinny, along with half the other people we knew, was employed at a certain telemarketing firm hawking magazine subscriptions. He was good at it. At least, he was marginally better at it than all the other magazine subscription hawkers in his office. We know this because one hot sunny day, he won a prize for being the top seller of the month.

The prize was a brand spanking new propane gas grill. And he was excited, and justifiably proud. He had earned that shiny new grill and by gum, he was going to enjoy it! He called up the whole crew and invited them over his house (we all still lived with our parents back then) on a Sunday afternoon for some down-home grillin' featuring his lean, mean propane powered grilling machine.

But, like most of Vinny's grand schemes, there was a flaw in his plan. See, when you win a free propane grill, you do not always win a tank filled with propane gas. Sometimes, as in this case, you win an empty tank and your cheapskate ass has to go buy the propane for it yourself.

Everyone arrives at Vinny's house late on a Sunday afternoon and starving, only to learn that there is no propane to be had. See, all the propane sellin' joints in southwest suburban Cleveland were closed for the day. Vinny hadn't got the tank filled on Saturday because he thought it already had gas in it. When questioned what in the world would make him think the tank was filled already, he responded, "I don't know. I guess I should have checked. I mean, I guess the tank did seem like it was kind of light..."

So: It looked like a burgerless afternoon for our heroes. But hark! What is that I hear from inside the house? Why it's Vinny's mom! And she's carrying a bag of charcoal, lighter fluid, and a book of matches out to her hapless son! Hooray! The day is saved!

Vinny's mom disappeared into the house while Vinny went to work on his parents more traditional charcoal grillin' getup. The rest of us settled in around the picnic table with our beverages and conversed amongst ourselves. Soon the scent of burning charcoal and sizzling beef filled the air. And it was good.

At least it seemed to be.

The first batch of meaty, juicy goodness was set before us, and we leapt on it like a pack of ravenous dogs. I bit down into mine and let the rich flavors slide over my tongue: salt, meat, lighter fluid...wait a minute, lighter fluid? I looked around me at my fellow carnivores. Aye, everyone at the table was looking from their burger to their neighbor, back to their burger and finally, over to Vinny at the grill.

Vinny was standing in front of the grill. From our vantage we could see another batch of meat, Vinny and his spatula, and a roaring inferno of angry flames. On closer inspection, we further saw that Vince had the bottle of lighter fluid in his non-spatula wielding hand and was frantically pouring it over the hot coals. "Vince," someone finally was able to intone, "WHAT are you DOING?"

"I'm grilling, what does it look like?" he replied in confusion.

It was then that we learned Vince had never grilled over charcoal before. Apparently he had also never WATCHED anyone grill over charcoal before either, because he really and truly thought that charcoal grilling involved the use of an open flame. When the fire kept dying down to embers, Vinny, not realizing that this was by design, began pouring lighter fluid over the briquettes to keep them alight. With our meat mere inches above them. The effect was a taste as though our burgers had been marinated in the stuff. Oily and bitterly disgusting they were, and I was merely thankful that no one had felt the urge for a cigarette with their meal and gotten their face blown off.

Shame of all shames, Vinny's mom heard the shouting, and came to Vinny's rescue by taking over the grilling responsibilities and salvaging what meat had not been tainted. While we sat at the table enjoying our revised dinner entrees, John leaned forward and asked casually, "Hey Vince, do you think you could go in the house and get me, just a bowl of lighter fluid so I could DIP MY BURGER IN IT? This one just doesn't taste right."

Here's to a delicious summer everyone!

Attack of the Stupid Brigade

I went to Best Buy last night to pick up some filmage for Sunday night viewing (High Fidelity and Holy Grail). If you shop at Best Buy as often as I do, you already know about the deal they have going where spending money in their store entitles you to your choice of 8 free issues of Sports Illustrated or Entertainment Weekly.

The woman in line in front of me does not shop there with the frequency I do, and the cashier was explaining this fabulous opportunity to her. Clearly this was a MAJOR life decision for her, because she hemmed and hawed about it for about 10 minutes before finally settling on Entertainment Weekly.

Entertainment Weekly, people. Remember that.

Even after making a selection she was still a bit confused by the whole process. "Eight free issues," she mused. "So, what is that, once a.....month?"

I am not kidding you.

But it gets even worse. I look at the cashier, wanting to share my amusement at this woman's stupidity with someone else, but she can't meet my eye because she's busy reading the back of the card to find out how often this woman will be receiving her Entertainment Weekly.

Sometimes I question why I ever leave the house.

HypoCatdriac

Few people know this, but the center of the universe is a 10 lb. tabby cat named Kristen Ann.

She was a gift to me from my ex. He bought her from the Animal Protective League for $40. For that price she was spayed and had all her shots taken care of. From the first moment she was placed in my arms that fateful Christmas Eve in 2002, I was in love. She was soft and warm, with huge yellow eyes and little white toes on her front paws and when you held her she purred like crazy. 1153 called her the Mitten. She quickly became the fifth child in our house, and everyone spoiled her like mad.

Almost immediately, I think it was even that very first day, I became a complete basket case about her well being. I loved her so much, but I struggled to enjoy her company. Every time she curled up to me, or slept on my stomach, or looked at me with those HUGE kitty eyes begging for treats, all I could think of was "What if something happened to her? What would I do without her? What if she gets sick?" Everyone told me I was ridiculous, and I was. When I was younger I could never understand how people got so wigged out over their mangy animals. I'd never had a pet before. Kristen was my first, and the first time I laid eyes on her I understood.

In February I had to drug her to get her to Chicago because she hates the cage, and the car, and a 6-hour ride surrounded by both like so many nesting dolls was not going to go well without some dope. So I took her to the vet for her annual a few months early to make sure she was healthy enough for a tranquilizer. My vet in Cleveland declared "this is one incredibly healthy cat!" We packed up our lives and came here, and my amazing and resilient kitty settled in much more quickly than I had anticipated. All was going well.

On Sunday, I was sitting in my bed writing some lyrics while Kristen sat next to me having a bath. When I glanced up at her she was licking her arm, and that's when I saw it: an angry red rash, the size of a nickel on the inside of her arm. She had obviously been licking it like crazy for a while, because all the hair from around it was missing. I FREAKED OUT. She has skin cancer. She has a lesion. They're going to have to amputate. No, they'll just put her down. I'm a horrible kitty mom. How could I have not noticed this? She's going to keel over dead by morning. Jim and Heather worked on calming me down. It's just a little rash, cats get them all the time. The vet will give her some ointment and it will go away. It hasn't been there that long, it only looks that bad because she keeps licking it. I finally conceded it probably wasn't that bad, but continued to horde the guilt, because I'm shitty like that.

On Wednesday I took her to the vet. My vet oohed and ahhed over how pretty she is (because she is!) and how well behaved, and how sweet. She looked at the rash, said it wasn't a big deal, suggested I might want to have her teeth cleaned in a few months and listened to her heart.

And listened.

And listened.

And listened some more.

Finally: "Did you know your cat has a heart murmur?"

WHAT!?!?!?!?! I JUST had her checked not three months ago and was assured she was the healthiest cat alive. What heart murmur? The vet explained to me that she had a level 3 heart murmur on a scale of 1-6, and that the fact the she was checked three months ago and had no problems then was worrisome. A heart murmur could be just a ventricle that's not closing entirely, not a big deal, or a sign of a very serious heart condition for which she'll need to be medicated the rest of her life. How do we know which is which? We don't. Not without an echocardiogram, x-rays, ultrasound, blood work....

It was like my worst nightmare realized. I'm completely convinced she's going to die any minute. It's obviously my fault as well. Despite Jim and Heather and the vet all insisting that anything wrong with her is genetic, I KNOW that the truth is that I caused this by stressing her out to much and moving her across the country, away from 1153 and her home and everything she knew. The vet says that because she's asymptomatic, if there is a problem, we've caught it early enough that she should have a long and healthy life. But I know she's just saying that to keep me from panicking. The angel of my heart is going to croak and leave me here all alone and there's nothing I can do about it.

If you've never had a pet, don't get one. They break your heart.

Tests are forthcoming. I'll keep you all posted.

Today's Bartenderism: Pool Nomad

Pool Nomad: one who plays pool here and there. Used in a conversation: "So these two friends of mine want me to play pool with them in their league. They play on Tuesday. I thought about it, but I don't think I want to play on a schedule like that. I like to just play casually when I'm drinking. You know, at whatever bar I happen to be at. I play pool nomadically."

Also this morning, the bartender and I were brainstorming possible career changes for us both, based on things we actually like doing. For instance, I might be interested in becoming a painter, maybe having my own painting company. I pointed out to the bartender that as far as I know, the only things he enjoys doing are going out to get drunk and staying at home masturbating, and I'm not really sure how he's going to parlay those interests into a lucrative career. If anyone thinks of something, please let us know.

Introduction to Vinny

I don't believe I've ever mentioned on this blog my friend Vinny.

Vinny is well known for his arresting, if illogical, commentary and behavior. Examples would include his profession that "a cat is like an autistic dog" and his observation that his own attractiveness "is not blatant". He is also inexplicably accident prone, such as the Glass Incident. The Glass Incident occurred in my former place of residence in a housing co-operative called Brooklyn Acres. I had moved in only three weeks prior to my get together, and had just had brand spanking new wall to wall carpet installed throughout the house. At the time, I had a collection of lighthouse-shaped glasses from Red Lobster that were free with my copious drinks. Vinny had brought along a bottle of red wine, and as the resident drunk, he completely filled up one of my lighthouse glasses with this easily staining libation. The rest of the crew were gathered in the living room. As luck would have it, Vinny had managed to select the glass with the weak bottom.

Now mind you, I had used the glasses over and over again, without ever having a problem. But when Vinny got a hold of it, all bets were off.

Vinny strolled into the living room as the rest of us looked on. What we saw from our perspective was red wine slowly dripping out of the bottom of the glass. This slow leak quickly escalated into a fast leak, followed by a spray, followed by spurting out of the bottom of the glass while Vinny continued to walk along, oblivious.

The next 5 seconds happened in slow motion. The entire room saw what was about to happen. Each of us leaned toward Vinny almost imperceptibly, and began collectively opening our mouths to speak....but we were two late. The entire bottom of the glass liberated itself from the remaining vessel and crashed to the floor, dumping red wine all over my not yet three-week old carpet.

Paralyzed as we all were before, we sprang into action. People jumped up to get paper towels. Glass shards were carefully collected. The vacuum was retrieved and run. A half dozen of my friends frantically blotted at my carpet trying to undo the entire event. Vinny, on the other hand, managed only to shout "MY PANTS!!!!" before grabbing the paper towels out of someone's hand and furiously wiping at the leg of his khakis. We all stopped and stared at him pointedly. "What?" he asked.

And this, in a nutshell is Vinny, whose actions and reactions are just slightly outside the realm of the expected. But more on this in a minute.

You're High

My best friend Mary and her loving boyfriend Rob have a particular verbal exchange that they frequently use with one another. It works like this:

Rob says something bizarre, or something with which Mary does not agree.

Mary responds with "You're high."

Rob replies with "You're pretty."

It is all very charming and sweet.

I was reminded of this on the train this morning, albeit not in the same charming context, when a woman sat down on the bench in front of me and announced "You're pretty," then proceeded to pet my head for the next two stops until she again said "You're pretty," then disembarked at Fullerton.

Sicko de Mayo

I have been sick all week long. This is the fault of PGS Joe, who breathed on my roommate, who in turn breathed on me. Wednesday night we pathetically sat on the couch together, eating chicken noodle soup and watching pathetically bad movies whilst going through an entire box of Kleenex. I creatively dubbed the evening "Misery loves company" and speculated on Hot Heather's possible reactions to finding both our dead bodies on the couch with Miss Congeniality playing in the background. Jim would have laughed, but his lungs hurt.

At any rate, I went to work on Thursday despite a fever and the shakes because I really have that much to do, and unlike the number factory, there are no other people here who can cover for me. As I lamented having to get up and attempt to be functional, Vicodin Jim was lamenting that he couldn't go out and party for Cinco de Mayo.

A word on Cinco de Mayo: Chicago, where Jim and I reside, is not in Mexico. If it were, it would make no difference, because they don't get nutty over this in Mexico like we do in America. The fact that we do merely proves to me that we are a country of drunks, and that alcoholism is the true national pastime. And I have absolutely NO PROBLEM with this whatsoever. I just don't need to make up holidays as an excuse to get drunk. I'm happy to get drunk any old time. So missing the festivities of Cinco de Mayo was not on my list of things to be crabby about while I rode the train to work Thursday morning with fire in my lungs.

After putting in a 9 hour day, I was looking forward to drinking that sweet elixur NyQuil and passing out indefinitely upon my arrival at home. Alas, it was not to be. Well, the drinking and the passing out was, just not the NyQuil.

I wearily climbed the stairs to my second floor abode, but could not enter due to a 6 foot tall human with a bottle of Jose in one hand and a shotglass in the other sitting in a chair with a pile of chewed up limes in front of it and a fresh box of tissues at his feet. This human would be my roommate Vicodin Jim. "I thought you were sick, " I wheezed. "What are you doing?"

"I am sick," he replied cheerily, "but I can't even tell now because I've had 10 shots of tequila and a whole bunch of beers. I'm not going to let being sick ruin my Cinco de Mayo! Holy shit! You look like death! I mean really, you're all pale! Are you ok? Heather, go make Amber some tea before she passes out. Do you want me to make you some tomato soup? Oh and Heather, could you cut up another lime and bring a beer for Amber too?"

It was true. I was pale and I did look like death. Because of this I protested Jim's plan. Tea was ok, beer not ok. Tea, NyQuil and my bed. That was the plan I was sticking to. Jim would have none of it. "No. Some tea to revive you, and then you're drinking with me. Now, go put on some sweatpants, get a shot glass and come back out here."

At what point, exactly, did I lose all instinct for self preservation and the ability to think for myself? I'd like to go back to that moment, if you please, and slap myself.

I got some comfy clothes, scrounged up my shot glass and trudged wearily back to the porch, where I found Heather with my fresh cup of tea, freshly cut up lime, and freshly opened bottle of Corona Light. Jim poured us each a shot, while Heather informed us that we were on our last lime. Let the debauchery begin.

Jim and I went through the final lime in the space of about 10 minutes. Being that Jim was drunk, Heather was tipsy, and I was on my way, we decided it would be best if we walked the 2 blocks to our local Jewel to replenish our limes. By the way, shopping when drunk is worse than shopping when hungry. Erring on the side of caution we bought no less than 14 limes. Additionally, the spirit of the holiday hit Jim as we were leaving the store, when he attempted to get into some fisticuffs with a little Mexican kid standing outside.

After Heather and I dragged him home, we settled in on the porch. Things escalated quickly. Here is what I remember: 3 beers, 6 shots of tequila, hiding Jim's phone to prevent him from sending drunk text messages to his ex, eating chex mix, and waking up in my bed when my alarm went off at 6 the next morning.

I was confused. How did I get here? I don't remember walking here. Did I walk here? How do I feel? I'm not hung over. Am I still sick? Yeah kinda. But seriously, how did I get here? Another mystery: as I showered I discovered two HUGE bruises; one on each kneecap. Hmmm...

Heather filled in the blanks later. She estimates 10 or 12 shots of tequila were consumed by me, and approximately 25 by Jim. It seems I also drank a few more beers. We were, I am told, visited at some point by our friends the Smash and VonDouche. I have exactly zero recollection of seeing these people. My trip to my bedroom consisted of Jim hauling me to my feet and Heather walking me there. The tequila was emptied. Most of the limes were destroyed. I did not, it seems, do anything untoward, such as fall down the stairs or try to suck anyone's dick, which is good I suppose, but does little to explain the bruises on my knees. I may never know the story of that.

The moral of the story is...well, there really are no morals in this story. But what I learned was sickness needn't prevent you from getting pissed on fake holidays, tequila seems to have the ability to wipe out my memory and if I'm going to be drinking it, it's best to be at home amongst caring and helpful roommates and not out and about, because who knows how many people/canines/fire hydrants I would have tried to sleep with and/or beat up on my way home?

But I would really like to know what happened to my knees.

Rock This Bitch

Ben Folds! Yay!

Despite the fact that the ceiling of the Riviera was dripping on me for the entire show, and that I was there with Hot Heather who didn't want to be there, and that the opening act was some dude with an accordion and a cymbal (which he played with a drum stick taped to his right shoe), Ben Folds rocked my ass last night in exactly the way I've come to expect of him.

We all got to sing Army, and also Not The Same. And we yelled "FUUUUCK!" and "HAND ME MY NOSE RING!" in all the appropriate places. His cover of Dr. Dre's Bitches Ain't Shit brought the house down. He played not one, but TWO encores, which left me wondering: if we all just stayed there all night and kept screaming, exactly how many encores could we have gotten him to play? Even Hot Heather was forced to admit that the show was a lot of fun, or in her words, "It didn't suck."

Ben Folds will be coming to a city near you. Go see him. He doesn't suck.

How to Dress Like a Punk

PGS had a show this past Friday night and, as DenMILF, it was my responsibility to be there to rub Ben Gay on Joe's back (Joe tends to be somewhat hyperactive, and thought it would be great fun and garner much laughter if he vaulted a countertop half an hour before they hit the stage. It did garner much laughter, but he assures me it was altogether not fun. His screaming for Ben Gay quickly turned into screaming to get rid of Ben Gay after another friend dumped nearly the entire bottle on him. In an attempt to stop the burning of his flesh he tried to climb inside the refridgerator. I did what any loving den mother would do - grabbed the camera and started snapping pictures of how ridiculous he looked whilst laughing at him).

At the last punk rock show I attended, I felt exceptionally conspicuous due to my very very non-punk attire, which I was wearing due to the fact that I'm not, in fact, a punk. I was convinced everyone was looking at me as if I didn't belong and so tried to be as small and quiet as possible, which of course further added to my standing out as people attending punk rock shows are anything but quiet.

With Friday night's show fast approaching, Jim and Heather decided to solve this problem for me by borrowing heavily from Jim's wardrobe (including shoes) and giving me a brief tutorial in "SoCal" punk fashion. On Thursday night, they worked on dressing me properly, as though I were a living, breathing Barbie doll (minus tits). I was peppered with tips and advice as follows:

• You always have to have an even number of bracelets, mostly the jelly bracelets all the kids wore in grade school. I pointed out that the bartender only wears one bracelet and it's metal, but did not receive a satisfactory explanation for this anomaly.
• Your clothes should match, but not "too much". This was a debate that raged between the two of them on whether I should wear a black necktie or a gray one. My interjection that a necktie generally doesn't go with a t-shirt no matter what color it is was ignored.
• Belts should worn at all times, regardless of the presence of belt loops, should be buckled on the side or in the back, and must remain crooked. I joked that it was a lot of work to look like I was too lazy to put an effort into my appearance. Neither of them laughed.
• A trucker hat may or may not be appropriate, but if it sports the same band as your t-shirt you must change one or the other and/or drop the hat. We opted for the no-hat alternative.

At the end of this alternate universe "What Not To Wear" episode, they laid out all my entire outfit for me so that I could get dressed for the show by myself the next day, and told me to call with any questions.
And so it was that Friday night I showed up at the PGS show wearing a t-shirt, necktie, tiny skirt, crooked belt, knee socks, Converse, 6 plastic bracelets and an arm band. And in so doing, discovered the following: As conspicuous as I felt at the last show dressed like I just walked out of a GAP catalog, I felt 10 times as conspicuous at this show dressed in clothes I would never have dressed myself in. I'm quite sure I would have been far more at ease had I showed up stark raving naked with a giant flashing neon sign attached to my head reading "Gives hand jobs for crack" and an arrow pointing down at me.
On the other hand, being 27 years old and having dozens of 16-year-old emo kids hit on you is oddly gratifying, even if it makes you feel like a dirty cradle robbing perv.


.