Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Hopefully, your day is filled with enough love, romance and passion to make this freaking winter just stop already. I'm single, it's cold, I spent the morning shoveling (again), and I think it's about damn time you lovebirds out there start doing something to thaw this damn world before I wake up inside a glacier. So, go have mad sex in a snow-drift, already. Gads!
Anyway, I'm not here today to write about Valentine's Day so much. My Canadian doppleganger Paul already did a great job on that. Plus, I figure you already know what it's all about, and you've all got your own handy definitions and expectations. Some of you will settle for a nice dinner. Some will have chocolate. And, for all I know, some of you might find yourselves covered in candle-wax and handcuffed to a hotel bed tomorrow morning.
Nope. I'm here to scribble a bit about my latest madman's crush. Earlier today, as my aching back was suggesting, as it usually does after a snowfall, that we should pack up and move to a warmer climate, I flipped on the TV and caught sight of The Most: With Alison Stewart on MSNBC, and, without warning, Cupid's little arrow drove it's way through my skull and buried itself deeply into my gray matter (most people get drilled in the heart. Me? It usually finds its way into my brain).
So, I watched, and I couldn't shake the thought that not only is Alison Stewart mind-bendingly beautiful, she's also got the smarts needed to shred my brain and leave me gaping like a landed fish whose only escape is to pick up a hammer and go fix something just because there's no way any reasonable human being could ever keep up in a conversation with someone who is so obviously well-informed. The way I see it, I'd get a lot of projects done if I were in a relationship with someone like her. It's not that I don't want to talk like couples do; it just that I am simply not qualified to talk. I mean, I could say "Hey! That cloud looks like a bunny," and all she'd have to say is, "I don't think so." Then, rather than engage in an argument about bunny clouds, and subsequently be proven wrong by her saying "it looks like a toaster oven," I'd simply trundle off to put a new roof on the house, feed the starving children of the world and occupy my time by admiring small, shiny things.
Fortunately, for me, not only is Alison Stewart married to Bill Wolff, the Vice President of Programming at MSNBC, I'm a pretty fickle person, and I'll most likely have a new crush by the end of the week. It may even be Lindsay Lohan because, not only is rehab the new black, but I have a propensity for crushing people's spirits to the point of making them dive head-first off the wagon into a big, happy bottle of vodka.
Well, happy Valentine's Day, James. Now, find a bitch and settle down for a long winter's nap.
Okay... I'm pretty much just typing out loud at this point. I do hope you all have a Valentine's Day that will make you feel as special as James, the English Springer Spaniel. May you all be Best in the hearts of those around you.
How this guy manages to keep his cool is beyond me. I wouldn't have lasted very long with the relentless hectoring of the silly, fundamental, pseudo-Christians. That level of badgering would drive me to just slap someone.
However, it's really amazing to see the unstoppable force of rational free-thought collide with immovable object that is blind, stubborn faith. It's fascinating to see the open-mind meet the closed. And, I imagine had P-funk not had somewhere better to be (like getting his tooth pulled or whatnots), he'd have seriously burned their minds with a cool, reserved seminar on humanity that is not based solely upon an archaic, unprovable mythology.
Aside from that, I think P-Funk seriously needs to drive from now on to save him from having to undergo this level of sheer madness again and again.
As it stands, I was not just wrong, I was happily wrong. Not only are some of these pictures amazing, the story behind how they came to be is equally impressive.
"A few years ago, I gave a camera and some film to a homeless kid I had
befriended while visiting some family in San Luis Obispo CA. He had
been thrown out of his parents house for drugs a month ago, and been
crashing with friends, generally bumming around the central coast since
then. After giving him a brief lesson in the use of a manual camera (it
was this beat up old Fujica 35mm), I asked him to shoot all the film,
then mail it back to me. In exchange, I'd let him keep the camera. I
didn't expect to hear from him again, but the kid seemed interested in
photography, and he didn't have much else going for him, so I gave him
the camera and the film.
A few months ago, I received a large envelope filled with photos in the
mail from the kid, along with a brief letter describing what he had
been doing since I last saw him. There were about a hundred photos,
mostly horribly under or over exposed pictures of people sitting
around, but here are the more interesting ones."
There is just something so remarkably human about this story. And, there's really not much I can say since the pictures not only tell a story, but they show considerable promise and talent.
So, a group of guys from the British television show Top Gear, come to America, buy some old clunkers of cars, paint some catchy slogans on them and drive them through the deep South where people aren't exactly famous for their tolerance. Hilarity ensues:
Now, I don't know how much of this is staged, manipulated, or whatnots, but it is certainly a funny episode.
Of course, now I want to go to England, buy a heap, and drive around with the phrase "High tea and spotted dick is teh gay" painted on the sides. Of course, knowing the British, I'd probably wind up making more friends than enemies.
Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean much to me, but that doesn't mean I don't have something to say on the matter.
Throughout my life, I’ve had the good fortune of dating very
strange women who, by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, were
either headed out of my life, or long gone. And, I chalk this up to
the fact that I’m a very difficult person to shop for, and I think the
sublime torture of buying me gifts between Christmas and Valentine’s
Day is far more insanity than any person should ever willingly
endure. Eventually, out of sheer frustration, they will just dump me
and move onto some other guy with much more clearly defined needs and
wants.
My favorite girlfriend in this case would have to be Marie, the
sweet gal I dated for a while in college. It was a blast of a
relationship, and she really was a pretty decent woman. We had a lot
of fun, and as Christmas started approaching, she grew frantic asking
me what I wanted.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t need anything.”
“It’s not about what you need,” she said, “it’s about what you want.”
“Well,” I responded after a little thought. “I skipped breakfast
today. I’m a little hungry, and I think I want a cheeseburger.”
“For Christmas?”
“I don’t think I can wait that long. How about lunch?”
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re the one who loves me.”
“You’re a dumb, stupid idiot.” She would rant in her adorable way.
“You dumb idiot. Dumb… dumb… dumb… Idiot… idiot… idiot.”
“Does that mean I’m not getting lunch?” I asked.
“We need a break,” she would always say. It was her way of ending
any argument –win or lose. “We need a break because you are making me
hate you.”
Then she would leave, and I would grab lunch on my own. A few days
later, our break was over, the holiday had passed, and love was once
again in the air by the time New Year’s rolled around. We were good so
long as I didn’t ask about gifts.
However, Valentine’s Day would inevitably roll around, and though I
would go out and buy her nice things and plan nice dates and really do
everything I could to woo her straight out of her knickers, when the
calendar read February 14th, there were two things that were a
certainty: Marie and I would argue over gifts, and I would end up
spending the night on my recently-divorced buddy’s couch.
It happened the first year of our relationship. After cracking
open a bottle of wine and feeding her the delicious dinner I’d cooked
for her, I gave her the little gift I bought in an attempt to contrive
a nice, special moment.
“How did you know?” she squealed as she pulled a dainty little
necklace from the box. “I love it. I love you. But, how did you know
I wanted this?”
“You told me,” I said. “Remember?”
“When?”
“When you clipped the ad out of the Sunday paper and stuck it on my fridge?”
She was funny that way, I guess. Normally, I would just shrug,
guzzle wine and wait for the moment when she unleashed her white-hot
fury upon me. Somewhere during the course of the evening, her smile of
joy and contentment would be transformed by little bits of white froth
slowly growing at the corners of her smile. The turning point came
when she handed me a very small, quite non-descript, box.
“You know,” I said as I appraised the tiny box. “You really didn’t have to get me anything, honey.”
“I know,” she said flatly as if to remind me that I was stupid for
not knowing the unparalleled amount of research she put into finding
just the right gift for my happiness. “Open it up. I think you’ll
love it.”
I opened the box and peered inside expecting to see an amputated
finger or even the collected teeth of all the women who’ve smiled at me
since she and I began dating. My face could not hide my confusion,
however, and immediately, she spoke.
“You hate it don’t you?”
“No. It’s just…” I said. “Umm…”
“It’s okay,” she said. “We can take it back.”
“Well…”
“You hate it.” She wailed.
“No.” I said. “It’sjust that…”
“It’s just what?” She asked.
“Well, honey,” I said carefully. “It’s just that you gave me an earring.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Isn’t it cool?”
“Sure,” I said as I watched the fire grow in her eyes. “But, we’ve been together for six months now and well…”
“You think it’s too personal?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just that, in six months, you probably noticed that I don’t have my ear pierced.”
“Yes you do,” she said, as if I somehow managed to forget having a
lobe punctured over the course of our relationship. “You’re lying to
me now.”
“Nope,” I said. “I’ve never had my ear pierced. I think I’d know if I did.”
“You’re a liar,” she wailed. “You lying liar. You just hate me.”
“Is it time for us to take a break now?” I asked.
She and I dated for three years, and I’m pretty certain that every
year, she and I went through the same dialogue with only a few slight
variations. One year, on my birthday, she bought me a pair of boxer
shorts. They were nice, and I liked them; however, when I refused to
wear them out in public, an unholy rage was unloaded upon me as a
result of my daft idea that most people would probably laugh at me if I
walked into a bar wearing my underwear.
For the record, I think she and I are still on a break. Which is
good. Had I stuck around, I’m pretty sure I’d only be able to
communicate via a series of controlled blinks and grunts.
Sorry about that collection of pointless gibberish in my "About Me" section. I've decided to leave that junk up for a bit in the hopes that some geek from StatCounter may be able to decipher why their service doesn't operate properly on my journal.
I've had nothing but problems with them lately, but let's see if they are able to redeem their service. I'm willing to bet they won't, but ya never know. I've tried everything.
Anyway, I'm off to the hospital for a (hopefully) quick infusion.
-DP (update) Well, I have someofthe glitch fixed, I think. I definitely do not recommend using Firefox 2.0 to tinker around in the inner-workings of AOL Journals. It's like trying to fix an American-made toaster with a handful of metric tools.
Other than that, I s'pose the infusion went well. I kind of bled all over everything which was kind of cool. Then, it was just sit and watch the big bag drip painfully slow. Ugh! Next time, I'm bringing scissors and a bottle of gin with me to just snip the top of the Remicade bag and use it as a damn mixer. Olives optional, baby!
This picture arrived in my email from my chum Teefus a day or two ago. It was a little blurry and difficult for me to read, so I enhanced it and sharpened it, and eventually I got to the point where I could make out the words "sausage, chicken, blueberry and maple syrup."
Apparently, some health-conscious, food-hippie at Al Fresco foods thought it might be a good idea to collide these things into a sausage, and seeing as how I'm from Wisconsin, the land of sausages, I think I am qualified to say that this is just freaking insane. Yes, cheese in a sausage is very good. Bacon in a sausage? Not too bad. A sausage wrapped in a pancake is borderline orgasmic. But, a ground up hunk of chicken, mixed with blueberries and maple syrup and packed into a casing is quite possibly the first step toward man's inevitable extinction. I mean, wars have been fought for a hell of a lot less than this, and I'm certain once the good people of Sheboygan, Wisconsin catch wind of this madness, people will be held accountable, laws will be passed, and those responsible will face the white-hot , greasy breath of justice.
Now, I did some research, and I poked around the Kayem Foods website. The interesting thing is, in order to gather information about their products, I need to create an account with them and log-in with a password. Oddly, this unnatural little meathouse doesn't say anything about how to go about creating an account.
Obviously, I am simply left to wonder just what it is that these sausage perverts at Kayem Foods have to hide? Perhaps they should just get it out of the way and change the name of the place to Soylent Green Incorporated.
Anyway, I did find one poor, young blogger out there who not only has eaten these abominations, but actually endorses them by saying that they are (and I quote) "Fabulous."
Please, readers. Fear for the children. FEAR FOR THE CHILDREN!!!
I'm a pretty boring guy for a screaming-mad lunatic. And, when I am not chasing squirrels around the yard demanding that they stop speaking Swedish, I can usually be found pecking away at a keyboard trying to write a book (or two).
All-in-all, it's a pretty fun life --if not at least a little challenging.
