Friday, August 26, 2005

Behind at work. Need to pack. Picking Jenny up at 5...I think. House is a travesty. Still haven't made it down to the beach house. Have a forehead-blazing hangover from the O.C. last night. My eyebrows are in dire need of attention. Need to meet with the managers at Giorgio Armani and Abejas for two magazine articles I've yet to start, but promised to have finished and emailed to the editor by tomorrow. And I ran out of toothpaste, deodorant and face lotion this morning. Stupid vacations... j.s.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

I'm rapidly running out of time to get things done before I leave town on Saturday. (Actually tomorrow I pick up Jenny in the afternoon, then go down to the beach house, and then we leave town until Thursday.)

I tell you this so you won't be surprised if the posting is scarce for a little while.

Take care.

j.s.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Goddammit I miss Rocky Anderson, the mayor of Salt Lake City.

j.s.

Here are a few other Pat Roberston quotes I've dug up on the internets.
Enjoy.

"[Planned Parenthood] is teaching kids to fornicate, teaching people to have adultery, every kind of bestiality, homosexuality, lesbianism -- everything that the Bible condemns."

[Feminism] "is a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

"[Separation of church and state] was never in the Constitution. However much the liberals laugh at me for saying it, they know good and well it was never in the Constitution! Such language only appeared in the constitution of the communist Soviet Union." [[ed. Actually he's right. "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof." is the very first amendment in our Bill of Rights.]]

"When I said during my presidential bid that I would only bring Christians and Jews into the government, I hit a firestorm. 'What do you mean?' the media challenged me. 'You're not going to bring atheists into the government? How dare you maintain that those who believe in the Judeo-Christian values are better qualified to govern America than Hindus and Muslims?' My simple answer is, 'Yes, they are.'"

And my favorite,
"You say you're supposed to be nice to the Episcopalians and the Presbyterians and the Methodists and this, that, and the other thing. Nonsense. I don't have to be nice to the spirit of the Antichrist. I can love the people who hold false opinions but I don't have to be nice to them."

j.s.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Hi.

First, Klingon Fairy Tale titles.

"The Hare Foolishly Lowers His Guard and Is Devastated by the Tortoise, Whose Prowess in Battle Attracts Many Desirable Mates"

Genius. [via BoingBoing]

Okay, so, I'm growing tired of the never-ending stream of bars and late nights.
Yes, "really."
And I'm sure I've said this before, but it just doesn't seem to be accomplishing or creating anything but a sucking sound in my bank account...and I've enough fiscal concerns without dropping unholy amounts of money in bars every weekend.

Dear God! Does this mean...no...I daren't say it...but I must!
Is he..."on the wagon?"

Ahem.
Slap yourself.

Of course I'm not going to quit going out, or having drinks at the O.C. on Thursdays, or lounging around downtown on the weekends...
I'm merely talking about curtailing my drink consumption to a more human level.
You know...like 5 or 6 a night, instead of 12.

Come to think of it, I'm getting tired of most things I'm doing right now. Manifesting in my getting wistful about the things I used to do, like reading at a coffee shop on a Saturday night, cooking at home, saving money, and getting a firmer handle on exactly what it is I'm doing with my life.
Which, lately, has been very little.

I've just swung a bit too far into the drinks/bars/clubs thing, and it's very easy for me to just float along with that, and have it become a defining characteristic of me.
But it never lasts.
And now I just need to get a firm grasp on the pendulum, and await the swing back toward living responsibly. Or as responsibly as I can muster anyway.

This isn't going to happen anytime soon mind you, as I go on my cruise this weekend with Jenny, and it's a given that'll be completely out of hand.
Always is with that one.

But it will happen soon.
And honestly, I'm ready for a little quiet.

Especially since I could use the time to work on the coffee roasting thing that I've talked to most of you about ad nauseam. I've found people willing to foot a good part of the start-up cost based on it being a pretty good idea, on it being obvious that I have a passion for it, and by my nigh unerring ability to sling the right bullshit at all the right places.
Here's to "Undergrounds" getting off the ground soon.

Let's see, what else is happening...

I touched on it earlier, but I'm really excited about seeing Jenny this Friday. I haven't seen her since January (New Year's in Denver), and we try to have our little trysts twice a year, so it's due time.
Honestly, I don't know anyone who I'd rather spend 5 days on a cruise ship with.
Dodging the throngs of cocoa buttered, wizened, septuagenarians, going to formal dinners, drinking enough to cause a walrus to vomit, hip checking Macarena dancers overboard, being overtly appalled at the girth of Americans, putting on ridiculous clothes worn solely to embarrass the other, and sleeping together in a tiny cabin.
I've thought about what the trip would be like if I went with anyone but her, and I just don't see it being the same.
Or at least it wouldn't be as awesome a time as this is going to be...even if it completely sucks.
Like the New Orleans trip of last summer... If I'd gone with anyone else it would've fallen into the "suck" category, but since it was with her it was funny as all hell.
We get a good time, or a good story...and if we're lucky we get both.
Just the way it works with her.

And lastly, why is it we live in a world where Pat Robertson can call for the assassination of the President of Venezuala, yet no one is trying to assassinate Mr. Patty "Faith and Values" himself?
Hugo my man, promise me asylum, a lifetime supply of margaritas, a palapa on the beach in Venezuala somewhere where there's surf, and I'm your huckleberry.

Okay, I have dinner plans with one of the bosses tonight, I'm guessing at Pappasito's, so I've got to take off.
You kids take care.

j.s.

Monday, August 22, 2005

~~ The 2005 Chinstrapped Yard Gnomes Starting Lineup ~~

QB: Kerry Collins
RB: Willis McGahee
RB: Rudi Johnson
WR: Terrell Owens
WR: Roy Williams
TE: Alge Crumpler
K: Matt Stover
D/ST: Buffalo Bills

Gnomes! Gnomes! Gnoooooomes!

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Hi there.
So let's jump right into the Weekend Recap, Texas Style ya'll.

Thursday

Saw the fantasy football draft at D's place, which was quite fun but took much longer than expected. I won't bore the non-foobaw oriented of you with the details here...however I'll put the line-up for the Chinstrapped Yard Gnomes 2005 up later, for any who're interested.

So, after 3 hours of cobbling together a completely farcical football team, one that I will live and die with every Sunday for the next 5 months, I bolted out the door for my usual Thursday night festivities at O.C.

Unfortunately, all had left for the evening. So I ordered a Bass, sat quietly and eavesdropped on the table next to me while they feebly attempted to play "6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon" and couldn't link someone as simple as Tom Hanks.
(Tom Hanks ->Denzel Washington in Philadelphia. Denzel Washington -> John Lithgow in Ricochet. John Lithgow -> Kevin Bacon in Footloose.)

So, after tiring of their inane ramblings, I went home.

Friday

Left for New Braunfels at around noon, where we'd rented a lakehouse for the weekend. After a 2 1/2 hour drive into the fiery depths of the 6th concentric circle of Texas, we arrived at the house...which was quite nice actually. (Pictures forthcoming.)

Ended up being around 12 of us, BBQing steaks and chicken with homemade mashed potatoes, sipping beer, and hanging out on the backyard boat dock under a full moon.
Good times.

Saturday

We stagger out of bed around 10ish and head over to Schlitterbahn. (Webcam link)
Which wasn't bad, although I must admit that I'm getting a bit old for waterparks. Spent a good deal of the day lounging around various "lazy rivers" and trying to keep myself hydrated.

After closing Schlitterbahn down, we went home for a quick change/shower. And while everyone else is getting ready, I sit out on the dock once again and am staring out across the water when I hear a *splash!* come from the house next door.
I look over, and it seems one of the two women that were out there sipping chardonnay had moved a bit too close to the edge of her dock, had fallen in the water, and was unable to get herself back out...despite the best efforts of her friend's fruitless pulling at her wrist.
I sigh.
Stand up.
And wander over.
"Ya'll need a hand?"
"Yes!" says the one on the dock.
"No!" says the one in the water.
I look down at her with a smirk.
"So you do not want my help...is that right?"
"Yes, she does. Can you help me pull her up?"
"Absolutely. Although there are stairs right over there," I point, "she can walk right up."
"NO! There's muck and grass and mud and I don't want to step on any of it!"
"I see. Fair enough. Well put your feet on that post right there..."
"Here?"
"Yes, that one. Now give me your hands and push with your feet when I pull you, okay?"
"Okay."
I pull her up. Her friend thanks me profusely (she does not), and I stroll back to our house grinning and shaking my head.

After this episode, we head over to one of the strangest places in Texas, The Gristmill. (See my August 22nd post of last year for more on this place.)

Same guy was outside playing acoustic guitar. Same beautiful night. (Although a little warmer this year than last.) Same awesome dinner. And the same abundance of beautiful girls, everywhere we looked.
After dinner, we headed over to one of the "top 10 most unlikely places you'd ever find Jeremiah Shaw."

Gruene Hall.

And it pains me to say this, but I had an awesome time there...again.

We drank longneck Bud Lights, listened to country folk-rock-blues from one Mr. Rusty Weir, and shuffled and 2-stepped around the dance floor until they closed.
Wuz a hoot...God help me.

More beautiful women everywhere.
And one in particular that encapsulated everything that's strangely beautiful about Texas.
A very tall, very curvy girl, with a white spaghetti-strap top cut to bare the slight pout of her belly, short denim skirt, pair of boots, blonde hair spilling out in thick curls from under a well-worn straw cowboy hat...and as I walked by she held up 6 Lone Star longnecks (3 in each hand) that she was bringing back for her friends.

To say I went a little slack-jawed would be an understatement since, while turning my head to look at her, I walked right into the back of someone and nearly dropped my beer. (Notepads at the ready fellas, I'm Casanova reincarnate.)

Anyway, D, Luis and I were the last 3 standing (everyone else went home), and we closed the place down and headed back to the lakehouse, with The Decembrists "The Mariner's Revenge Song" blasting all the way back.
You should give it a download if you're interested in vicious and clever sea shanties, remade with indie pop sensibilities. (And if you aren't, you should be.)

"Find him.
Bind Him.
Tie him to a pole,
and break his fingers,
to splinters.
Drag him to a hole until he wakes up,
Naked,
Crying at the ceiling of his grave."

This, plus the "Craggy McSailor" dance, made for a great ride home. Right up until we were at the sidewalk outside the front door, and D. slapped an arm in front of Luis to keep him from strolling right into an enormous spiderweb that was in the process of being spun across the walkway...presumably to snare one of us and provide snacks for several future generations of arachnids.
So we sneak around the web, foiling the 8-legged bastard's ambitious plot, and enter the house...only to be informed that in the backyard another web is being spun by a brown recluse.
A brown recluse, right outside the window from where I'm sleeping.
I get kinda jittery...so much so that I must violently (yet carefully) go through every piece of laundry in my bag to check for spiders with similar nefarious intent.

I pull a pair of jeans out and am just about to give them a wave/snap to loosen any creatures that may be residing in them when I see 4 brown legs scuttling back into a fold of the denim.

**cue Jeremiah freaking out in a most uncool fashion**

Luis and D. come in and open the jeans to expose the multi-footed varmint...which actually turns out to be a cockroach.
Equally disgusting, but I have no crippling fear of them, so I squashed it and tossed it's carcass outside as a peace offering to the wicked and venomous manifestation of evil that was busy building its anal-net outside my window.

That appeared to appease it, since it didn't climb in through the window/doorjamb/air conditioner vent as I kept envisioning...over and over...until I finally passed out.

Today Luis and I rode back to Houston and I've been laying low ever since...just relaxing a bit before I start up work again tomorrow.

Although, despite this being an end-of-month week and subsequently quite busy, I'm still taking Thursday afternoon off to head down to the beach house.

Oh, and I'm taking Friday off as well, since that's when Jenny arrives.

And we leave on our cruise this Saturday, and will be gone until Thursday the 1st. Expect posting to be at a minimum during this time...although perhaps they'll have the Internets on the cruise ship, and perhaps I'll sober up enough to comprehend how to work a keyboard to create coherent, readable words.
But perhaps not.

Okay, I'm tired now, so I'm going to crash.
And I'm too exhausted to go back through this post and fix any grammatical errors or misspellings tonight.

G'night all.

j.s.

Was in New Braunfels all weekend, working on my Southern.

Will post about it tomorrow.

j.s.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

"'Traditional scientists admit that they cannot explain how gravitation is supposed to work,' Carson said. 'What the gravity-agenda scientists need to realize is that "gravity waves" and "gravitons" are just secular words for "God can do whatever He wants."

This is brilliant.

[Thanks Luis]

In other awesome news, there's a weekend in Sept. that will see me bouncing around several live music venues in sheer indie joy...if I decide against the Austin City Limits Festival that is.

Thursday is The Walkmen/M83/Mates of State at #'s. (Thursday is nouveau-weekend dontchaknow....)
Friday is Built to Spill/Decemberists at Engine Room
And Saturday is Coldplay (meh) and Rilo Kiley at The Woodlands

Woot!

j.s.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Okay.
I propose a moratorium on a the words "Extreme," "Alternative" and "-gate."

The media-driven madness involving the word "extreme" should be apparent to everyone by now. But, just in case it isn't, here are a few examples:
Extreme Chess.
Extreme Walking.
Extreme Badminton.
And my favorite, Extreme Ping Pong.

Stop.
Just stop.

If Right Guard has purloined your "cool" little adjective, and used it to hock deodorant, then I'm afraid your word has officially died and gone to live in that glorious dictionary in the sky. (The "Gloriosky.")

The term "Alternative," when used to reference a genre of music/film, died the day Sam Goody created a section for it in their stores.
Much like "extreme," it actually meant something for about a week or so, until the milkhogs got their swollen, cloven hooves on it and subsequently turned it into a sexy cash sow that they could rock and thrust upon.
"Alternative radio" is an oxymoron.
You have no alternative anymore. Thank Clear Channel.
Unless of course you have satellite radio, and unfortunately I don't see that pristine field lasting much longer before it's hacked, mowed and groomed into a flowing green machine like the rest of our mass musical disseminators.

And lastly, the suffix "-gate" when used to describe political scandal.
It made sense for Nixon's brouhaha, because they burglarized the goddamn Watergate Hotel.
But Whitewatergate? Rovegate? Nipplegate?
C'mon...you media guys are smart cookies, stop leaning on hackneyed catch phrases that elicit outrage simply via their suffixal placement and come up with something new.
I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.

j.s.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Now...where were we?
Oh, right.

Friday

So Friday we had a slow morning. After a while we decided to drive out to Katy to hang at my Dad's for a bit, which turned out to be just what we needed.
Somewhere comfy to lounge on a couch, drink plenty of fluids, and watch "When It Was A Game," an HBO special on baseball in the 30's 40's and 50's.

Afterward, we headed back to my place, cleaned up a little, and went out for a cup of coffee at Agora. On our way, Luis calls and says he and a few friends are going out to Rice Village, so we decide to meet them, after we artificially prompt our second wind via caffeine.

Next stop was a place called "Marquis's," which was kind of a dive (faux wooden wall paneling, big screen TV from 1988, pool cues that have more in common with driftwood than gaming equipment), but in actuality turned out to be quite a good time.
Met a girl there that I think was cute, but admittedly I was a bit twisted, so I'm holding off judgment until I see her again.
After the bar closes, we all go down to Clear Lake where we dance around Luis's living room, continue to drink, and a few of us eventually decide to go swimming.
I, however, am not wearing anything under my jeans, so decorum dictated my respectful decline.
At around 5:00, I get the cute girl's phone number, tell her that we'll go out again soon, and Dave and I hightail it back to Houston...I think I fell asleep instantly upon pillow contact.

Saturday

We get up and head over to Mom's place for a little while...with no one there. So we turn around and drive back to my place where, as it turns out, my landlady is waiting on us. She's in the process of making an awesome dinner, with brie, biscuits, and jicama as an appetizer, homemade garlic bread, caesar salad, and pasta with little shrimps in them. (I picked the chrimps out of course.)
Oh, not to mention 5 bottles of Kendall Jackson, a bottle of champagne, and a fifth of Grey Goose.
So once again, we're wasted by midnight, by which point I'm deliriously babbling tales of the weekend's festivities, and have absolutely no clue of what it is that I'm saying. Which isn't entirely unlike what I'm doing right here...except that I'm sober this time around, so it's hopefully a bit more coherent. Hopefully.
We call it a night at around 3, and then crash...hard.

Sunday

Hurting in ways most mortals have only read about in Hunter S. Thompson novels, I awake and drive Dave to the airport to send him back home. I'd also like to take this moment to apologize to his wife for returning a shattered, hungover, shell of a man (instead of the perfectly healthy one she sent me), back home to her in Utah.
Mea culpa.
If it's any consolation he did have a good time.

Anyway, afterward I drove over to D's place to catch up on the NFL preseason a bit (the "Chinstrapped Yard Gnomes" fantasy draft is this Thursday), and basically attempted to melt into his couch for the rest of the day.
Had dinner there with Mom, then caught up with D. later on and swapped tales of debaucherous weekendry on the back patio until around midnight.
Drove home.
And sleeping without having had a single alcoholic beverage that day (if you don't count the ones I was drinking very early in the a.m. that is), was awesome.

And today was

Monday

and though I still awoke with a bit of a lingering hangover, I felt better than I have in days.
Hopefully tomorrow I'll be even better...especially if I stop writing on this, close the screen to this here computer, and go to sleep.

Right.
G'night then.

j.s.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Okay.
Everyone comfortable?
Seat belts fastened?
Good.
Meaty attendants will be passing out a mid-post snack of Red Stripe and breakfast tacos once we reach cruising altitude.
So let's begin.

Wednesday

Picked up Dave from the airport at around 10:30, headed back to my place to drop off luggage and have a couple beers.
Afterward we drove over to Chacho's for bacon egg n' cheese tacos. (No fights this time, but thank you for asking.)
By the time we left there, it was after midnight, and thus my actual birthday.
So we swung by Sam's Boat for a quick celebratory drink or two, and then headed home.
Was mostly just a warm-up night.
Like alcoholic stretching.

Thursday

He made it.
He's somehow survived the bizarre whirlwind that he calls his "life" for exactly 30 years, and that is cause for serious celebration...because none of us can figure out how in the hell he pulled it off.
Yes, I am thankful that I'm still around.
There were many times where I might not have made it through, and times where I really shouldn't have.
But somehow I did.
And here I am...without a single regret to show for the past 3 decades of hootenanny.
This is partly because I've lived my life full-tilt up to this point, trying to stretch each and every day that I've been gifted with.
But mostly because I've had the incredible fortune to spend a lot of these days with some really kooky and awesome people, like you for example.
I've no doubt that I wouldn't be here today if it weren't for the selfless care of people like you.
So thanks, to all of you, for being so delusional as to think that I make a cool friend.
You're teh aweschome.

Okay, now let's get down to the boozing shall we?

Dave and I bounce around Houston for the first half of day, doing the sightseeing thang. At around 6, Luis comes by my place to pick us up and we gird up our loins for the O.C. night ahead.

People begin to arrive, and we quickly fill up the first table. The Red Stripes begin to flow, never less than 2 full buckets of them on the table at any given moment, and we realize that we require a second table...then a third...and a fourth...and from what I remember, eventually we'd just about taken over the entire back patio area.
Shown HERE and HERE.

So we're all laughing, telling stories, and basically getting pissed, when a nervous man in a white lab coat walks up holding a tackle box and CD player.
"Excuse me, are you Jeremiah Shaw?"
"Uh...yeah."
"Hi. I'm Chris. I work for an online dating service, and your friends and Mom have signed you up for a trial as a birthday present. We asked them 12 different questions about you and, based on their responses, we think we've matched you up with just the right girl. She's out in the car. Do you want to meet her?"
In between laughs, I tell him, "Yes. Yes I do."
So he calls her on his cell, and tells her to come in...and in RUNS an utter vision of primal beauty. Long blonde hair, (and black hair too come to think of it), big dark eyes, wearing only a grass skirt, and carrying 30 balloons.
Here's a PICTURE of her and I. Don't we look happy together?

So they go through their little schtick, she gives me a banana, throws a partially inflated beach ball at my head, draws me a picture of a banana, grooms the hair on my arms, and dances on me to the "B-A-N-A-N-A-S!" part of that horrid Gwen Stefani "Hollaback" song. At which point I leap up off the bench and dance with her. (Yes there are pictures. No I don't have them yet.)

Eventually Koko leans over and tells the labcoat guy that she's not interested in me, and "just wants to be friends."
"Awwwww!"s echo from all sides as I look up at her with Disney-eyed mock sorrow, and put my hands over my heart.
She's unfazed.
"Of course you don't care. Why would the monkey be any different than the rest of them?" I shrug.
This elicits almost as much laughter as the arm-hair grooming thing.

So they thank me for being a good sport, take a couple pictures of me for their archives/advertising, and leave.

From there, the night gets fuzzy. (I PUN!)
Early estimates of total beer consumption are up to around 40 buckets of beer. Which means a minimum of 200 Red Stripes.

Here's a sampling of the photos taken later.

D. and me.

Luis, D. and me

J.T, with a retarded monkey grin.

"Back away from the Red Stripe, real slow-like."

This banana changed hands many times throughout the night, and eventually broke open. So I fashioned the world's first BananaBandage [tm].

The rest are on my flickr stream, which can be found by either clicking the picture at the top left corner of this page, or by clicking HERE.

The night eventually wound down, and the last drunken stragglers were left, trying to figure out what to do next.
So we hit Chacho's again for tacos, and then called it a night.

I slept well into the afternoon on Friday before we started all over again, but that'll have to wait for later.

To be continued...

The birthday post is coming, I promise.

I'm still gathering pictures from the folks who brought cameras...and, as you may have guessed, sober hours have been at a premium the past few days.

I should have it all sussed out later today though.
Maintain low tones.

j.s.

Friday, August 12, 2005

30!

God help us all...

j.s.

Monday, August 08, 2005

Only 3 days left.

And I'll tell you, this 30 thing is starting to screw with me a little...
It appears that, on some level, my head is equating it to dying.
I say this, because I keep looking at things as if I'll never see them again.

Like sunsets over the freeway.
Or heat lightning tracing the outlines of clouds.
The Houston skyline at night.
And the 11 stars that I can see at night from my front porch. (Yes, I counted them.)

Granted, I noticed these things before, and I pay more attention to the minutiae than most people I'd wager.
But I've never committed them to memory with the fervor I'm showing now.

I keep telling myself that if I can somehow remember everything about just this one moment, file every detail of it away and keep it safe, then I'll be able to take it with me when I go.

And that probably didn't translate very well into print, but that's as close as I can get...
Like I said.
Screwing with my head.

Okay, I'm going to get back to work before I create a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Talk to you later.

j.s.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

Good afternoon.

So...Thursday was yet another O.C. evening, not a whole lot new there actually.

Friday I was supposed to go out to a show at Mary Jane's with one of the O.C. bartenders, but since I'd never heard of the bands playing I decided against it.

Instead I chatted with my landlady and neighbor over mimosas for an hour or so, then Luis, a friend of his, and I went downtown.

First stop was Dean's, which is about the only place down there that I have any love left for. Couple gin and tonics, the triumphant return of Chris the Awesome DoorGuy, Vuitton fashion show projected on the wall, and a very strange man (wearing a woman's shirt that he'd pulled off the racks there), who assured me that a gaggle of married women were going to fellate every guy in the bar at any moment, and subsequently raised his glass to them saying "God bless Texas." (Exactly what those two have to do with one another I still don't quite grasp.)

So we took off from there and walked over to "Glo," one of the newer clubs to open on Main. Which turned out to be a pretty generic place, although I must admit that if I were closer in age to the (numerous) attractive girls there I probably would've enjoyed myself more.
So instead I wandered around the bar until I found a 'tender I liked, and chatted with her, because that's what I do.
I'm beginning to wonder whether it's that the club owners in the city actually have a keen eye for lovely talent, or if I'm just easily smitten by girls who bring me drinks whenever I ask for them.

Anyway, we close down Glo, then head over to after-hours at "Pink Monkey" (what used to be "Power Tools" the last time I was the place), which turned out to be absolutely awful. It looked like a concrete cave.
We gave it roughly 5 minutes, then basically called it a night and went home.

Yesterday I spent the day recovering at my place, which is where I still am now. I thought it wise to rest for the remainder of the weekend. You know, to marshall my resolve for the days ahead...specifically Thursday.

I'm down to less than 100 hours before I leave my 20's forever behind me. And I'm sure I'll have more to say about that as it gets closer.

j.s.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Okay something's been bothering me for a while now, and I'm looking for answers.

Let's say for a moment that you live in Texas, K?

Now, let's say that you also have a rather large pick-up truck.
One with "F-150," "Silverado" or "Sierra" emblazoned on the side. (Gun rack is optional. Lone Star flag window sticker is not.)

Still with me?
Okay.

SO, WHY IN GOD'S NAME DO YOU HAVE A PAIR OF RUBBER BOOTIES, STUCK "HEEL-UP," IN THAT THIN CRACK BETWEEN THE BED AND THE CAB?!?

Why?
Seriously.
I can't be alone in this...
Someone help me out here.

Because giant rubber galoshes can't possibly be heavy enough to fly out of the bed of a truck, even at the Flux Capacitor frying speeds that you drive...
So why stick them there?

Are they a part of the truck?
Did they come standard, or were they a dealer option?

Is it that you're a member of the "Houston Flash Flood Auxiliary," and you're just displaying your Red Booties of Courage with soggy pride?

Or are my fingers are so far off the pulse of what is "cool" in Houston that I'm unable to see the automotive couture in a pair of rubber galoshes riding behind a driver's head?
(I will admit, this wouldn't be the first time. I still don't grasp the whole "let's put 'big ass stars' on everything that isn't nailed to its perch" thing. And I certainly can't fathom why people would attach a pair of testicles to their truck...)

I don't know.
But I do know this...

I've gotta have some.
Hell, I'm getting 4 or 5 pairs.
And I'm going to staple-gun all of 'em, upside-down, to the back window of the Jeep.

You know, just in case.

j.s.

Monday, August 01, 2005

Okay folks, I bet you're asking yourselves why it is I asked you here today...
Well, it's to recap the weekend.
So let's get down to it, as we have a lot to cover.

Friday I bailed out of work at around 6ish, right after confirming cruise dates for Jenny and I to go to the Caribbean. (End of August, if you're wondering.)
After which I went home, watched "An Evening with Kevin Smith" for the umpteenth time, and then got ready to go out.

Belvedere was the first stop on the agenda, and I purposely arrived early so as to have time to chat with Jen the Ludicrously Hot Bartender, who did, in fact, look ludicrously hot.

We talked about Bahston, whether Manny would be traded to the gahddamn Mets, weddings in the north of Italy vs. the south of France, how tired we are of working, and the fact that I am still not currently dating anyone, and how surprising that is.

Around 10ish, Ed shows up.
He informs me that T. is on her way, although she's going to be a bit longer since she'd planned on "just throwing on a pair of jeans" until she found out we'd raised the style bar for the evening. (I, for example, was wearing my black/grey Armani pinstripes with a black, long-sleeve Hugo Boss shirt.)

He's just about through explaining all this when a lavishly bejeweled woman in her 50's, toting a "Lemon Drop" shot, grabs my hand and stares up at me.
I smile, say "Hi!" and give her hand a little squeeze as if to say, 'okay, you may let go of me now...'
"Hi yourself."
"Okay. Consider me highed."
**laugh**
"You're funny! And cute! You know, you would absolutely love my son...
"Er...what?"
"My son. He's in the Navy and stationed in San Francisco right now. You would love him!"
"I would?"
"Oh yes. He's so outgoing and cute and smart and he's in great shape too."
"Well that's great. But uh, I'm not going to love him, love him...you know. Not like a verb. You see, I'm straight."
"What?"
"Straight. I'm straight? You know, as in the opposite of gay?"
I can tell she's having a hard time wrapping her little noggin around this one, because she's staring up at me in silence with furrowed brow.
Eventually, she raises her Lemon Drop to clink it against my Tanq n' tonic, gives a loud "WOOOOOOO!!!, and then goes back to the bar without saying another word.

Always...always with the gay thing.
It's gotten so a brotha can't even go out looking good without having to fend off advances by gay boys' and they Mamas.
("Sorry Ms. Jackson, WOOOOOOO!!! I am for real...")

Fortunately, right around this time T. arrives in a strapless turquoise mini, looking quite stunning. And as she walked up I stammered something to that effect and gave her a hug.

We stayed there for about an hour or so. Had a few more drinks. I closed my $8 bar tab (God bless that girl), and then hopped into Ed's truck to go to "Europa."

Europa was a Gener-O-Club, slightly hidden off the beaten path so people would buy into the theory that it's actually cool.
It isn't.
Terrible music.
Plastic people who preened and strutted WAY more than they should've for being in a club of that caliber.
And they employed the world's creepiest DJ, who was wasted and kept lipsynching Eminem songs into the hanging pendant light over his booth as if it were a microphone.
Think L.L. Cool J's "Mama Said Knock You Out" video and you'll be on the right track.
Come to think of it, he even had hand motions/obscene gestures to go with each line of the song, kind of like a kindergarden pageant solo... (If you gave the kid a metric ton of coke beforehand.)

I decide more drinks are necessary in order to survive the night, so we switch to shooters, one of which was called a "Red Snapper" and tasted like grenadine mixed with equal parts aged cheese.
I swear to God...the damn thing was chunky.

Anyway, we dance for awhile, sit outside for a while, and eventually close the place down.
Out front we talk with a few different people about after-hours, decide none of them are worth the trouble, and head to the car. (Also T. has ended up with some foreign substances in her that are starting to kick in, so she thinks it wise to take her home...now.)

So we head back to the Belv to pick up her car, I it drive to her place, and end up staying over there until around 6:30 or so.

Saturday I was in no shape (obviously) to do the Fountain View thing, and I was asleep until 2 anyway.
I did manage to get myself up and out of the house in time to catch the last 5 innings of the Astros game however.
After which, J.T. called and gave me terrible directions to a party at a bar called Caddy Corner.
So I headed over to what turned out to be less of a "bar" and more of a "lean-to, with a creamy alcohol center."
Planks of old, greyed wood, a couple livestock troughs full of ice and beer, several box fans with streamers attached, and a sewage outflow.
Horrible.
Just horrible.
There was, however, a kinda cute girl working behind the bar who kept staring over at me and smiling.
So I wandered over and asked if she sold Marlboro Lights.
"Mahlo Lie?"
"What?"
"What?"
"Uh, Marlboro. Marlboro lights?"
"Yah!
She wanders off and comes back with a pair of Miller Lites and twists the caps off them.
"Uh, thanks. Can I have a pack of MARL-BOR-O LIGHTS now too?"
**Jeremiah makes a semaphore like he's smoking a phantom cigarette**
"OHHH! Lo siento...sorry!"
"No worries."
Turns out she barely spoke English, and I consider how much fun it would be to teach someone ESL, Jeremiah-style ("Repeat after me, 'I am joyful...when I fondle...your furry walrus slippers.'"), I eventually decide better of it.
J.T. and I bail and head to Volcano to catch up with Luis and friends.

Along the way he gets me lost for the second time that night, this time in the ghetto. And at one point he feels the need to leap out of the Jeep and go sit on an abandoned couch on the side of the road...from which he no doubt came up with entire villages of bugs/lice/scabes/etc on his person.
But, it was that kind of night apparently.

Anyway, we caught up with peeps at Volcano, where there were quite a few cute girls there this time around...including 4 at the table next to us.

J.T, for reasons I can't recall, decides to take their picture with his phone and tells them that it'll be online tomorrow.
They protest and say how creepy that is, and become irate when they think he's being serious and start threatening him...
"You can't do that. It's illegal! She's a lawyer you know!" they say, pointing to a particularly cute member of their group.
"Yeah! She's a lawyer! You can't put those on the internet!
"Yeah! I'm in law school! You'd better not..."
The scene begins to escalate, until I put my beer down, whip my head around to glare at all of them and say, with venom, "If you're in law school, you're not a fucking lawyer are you? Enough."
Then I look back down at my pint...the once rising protests quickly subside.

Shortly thereafter, one of the members of our group calls them "heartless fucking bitches" (again for reasons I don't recall), and I seriously consider crawling under the table to hide.
**shakes head in disbelief**

So later, when they began to gather at one side of the table to take a picture, I offer to take one with all of them in it...during which I take the opportunity to quietly apologize for the behavior of some of my cohorts.
As a result, I'm told that I'm sweet, and nice, and quite unlike a couple of others at our table, and would I like to stay at their table instead?
I smile, take the picture, set the camera down, nod at them and say "goodnight," then walk out the door.
Weird scene over there...

On the way out J.T. gets cornered by their bouncer, who is proudly showing him his "artwork portfolio," one of which is a portrait of Spider Jerusalem, done with blue ink on notebook paper.
I call him on it, and he grins and says "Ah, another Transmet fan?!?"
"Indeed. Have a good night man."
"You too man!"

From there, I'm taking J.T. home, and we decide to grab something to eat.
Which begins Ghetto-Fest '05 at Chacho's.
We're in line inside, and J.T. takes off to go to the bathroom.
At this point some guy walks up and steps in line right next to me, effectively cutting in front of about 8 or 9 people.
I refuse to move, and when he shuffle-steps over, trying to assert his place in line by leaning into me, I flex my arm and turn into him, effectively pushing him back out of line.
"Whassup? Why you pushin me homie?"
"You walked into me...'homie.'"
"Whatever man, whatever."
He doesn't move, and I stare at the side of his head until he looks back up at me.
"What the fuck you lookin' at?"
"There's a line mate, it starts back there."
"I don't give a fuck yo...you got a problem wi' dat?"
At which point I square around, look down at him (he was about 4 inches shorter than me), and say "Yeah I got a fuckin' problem little man, you're in front of me and in front of the rest of these people. The line starts back there..." I point, and leave my arm right next to his head.
He pushes it back down (since it's making it obvious to the people behind us what he just did), and reiterates his stance of "I don't give a fuck."
"You touch me again motherfu..."
At this point his friend chimes in to tell me how "crasy" this guy is, that we should just mellow out and "it's all cool," and starts pulling the guy back.
J.T. also returns from the bathroom to see me in this guys face, obviously ready to fight, and he walks up behind me and does the same.
"Punk ass whiteboy, you ain't gonna do nothin'"
"Whenever you're fuckin' ready Menudo..."
This gets several laughs from the people standing behind us in line, and he looks at them, then tries to get out of his friend's grip, to get to me.
Now, to his friend's credit, he's still trying to calm the situation.
And so was J.T. for that matter.
Then the guys behind us become involved and get in between us, saying we're all just here for some tacos, and that isn't worth getting into a fight over.

I eventually calm down enough to see the logic in that.
No taco is worth going to jail for.
I let them pull me back.
The prick did stay where he was in line, but he kept flashing nervous looks around at everyone constantly, so he certainly didn't enjoy being there.

The guy behind me becomes very concerned, and expalains that not all Hispanic people are like that, and that he hates when he sees someone do that to "some white boy," because we'll assume that all Hispanics are just like him.
I assure him, loud enough so the nervous dick in front of me can hear, that assholes come in all colors and shapes, and that I'm rarely one to generalize.
He grins at me, tells me to stop trying to start shit, then asks, "And what the hell was that crazy ese doing trying to fight someone that looks just like Oscar delaHoya anyways?"

So we eventually get my breakfast tacos.
J.T. immediately boxes his up and is more then ready to go home. So we leave, I drive him back, and then head home myself.

Lounged about the house in recovery mode on Sunday. Then hung out at D's place for a few hours before coming back home and crashing.

Today it's back to work, where I have end-of-month business to attend to for the next few days.

Talk to you soon.

j.s.