Thursday, July 27, 2006
Powerlines in our Bloodlines
We ran through the park, skirting the bluff, when they came at us. A whole cloud of them, flitting against the wind. Dragonflies, darting here, there, overhead, between legs. Thousands of them, darkening the sky, bumping into one another, avoiding the orioles.
Sleater-Kinney broke up. It's too bad. Like wishing a friend goodbye as he travels across the country, knowing you can email and write, but also knowing you won't.
A good friend of mine once said to me -- minutes after I just finished running the best race of my life -- coming as close to creating artwork as I will ever come, probably as long as I live -- "That course looked short." I wanted to punch him, friend or not. It wasn't that the assistant coach had already verified the distance. It was that as a friend, he had that right. He could shit on something great. And all I could do was tell him to shut up.
My current favorite CD is a 25-cent EP I got from the internet. It is amazing. And at 25 cents, has to stand as one of my all-time best ever purchases.
A friend of mine recently told me I was his - "infinity roommate". Which was nice to hear, because as a roommate, I rolled about a 150 average. 50-50. Had some good ones. And some bad ones. Religious ones. Anal ones. Competitive ones. Slacker ones. Irrational ones. Quiet ones. Talkers. Lazy ones. Even-Steven. I also was 50-50 roommate. Sometimes slacking, sometimes too loud, sometimes selfish, but usually available, fair, and dedicated. And if forced to choose, he also would be my infinity roommate. Makes sense that I finally got it right with my last roommate. Too bad it was just one semester. We could have pissed a lot more people off.
At my job, we get these claims. And I put together a new template for certain claims. Let's just boil it all down and say I separated the black claims from the white claims. So what happens next? Some chick goes ahead -- after my anouncment, mind you -- and submits a black claim, but then on the documentation, states: this is a white claim. I know that I'm becoming a crotchety old man (getting ready to be a pretend old guy), but I sent that fucking thing back to her. Not because of procedure. But because she is stupid. If someone gives you black and white, and you're so stupid that you blow that, you don't deserve a job. There are bums on the street, middle school kids, and trained dogs who could do a better job.
Last weekend I heard this band segue from "Jesus is Just Alright With Me" directly into "Oh What a Night". I may be scarred for life.
I run against some sausages in a race this Saturday. Should be OK.
Fuck whoever came up with this as acceptable weather. For all you summer people: here it is. Happy now? Happy with 89 and humid? This is your idea of a good time?
I'm so desperate for sports that I'm reading, not just the Packers preview training camp reports, but other team's reports. It's time for September. It really is.
I've been listening to a lot of Superchunk, Elliot Smith, Penfifteen Club, Decemberists, Toots and the Maytals, and of course, OlO lately. Very loud and very quiet. Little in between. I think it's this weather that's doing it to me.
I just found out Glen Frey had a solo career. That's so embarrassing. I saw some of the album covers, too. THAT's embarrassing. The 80s were relentless for some people.
Further proof I'm going to be a good pretend old guy -- I have all this back pain now. And not for good reason, either. For just standing in one place for too long. Pathetic. Actually, I'll reach pathetic when I pay money to some schmuck who will crack something in 2 seconds and charge me two week's worth of salary. That's when I might as well cash in my chips.
Sleater-Kinney broke up. It's too bad. Like wishing a friend goodbye as he travels across the country, knowing you can email and write, but also knowing you won't.
A good friend of mine once said to me -- minutes after I just finished running the best race of my life -- coming as close to creating artwork as I will ever come, probably as long as I live -- "That course looked short." I wanted to punch him, friend or not. It wasn't that the assistant coach had already verified the distance. It was that as a friend, he had that right. He could shit on something great. And all I could do was tell him to shut up.
My current favorite CD is a 25-cent EP I got from the internet. It is amazing. And at 25 cents, has to stand as one of my all-time best ever purchases.
A friend of mine recently told me I was his - "infinity roommate". Which was nice to hear, because as a roommate, I rolled about a 150 average. 50-50. Had some good ones. And some bad ones. Religious ones. Anal ones. Competitive ones. Slacker ones. Irrational ones. Quiet ones. Talkers. Lazy ones. Even-Steven. I also was 50-50 roommate. Sometimes slacking, sometimes too loud, sometimes selfish, but usually available, fair, and dedicated. And if forced to choose, he also would be my infinity roommate. Makes sense that I finally got it right with my last roommate. Too bad it was just one semester. We could have pissed a lot more people off.
At my job, we get these claims. And I put together a new template for certain claims. Let's just boil it all down and say I separated the black claims from the white claims. So what happens next? Some chick goes ahead -- after my anouncment, mind you -- and submits a black claim, but then on the documentation, states: this is a white claim. I know that I'm becoming a crotchety old man (getting ready to be a pretend old guy), but I sent that fucking thing back to her. Not because of procedure. But because she is stupid. If someone gives you black and white, and you're so stupid that you blow that, you don't deserve a job. There are bums on the street, middle school kids, and trained dogs who could do a better job.
Last weekend I heard this band segue from "Jesus is Just Alright With Me" directly into "Oh What a Night". I may be scarred for life.
I run against some sausages in a race this Saturday. Should be OK.
Fuck whoever came up with this as acceptable weather. For all you summer people: here it is. Happy now? Happy with 89 and humid? This is your idea of a good time?
I'm so desperate for sports that I'm reading, not just the Packers preview training camp reports, but other team's reports. It's time for September. It really is.
I've been listening to a lot of Superchunk, Elliot Smith, Penfifteen Club, Decemberists, Toots and the Maytals, and of course, OlO lately. Very loud and very quiet. Little in between. I think it's this weather that's doing it to me.
I just found out Glen Frey had a solo career. That's so embarrassing. I saw some of the album covers, too. THAT's embarrassing. The 80s were relentless for some people.
Further proof I'm going to be a good pretend old guy -- I have all this back pain now. And not for good reason, either. For just standing in one place for too long. Pathetic. Actually, I'll reach pathetic when I pay money to some schmuck who will crack something in 2 seconds and charge me two week's worth of salary. That's when I might as well cash in my chips.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Fat Compliments
On the one hand, it's nice for people to notice I have lost some weight. It's a compliment. They're telling me they think I look good, which is nice. Warm and fuzzy stuff.
On the other hand, after several compliments, I begin to feel like Elaine's triangle artist ex-boyfriend who was a fat starving artist. At first, Elaine is shocked and impressed that he lost so much weight . . . . but then she keeps going:
"You really lost weight."
"You were huge! Like blubber!"
"I couldn't get my ARMS around you!"
And all I can really do is shrug, like the starving fat triangle artist, and say, "Yes, I remember." I was gigantic. Thank you very much.
On the other hand, after several compliments, I begin to feel like Elaine's triangle artist ex-boyfriend who was a fat starving artist. At first, Elaine is shocked and impressed that he lost so much weight . . . . but then she keeps going:
"You really lost weight."
"You were huge! Like blubber!"
"I couldn't get my ARMS around you!"
And all I can really do is shrug, like the starving fat triangle artist, and say, "Yes, I remember." I was gigantic. Thank you very much.
