The Prettiest Denny's Waitress

Be a winner

2008-08-08T10:51:00.006-04:00

Alright, I promised a contest so you’re getting a contest. Earlier this year I was a lucky winner in one of the drawings on Allie’s Answers in which I received a copy of the book Green Chic. In the spirit of the book and of Allie herself, I decided that I would pass it along through a contest on this blog.

That was forever ago.

I’ve sort of been waiting for Courtney to read it before I recycle it to one of you, but, let’s be honest, my inherent laziness probably would have kept me from getting this done before now anyway. Maybe if I finally designate it for assignment, though, she’ll give it a skim. It is, after all, a book geared for the environmentally conscious woman, or at least women who are considering becoming environmentally conscious. In pointing this out, I don’t mean to scare off any guys from entering this little contest, because the big picture of the book, and most of the details, are applicable and relatable to anyone. Dudes just might want to skip the sections on pedicures and tampons. I didn’t because I like to consider myself well-rounded.

Anyway, here’s the contest: Just leave a comment telling me what you’ve been doing this summer to reduce your impact on this finite little planet of ours. It doesn’t matter if it’s something I’ve already mentioned here or a repeat of another person’s comment. It can even be something that you’ve been meaning to start doing but haven’t gotten around to yet. I just want to see your ideas, no matter how small. I’ll put the names of the people who share on little pieces of paper, draw one at random, and the lucky winner will receive a lovely little green book in the mail. If you don’t want the book I want your comments anyway, so just tell me you don’t want the book. You’re chances of winning are really good, too, now that I’ve chased off my formerly robust readership with my apathy of late.

Just a couple caveats: The winner has to pass the book on to someone else. Also, I’ll be needing your mailing address when I pick the winner, so there goes anonymity (But seriously, I’m barely motivated enough to hold this contest, let alone put on my hockey mask and hunt you down.) Courtney and Allie are not eligible to win, but I still want to hear from them.

To get things started, here are a few things I’ve been doing recently that, in my mind, make me a better person (and that’s the whole point, right?)

-We keep the thermostat pegged at about 80 or 81 degrees. It’s summertime. It’s supposed to be warm. You get used to it. I feel bad about using the AC at all, but we’ve got to keep the fish tank cool. It’s all about the fish, I swear.

-When it’s 80 degrees inside, a cold shower feels really nice. The water in our pipes right now is around 77 degrees, and that feels pretty good. By not using the hot water, I’m not using any extra energy to heat the water up. It’s better for your hair and skin anyway, and I’m all about looking my radiant best.

-While in the shower, there’s no need to run the water when you’re not using it. I know in shampoo and soap commercials those weirdos stand directly under the spray while lathering up, but I know I’m not alone in my tendency to step out from under the water while soaping up. Otherwise what’s the point? So while you’re loofa-ing or whatever you do to get off the filth, turn off the water until you’re ready to rinse. And don’t repeat. It’s not necessary.

-And while we’re talking showers, just don’t take one if you don’t need one. I only bother if I’ve been sweating profusely or I’m just seriously overdue. If you’re not dirty then you’re already clean, right?

So what the hell have you guys been up to?

I got nothing

2008-08-07T13:59:00.003-04:00

It's only been six days! Gimme a break! When your life consists of waking up every morning to the same two cereal options (shredded wheat or raisin bran) and then deciding whether the library or Panera will be the place where you go for free internet until your laptop battery dies, there isn't a whole lot to blog about. There's just not much stimulation there.

Did I mention that our (that'd be the lady and me) combined job search efforts being met by a chorus of indifferent crickets is beginning to get a little depressing?

But you don't need to hear all that whiny, woe-is-me shit. It's pointless. I'm really just trying to make excuses for why I'm not keeping up with this blogging stuff, because I really do feel bad about it.

Anyway, I am planning on writing a real, honest-to-blog post tonight and putting it up tomorrow, one with no mention whatsoever of employment status or apologies for my slack blogging. I figure I should write it at home where I have nothing but time on my hands instead of wasting my precious internet time with all that typing. Like I am right now.

So I'll see you tomorrow, kids.

PS- This is what part of the alphabet would look like if we did away with Q and R. (lifted from Mitch Hedberg)

For real PS- There may be a long-promised contest in the offing, so stay tuned.

Choose Your Own Blogventure II

2008-08-01T09:46:00.003-04:00

For the beginning of this Choose Your Own Blogventure story, click here.

Continued from Malfeasance:

A transformer on a nearby utility pole had exploded under the weight of several misguided zombies hanging from the power lines. The distractions of a world gone mad with the undead would not derail Zombie Beej from his insatiable lust for fresh brains, though, as he took his first enormous chomp from Aaron’s delectable cranium. Shelley watched helplessly from the driver’s seat of the Popemobile as three-plus decades of useless movie trivia and zombie expertise disappeared by the mouthful.

“Well what the hell!” Shelley screamed in disbelief. “Isn’t the Popemobile supposed to be bulletproof? And wouldn’t the Holy See have anointed his sweet ride with holy water against vampires, zombies and the like? Mouthpiece of God my ass…”

As Aaron’s overstuffed brains and skull fragments dripped down Zombie Beej’s zombie chin, Shelley peeled away in the turbo-charged Popemobile, bound for the one location she knew no zombie would ever go: Iowa. Because no person or thing or zombie ever wants to go to Iowa. Ever. Except maybe for the scenic covered bridges. But probably not.

In the lingering acrid burned-rubber cloud left by the world’s foremost fleeing librarian, there was naught to do for Zombie Beej but partake in the delicious brains he now found himself all alone to enjoy. All alone, that is, until Zombie James Van Der Beek sidled stealthily up behind him with a question: “Hey, man, can I get some of that cerebellum if you’re not gonna eat it?”

“Sure, bud,” answered a momentarily sated Zombie Beej, Aaron’s gray matter stubbornly sticking between his teeth. “Hey, aren’t you that guy from ‘Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back’?”

“Um, yeah, I played myself in that movie. It was a bit part, really. But maybe you also saw me in ‘Dawson’s Creek’ and ‘Varsity Blues’?” Zombie Beek was a little taken aback at Zombie Beej’s incomplete recognition, but then maybe it was because his nose was rotting off his face and his beautiful blonde hair now populated his scalp only in mangy clumps.

“Huh. Never saw either of them.” Zombie Beej was too preoccupied with his zombie appetites to play along with this sidewalk version of “Where Are They Now?”

“Come on, man! I was freakin’ Dawson! Everybody knows that shit! Shit!”

“Aw, screw this crap.” Remembering his one and only charge upon gaining involuntary membership to the zombiehood, Zombie Beej made a complete about-face on his generous but unsanctioned invitation to share in the remaining bits of Aaron’s brains and commenced pulling Zombie Beek’s unsuspecting limbs from his girlish torso. In a violent shower of viscous, steaming zombie blood, Zombie Beej rendered Zombie James Van Der Beek into many small zombie pieces.

And that’s the story of how Joshua Jackson ended up featured in an endlessly plugged TV show on Fox. So watch the series premiere of Fringe September 9 at 8/7c or the twice-undead Zombie James Van Der Beek will show up at your house and tear you in half and feast on your slippery entrails. Me, I'm gonna skip it. Bring on The Beek, I say.

S-L-E-E-T-I-N-(blank tile)

2008-07-31T10:42:00.002-04:00

Maybe it was all the talk in the blogosphere about the lamented demise of Scrabulous, or maybe it was just the maddening boredom that awaited us in our net-less apartment after we returned from the library yesterday. Either way, my lady friend and I played a spirited round of the old-fashioned, non-virtual letters and squares game of Scrabble before dinner.

And I scored 113 points on one word (see title.)

Those as geeky and lame as myself will recognize that these particular letters are worth exactly one point apiece, with the blank tile (standing in for a "G" if you're retarded) valued at zero. So how does a seven-point word become a 113-point haul?

I'm glad you asked: The eight letters spanned the gap from one triple word score square to another, which allows for the total to be multiplied by nine (three and then three again.) 63. Plus 50 bonus points for using all seven of my available tiles.

Interestingly (for those who are inexplicably still reading this nerdfest), it was almost the lowest possible score in this particular scenario. The only way it could have been lower was if I had held two blank tiles instead of just one. Throw in a letter or two worth more than one point (instead of "sleeting" it could have been "sleeping" or, god forbid if it were a word, "zleexing") and the score for this one word could have easily been many times my measly 113 points.

This was no consolation to Courtney, who did not find it nearly as funny or academically interesting as did I. She interpreted my amazement and incessant rambling on the subject as gloating. She may just be a sore loser. And she did end up losing. It's tough to come back from a 113-point deficit in Scrabble (which she nearly did anyway.)

(P.S. Dont' forget about Choose Your Own Blogventure tomorrow! Don't worry if you show up here and find the conclusion to a nonsensical story; I'll link you to the start.)

Is there some way to get the internet at home? Really? They have that?

2008-07-29T14:17:00.003-04:00

Ack. Internet woes continue. I am once again blogging live from Panera. These people are going to start recognizing us and asking us to at least purchase some coffee or a bagel or something. After setting up shop here last week, our poached signal at the apartment rose from the dead for a couple of days. And I took it for granted once again. So it left us.

This is my penance.

I can't go on at length because I really should be looking for a job while we're here, but I must at least plug an event that everyone needs to get ready for on Friday: CYOB II. That's right, Choose Your Own Blogventure is set to make its return pass through our little orbit at 10 a.m. on Friday. I will be one of the closing options in the story chain. Don't miss it, geeks.

As long as I'm calling you names, allow me to apologize for not reading your blogs for over a week now. It hurts me as much as it hurts you. Nay, more even. We'll work it out one of these days.

Until then, there are jobs to be had. There are, right? Anyone? Hello?

Hello from this freezing cold cafe (my frozen drink isn't helping)

2008-07-23T14:21:00.008-04:00

We had a really nice thunderstorm a couple of nights ago that briefly knocked out the TV and rendered my computer useless for anything but spider solitaire ever since(real solitaire is way too effing hard.)

Encouragingly, we did see three Comcast trucks on our way out of the apartment complex, ostensibly doing their best to be comcastic. That remains to be seen. Fingers crossed, we'll be once again tripping through the altered state of Internetachusetts (Mr. Show, anyone?) by the time we get back.

But right now prepare to be blessed with the post I was too lazy to write on Monday, taking for granted the fact that I would be able to do it Tuesday. Never take the world wide magical rainbow fairy tale web for granted, folks.

Of course now it's Wednesday, so you only get the abridged version of our weekend because in hindsight it seems much less cool than it did at the time.

We went to Chattanooga on Saturday. 'Nooga from here on out. For those not well-versed in the history of urban planning and revitalization, 'Nooga is sort of a national template (along with Baltimore) for taking a run down, industrialized urban core and turning it into a hip, happening attraction for the whole family, an endeavor most other cities have since undertaken. The process started in the '80s and they still haven't stopped, and it really is quite the sight. I still think the Tennessee Aquarium is better than Atlanta's flashy new job, and I'm really interested to see the inside of 'Nooga's crazy looking art museum hanging over the river.

We only had time to walk down to the riverfront and across the Walnut Street Bridge (now a pedestrian-only bridge spanning the river but once the sight of two separate lynchings) and back again before meeting my friend Jess and his new bride for some dinner. Jess had invited us down to see a band he really likes and this was the whole purpose of the trip. He's friends with the lead singer (a guy named Jon, whom Jess called Casino), and we met up with Jon/Casino and some other people for some drinks after dinner.

After soaking up some reflected rock'n'roll glory and shelling out the GDP of El Salvador for a few beers at Taco Mac (seriously, they had stadium-like prices), we headed over to the small venue for the show. It was nice not having to worry about the time since there was no way the band would start without the singer, and he was with us.

JJ's Bohemia has a small stage, room for no more than a hundred standing patrons, and a bar selling a nice selection of beer for half what Taco Mac was asking. The band, How I Became the Bomb, put on a fantastic show and has some really strong songs if you're into earnest '80s revival synth-rock that doesn't take itself too seriously. Think Devo meets The Killers. I dug it.

They didn't go on until after midnight so the lady and I didn't get back to K-town until after 3:30. Damn that made me feel cool and oh-so-young and hip.

And we have accomplished next to nothing since then. But here I am at Panera writing this lengthy post when I should be spending my precious battery power looking for a job. Such is my dedication. Courtney just bought me a delicious-looking frozen coffee drink, so I better get down to inhaling that whipped cream topped calorie bomb.

The second bridge is the pedestrian-only span.

My lady in front of the aquarium.

The ultra-modern Hunter Museum of American Art.

Looking towards downtown with Lookout Mountain in the background.

A Saturday night crowd inside JJ's Bohemia. That's basically the whole place.

Casino/Jon employing the human mic stand for the opening number. Within minutes, the tie would be history and the sweat would begin to flow inside the air condition-impaired building. There's nothing quite like rocking hard inside a crowded air condition-less room in July in the south.

Apologies to the keyboard player, who is off to the left of the cramped stage and didn't make it into any of my photos.

Casino/Jon working the keytar for one song, as promised. If you ever get a chance to see How I Became the Bomb, I recommend it. I hear they do well in Europe.

Or maybe it was DWM (Driving While Mustachioed)

2008-07-16T14:17:00.005-04:00

I just noticed that my last three posts all feature pictures of beer. Rad.

Had a couple brews last night, too, but not as many as somebody else in the neighborhood, apparently. We were watching all that All-Star pre-game crap (Rollie Fingers is still rockin' that 'stache like nobody's business. I bet Tom Selleck cries himself to sleep thinking about Rollie's handlebar.) when a brief screech of tires outside was followed by that unmistakable thud/crunch of a car colliding with an unmoving object. Excited at the prospect of witnessing bodily injury and, if the gods be kind, a fireball or two, the lady and I hurried out the door in the direction of the sound. A car had impacted a tree pretty solidly on the hill next to our building, having somehow lost control and left the roadway on the wide, gentle curve leading down from the pool. Maybe that groundhog that lives around here ran out in front of the car and spooked the driver, but I'm going with intoxication as the cause.

Looking down the hill at the wreck, a crowd had already started to form. A few guys were standing around the car while one of them got something out of the passenger side. We later heard that the driver was bleeding from the top of his head, but before we saw that for ourselves, they all got in another car with whatever they got out of the wreck and took off! The cops, a fire truck and an ambulance showed up a few minutes later to find nothing but a car kissing a tree and a bunch of bystanders bystanding. Weird. I guess maybe a DWI is worse than leaving the scene of an accident. Or maybe the car was stolen, in which case there's no reason to stick around.

Either way, nothing exploded. No fireball. Movies are such bullshit.

We did stay up for the whole ridiculous baseball game. Fucking American League. I will say this, though- Papelbon got a raw deal from the NY media, but what else is new?

Home sucks

2008-07-14T11:52:00.004-04:00

I guess I should have declared a blogging break. Sure, I've posted a few times in the past couple of weeks, but while on vacation I wasn't really reading your blogs much, either. Come to think of it, I've been off my game for a couple months now. So I now officially declare a half-assed blog break, retroactive to around June 1 or so.

And now I will post.

So yeah, we just got back (two days ago) from an impromptu vacay that was very nearly extended even further with a trip up to New England. Nearly. Very nearly. Actually, if the innkeeper at The Christopher in Boston (that's an actual B&B, not a reference to NPW's man; we wouldn't be quite that presumptive) was still answering the phone at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday to take reservations, we would have gone. Instead, we decided to just call in the morning on our way up there and at some point during the night we changed our minds about the whole thing.

We settled for a stop in Charlottesville to see Monticello, which was actually just one of five presidential homesteads on or near our route home. Given more time, we could have had a regular dead-president-a-thon. Actually, our calendar is pretty open, but after Mount Vernon (which we saw last year) and Monticello, the other entries are pretty weak by comparison.

Another highlight of the tail-end of our trip was a stop for lunch at the Dogfish Head brewpub in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Easily one of the finest and most interesting breweries in the land, we owed it to ourselves and to Jacob to not pass up this opportunity. Along with a fine lunch in which we split a pizza and some excellent crab dip (tasty, but not the point of the visit), my lady friend enjoyed a 60-minute IPA and I a snifter of Palo Santo Marron (the point of the visit.) Awesome beer. Delaware gives so much to the world.

The vessel that would deliver us safely to the far shore of the bay, where fine beer awaits.

Courtney regarding her beverage thoughtfully.

Good stuff. While I grilled the waiter for recommendations, he asked me what I like, besides Mickey's. I was hoping something would come of wearing a shirt bearing the logo of a shitty malt liquor to visit a well-known craft brewery. And yes, I did mention that I'd just enjoyed a 40 of it the night before. No shame. The Palo Santo Marron was somewhat better, though.

This one's for my homies

2008-07-09T15:31:00.003-04:00

Sometimes blog fodder just falls out of the sky. Sometimes your grandmother brings it home from the liquor store.

This afternoon, my grandmother came back from her doctor's appointment with a bottle of Mickey's Malt Liquor for me. That's right: Mommom bought me a 40. Of course it was the name of the cut-rate beverage that she thought I would enjoy and she was disappointed when I told her that I had heard of it and in fact have a t-shirt featuring the logo. I'll be wearing it to dinner tonight.

You may have gotten the impression from my last post that my grandmother is a bit of a character. Now you know for sure. Let me count the ways:

1. Despite my insistence to the contrary, she likely will not be helping me down the 40 of Mickey's later on because she generally only drinks Coors Light or Inglenook White Zinfandel.

2. None of the plates in the kitchen match and she keeps all the spoons in a glass on the table, although if you use one to eat your macaroni salad she'll call you a baby.

3. Going against the unwritten code that most oldsters live by, she stays up late and sleeps in. She also only uses SPF 8 sunscreen because she thinks it takes 30 years for skin cancer to develop and at 80 years old, that's a safe gamble.

4. She has DVR, but when she's catching up on her soaps she watches the commercials anyway. I think it's enough that she remembers how to record and watch her programs; fast-forwarding must be too much.

5. She can't hear and doesn't like to put her hearing aids in. She also only has one phone in the house and keeps it in the bedroom, so when it rings, even if she does hear it, she's not getting to it in time, so just call back.

I'm sure there's more. I could go into all the quirky things she has around the house, like the talking clock that shows signs of sentience from time to time*, the large collection of beach glass, or the outdoor shower that the neighbors must find really odd. There's nothing like showering under blue skies in a cool breeze, although biting flies can be a concern.

I love my grandmother.

Here's a picture of Shirley Temple about to get shitty on the good ship Malt Liquor.

*I swear, this one time the clock said "Two dollar and a tootsie roll." I was there.

Down'a shore

2008-07-07T17:25:00.005-04:00

Did you know that only babies use spoons? Me neither, but my grandmother called me a baby for using a spoon to eat my dinner the other night. So be it. She also said Courtney needed another beer last night.

Revelations of my infant tendencies aside, we've been having a good time here in Cape May, NJ. There have been a few good beach days, a couple of good stay-at-home days that allowed us to do some chores around my grandmother's house, and much eating. Much, much eating. Luckily, some of that eating has been seafood, a must anytime you're within smelling distance of the ocean.

We left Courtney's car in Delaware last week and took the ferry across the bay, and tomorrow we should be heading back across and stopping for another night with the grandparents in Maryland.

Shit. It's been about an hour since that last paragraph and we've changed our plans again. Maybe we're sticking around for a couple more beach days after all. Either way, it's dinner time again. Enjoy a few pictures.

Courtney the salty sea-dog.

Lobster, scallops, shrimp and beer. And Grandma.

It is the Garden State, after all. Friggin' flowers.

Where sand meets water. What's the big deal?

Greetings from Queen Anne’s County, Maryland!

2008-07-01T11:19:00.001-04:00

As you may be aware, I am worthlessly unemployed and my lady, Courtney, is semi-employed. Yesterday morning, after she found out that she has been deemed worthless for the entirety of the week by her semi-employer, she said “Let’s go to Cape May.” Cape May is the residence of one of my grandmothers and also a beach community on the southern tip of New Jersey. Of all the places we can go to visit family, it’s the most fun by far, but Courtney knows that any trip to Cape May will also involve a stop to see my other grandparents.

They live here in Maryland, and my grandmother just had a lymphoma removed from her head on Friday. She’s doing well and is pretty much her old chatty self except half her head is shaved and she has 42 staples running in an arc across her scalp. I told her she should be rockin’ out to some Misfits with a look like that. She said she doesn’t think that’s her crowd. My parents are here as well, having made the trip to help the folks out post-op.

Nothing like a spontaneous nine-hour drive. I was actually planning on coming up here sometime in the next few weeks anyway, but Courtney’s revelation made this the perfect week if I wanted company.

In the next couple of days, we’ll head around another bay to the Cape for some beach time and then back over here before we head home this weekend or next week. Whenever. We’re pretty flexible right now.

My parents and Courtney and I each brought our own laptops along and so far I’m the only one able to get a good signal from the neighbors. Hopefully it’ll hold up long enough to post this. If not, we’re planning a group trip down to the library later on and I’ll post it then. So if I can keep finding internet signals floating through the air, you’ll be lucky enough to get updates on our little impromptu vacay. Yipeeee for you!

It really packs a wallop when you inevitably punch a minority or a liberal in the face

2008-06-26T19:03:00.007-04:00

That title might get me in trouble.

Just in case those of you in Vermont and Massachusetts and Minnesota and any of those other prideless places don't get the same stack of freebie coupons in the mail that we do, I want to pass along this "limited time offer.*" The Bradford Exchange is offering, at a cost of only 4 easy payments of $29.75 (plus $9 shipping and handling), the Pride of the South Civil War Commemorative Ring.

I know, I know, I know! It's just what you've been looking for! Now everyone (or at least those preoccupied with your fingers) will know exactly who you were pulling for in the War of Northern Aggression. May the brave soldiers of the Confederacy be forever memorialized on your racist, meth-brewing, Budweiser-clutching right hand.

That $128 "commission" for the ring? The kids didn't really need to go to the dentist anyway. Besides, there are no dentists in the bible (that's why all dentists are Jews.)

Seriously? A ring commemorating the losing side in a war from over 140 years ago? Really?

Sometimes I'm so glad I'm from Delaware.

*Full credit goes to Courtney for bringing this promotional flyer to my attention.

Bring me your tired, your hungry, your fish

2008-06-26T16:46:00.005-04:00

It's already Thursday, so I thought I'd go ahead and post a few ramblings and some pictures about last weekend. I would have done this yesterday (so soon!) but our apartment turned into a sweltering internet dead zone, so we had to pack up the 'puters and go to the library, where I felt compelled to actually spend my time job searching. Despite my dedication, I still only managed to apply for one (non-Courtney approved) job, and it didn't even feel any cooler in there than our lovely abode. As I type this (poached signal reacquired), I have a fan blowing on me and my right foot in a bucket if ice water. Beats turning the AC on.

So last Friday my mom calls about twenty minutes before she and my father arrive to tell me to get the fish tank ready for some aquatic interlopers. I vaguely recall her telling me that she had been unsuccessful in trying to give away the fish that have resided in her elementary school library for several years and whose tank is being decommissioned. I may have told her I'd take the fish if she was just going to flush them otherwise but didn't think she'd actually want to bother hauling them three and a half hours north.

I was wrong. After gently breaking the news to Fishy, a guppy who has had our large tank to himself for over a year and a half and telling him to enjoy his last moments of peace and quiet, my parents showed up with a bucket full of filthy water and four fish that hadn't been fed in weeks. Despite the stress, they all survived the introduction to their new home. Fishy wasn't happy about it, but I believe he shared those details with you earlier in the week. By the way, my thanks to him for providing some content here in my laziness. His contempt for me has been noted and will be returned in spades. Ingrate.

We had a wonderful Knoxville weekend with the 'rents, enjoying some hiking, a little picnicking and much eating out. Oh, and we made the drive of shame out to see the minor league baseball team that Knoxville allowed to move to the next county over. Shame, Knoxville, shame. Courtney wrote up the weekend in a more timely fashion here, so I'll save those of you who read her a repeat narrative. I'll just give you some pictures, my specialty of late.

The hills are alive - heading up to the top of Max Patch.

Courtney and my pops surveying the verdant mountains of North Carolina.

The only problem with the treeless summit of Max Patch: freakin' flowers everywhere.

The feet of my family gathered 'round the summit marker.

Azalea. Ick.

Chicken salad and Sun Chips by the French Broad River.

In case you were wondering, I have now switched to my left foot in the bucket.

Teaser: For those of you looking for the perfect way to commemorate your "southern pride," tune in tomorrow for information regarding a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Guest post: Five's a crowd

2008-06-23T15:19:00.007-04:00

Mickey hasn't been doing shit lately with this blog (and you might say what he actually does here is shit, too), so I asked if I could use it to air some stuff out that's been on my mind the last few days. Somebody might as well use the space. He promised he wouldn't edit anything I wrote so I trust what you read will be my words. The guy may be terrible at keeping up his blog and sometimes he smells bad, but he doesn't fuck around when it comes to the First Amendment.

I guess I should introduce myself. Some people call me Alice, others go with Fishy. More often than not, the author of this blog calls me Fishy-Fucker or even just Asshole. Truth be told, I don't really care what you call me because I'm a guppy and guppies can't understand English, idiot. We don't even have ears. I live in the corner over by the kitchen in a tank that is my sole 25-gallon domain. Or at least it was until last Friday. Apparently it wasn't good enough to just let my little red 1.5-inch self have the Roman ruins and the fake plastic plants as my personal playground. No, I spent my Friday night being chased around the tank by a gourami ten times my size. It was like Tom versus Jerry except there was no hole to dive into at the last second and no fortuitously-timed scalding hot iron to fall on the gourami's head. Just round and round in circles with that tiger-striped dickhead nipping at my ass.

In fact, there was a second, slightly less menacing gourami and two smaller, rough-looking characters about my size- tetras, I think. The stumpy and ragged condition of their tails and fins makes me think their two larger friends have been nibbling on them. Not a good sign for yours truly.

Anyway, I can't remember the last time I had to fight for a meal around here. I should have known that this whole king-of-the-castle situation wouldn't last. After all, I'm only here for the entertainment of Mickey and that blonde chick and it's not like I'm doing backflips or bouncing a beachball on my nose. They tried to teach me a trick involving some ice cubes and a 9-iron, but I just ignored them. Sometimes I sit motionless on the bottom at a slight list and that usually gets them concerned, but other than that I just do my own thing.

Whatever. I'm pissed. These four new fishtards are pooping all over my tank and eating my food. Mickey, I appreciate that you're letting me get this all out here, but you're a dick. I didn't ask for any of this.

Above: Me in happier times- privacy, room to breathe, and nothing trying to eat me.
Below: The new state of affairs.

Jerks.

Looking back

2008-06-17T19:45:00.005-04:00

The other day, as my lady friend and I were settling once again into that groove we've worn in the highway between here and the Peach State, I saw a car next to us that had, hanging from the rearview mirror, about four or five of those cheap plastic leis you might find at a backyard luau in a place like Daytona, Florida. You know - tiki torches, little umbrellas for the red plastic party cups full of Bud, middle-management assholes in Hawaiian shirts trying to figure out how to roast a whole pig with Kingston Matchlight.

Anyway, I figured the leis in question (we're back on the highway to Georgia now; keep up) probably populated about 20% of the driver's field of vision. It seemed a little excessive to me, not to mention pointless and perhaps dangerous. Do they not have a better place to store their dollar store lei collection, like maybe a doorknob or the back of a closet? What could these cheesy mementos possibly commemorate that would warrant such a visible display? A high score in Skee Ball, maybe? For 24 tickets it was either four leis or one of those switchblade combs. Yeah, I would have gone with the comb too.

At least they weren't Mardi Gras beads, which seem to have supplanted fuzzy dice as the mirror decoration of choice. I don't know. I guess I've never actually known anyone with fuzzy dice, but you get the point. Either way, there's no way all those people with Mardi Gras beads hitting them in the face when they take a corner too fast actually went to Mardi Gras. What I do know is that for every string of Mardi Gras beads I see hanging from your mirror, I'm thinking one thing: you showed your boobs to a stranger.

Oh, sure, I bet there are all kinds of other ways to pick up shiny colored beads, but unfortunately for those of you who got yours at a New Years Eve party or maybe for a high score in Skee Ball, the rest of us are thinking you drank one too many hurricanes and earned them the old fashioned way down in Nawlins. That's just the way it is.

But at least they have a story to tell, if they can remember it.

My rearview bauble has a story, too. (Yup, that’s what we’ve been getting to this whole time. And you thought this post was about boobs.)

It’s a carabiner. Big surprise, right? Actually, this ‘biner is what we call “found gear.” If you spend time in the mountains, you’re bound to find all kinds of lost and left behind swag. If it’s a water bottle or a shirt or a pair of socks, use it. If it’s something intended to hold body weight in a survival situation, don’t even think about it. Hang it from your rearview mirror.

This oval ‘biner came from about halfway up Crestone Needle in Colorado. My buddy Dave and I were right around the 14,000-foot mark, near the top of the all-day climb, when we got slammed by the inevitable afternoon thunderstorm. If we had realized just how close to the summit we were, we would have finished up the last pitch to the top. As it was, we thought we still had the crux pitch ahead and figured we didn’t want to tackle it in the rain.

So we decided to descend. This is not an easy thing to do on an alpine rock climb. I don’t remember how many rappels it took us, but for every one we either needed to find gear to rappel off of that had been left by others stuck in the same situation or leave our own behind. What I said about not using found climbing gear - sometimes you have to fudge it a bit. As it was we still had to leave behind about $80 worth of stuff to get down. One found piece we didn’t use was this carabiner and the rusty piton it was attached to. I believe Dave has that piton. Both are souvenirs of an unfinished challenge. I intend to go back and climb that route again, to the top, this time with a little more urgency to get up and off before the storms roll in.

What’s hanging from your rearview mirror?

And a river runs through it

2008-06-11T15:55:00.007-04:00

I guess I should write about my weekend/weekbegin. How about in haiku for a change?

Went to a wedding
Someone got married, again
Not enough tables
-
Steadied the ladder
While Chris repaired the porch roof
That guy has nice legs
-
Stayed with my parents
They ask questions; yes Mom, I
know what a ring is
-
Bugs, rain and lightning
Make sleeping a real challenge
So does Jake's snoring

I'm kidding- Jacob only snores a little, and not the painful kind. If it weren't for the bright-as-day strobe of the lightning, the head-rattling thunder and the spray of rain blowing under the edge of the tarp, I wouldn't have been awake to hear anything.

As I mentioned Saturday, Jacob and I went on an overnight trip down the length of the Conasauga River Trail. Other than the violent nighttime weather and Jacob forgetting to take his glasses off before diving into the river, it was an uneventful trip. Well shit, why don't I just show you some pictures?

A rookie backpacker heads downhill through a muggy North Georgia Monday. The Conasauga River Trail follows its namesake for about 13 or 14 miles through the Cohutta Wilderness, the largest wilderness area east of the Mississippi.

A pair of Adidas submerged in the first of 38 river fords.

In Jacob's Land of Bliss and Blisters, everyone remembers to take off their glasses before diving in the water. In the closely-related Land of Absentmindedness, however, they do not. Lucky to have a fully-sighted person along with him, we quickly found the glasses, minus one lens, in four feet of water. Designed for invisibility, lenses tend to camouflage themselves extremely well, and, after about twenty minutes or so of standing in cold, chest-deep water staring at the same spot on the bottom of the river, I finally came up with that wily piece of glass. Would I call myself a hero? Yes. Yes I would.

Try as I might, I cannot get away from these obnoxious pieces of shit we call flowers, spoiling the views wherever I go. The offender on this trip was the Moutain Laurel, littering the landscape with its inconsiderate display.

Panther Creek Falls was a bitch of a side-trip, but well worth the steep, bouldery hike.

Camp sweet camp. The aforementioned storm made this already damp climate even damper and kept me up most of the night. Jacob seemed to sleep through much of it, but says otherwise. Maybe he was just pretending like I was.

A neglected sign is a good sign for a wilderness area.

I nearly fell on the wet rocks trying to get in position for this self-portrait. Vanity can be dangerous.

One of many small waterfalls and rapids that kept me entertained for two days. I find water running downhill to be incredibly fascinating.

Group photo at the end. All that was left was the 45-minute drive around to Jacob's car at the top end and finding our way back out of the mountains. Unfortunately, his Prius had a flat tire when we got there. The last I saw him, he was driving the opposite way on the forest service road, following his Garmin GPS for an alternate route out. I hope his spare tire held up and his blind faith in technology saw him to safety.

A loaded weekend

2008-06-07T09:03:00.005-04:00

I'm going to bang this out real quick because the lady and I have a second wedding to go to today and I need to make myself pretty before we hit the road. Okay, it's also a first wedding for half the doomed couple (Hightower, if you read this, I'm so kidding, dude), but I figure I won't be making any "second wedding" cracks at the actual event, so I'm getting it out of my system now.

We went to yet another Knox blogger meet-up last night, even better attended than last weekend's roof-top gathering. Along with Em and Stan from the Wigshop, the illustrious Modern Gal joined in to make my first First Friday a veritable happening. First Friday, for those as uncool as me, or maybe just from somewhere that doesn't have one, is the first Friday of every month when downtown art galleries and some businesses open their doors wide and invite people in to enjoy the stuff on their walls along with some free food. Yup, free food. Needless to say, it's a big deal. We ended up at Barley's in the Old City where we were well accomodated with an excellent beer selection and some not-free-but-affordable food. Oh, and along the way we spoke with a dude in a bookstore with a fake British accent who was selling his pornographic comics and doing tarot readings for $10. It was a fun evening.

All of that and we were still in bed by the time all the young kids were just heading out to take our places.

I'm posting now because I don't want you to go too long without my comforting presence here on the line, and I will be away from civilization on Monday and Tuesday. My friend Jacob will be coming up from his Land of Bliss and Blisters and entering my land of bliss and blisters when we go for an overnight backpacking trip in north Georgia. I believe this will be Jacob's first experience backpacking (he's renting a pack from REI?) and hopefully I will not ruin it for him. As long as no one gets bitten by a copperhead or drowns in the river (which we have to cross 38 times in the course of 14 miles!) and we don't disappear into a swirling vortex off useless trivia and mind-numbingly circular discussions (which I believe we are both noted practitioners of), we should be okay. I'm sure those who know us both find the idea of the two of us alone in the woods hilarious. I sure hope it is.

See you kids next week. Make it a good one.

When the pillow no longer has a cool side, it's time

2008-06-03T10:44:00.005-04:00

It's really hard to come up with things to write about when you're just hanging around the apartment all day. And by you I mean me, of course. Sure, I struggled sometimes to find inspiration when I was working, but at least then I had stimulation beyond just the buzzing sound of the always-running Reagan-era refrigerator and the pleasant trickling noise of the fish tank. And the dog barking itself hoarse upstairs.

And of course all of the things I distract myself with when I should be looking for a job. Like Chuzzle. And your blog.

Unfortunately, there may be a new noise/sensation added to the mix today. Our forecast high temperature today is 94, which means, unless I just decide to bail sometime this afternoon and head for the relative coolness of the mountains for a night or two, I may be turning on the AC. And even if I do leave, Courtney will just have to do the honors instead. It's already 85 outside and 82 right here on the couch. I've got the fan blowing on me so it's not uncomfortable yet.

The lady and I have actually become quite accustomed to dealing with the unregulated temperature fluctuations in our apartment. In winter, we keep the thermostat turned way, way down and just get used to wearing warm clothes and sitting under blankets when it gets chilly. The occasional hot water bottle and steamy beverage help ward off frostbite.

Summer is a bit tougher, though. No, it's not summer yet, technically, but since we've had exactly one day in the past two weeks that didn't reach 80 degrees, I hope you'll forgive me for fudging the terms a bit. When it hits 90 today, it's summer, goddamnit. That'll probably be in the next half hour. We're now at 86.5.

We're actually lucky in this apartment that we have windows on two opposing sides and can cross-ventilate. Two of our three windows also face northeast, which means they only get direct sunlight in the early morning. The third window faces southwest but has a big bush in front of it that keeps it shaded during the late afternoon. Also, we are on the middle floor of a three-story building, so we've got neighbors who insulate us pretty well. I've often wondered if I could get away with drilling a fat hole in the floor or ceiling into their ductwork and stealing some cool air. Probably not. Besides, my whole reasoning for not using the AC is to keep from having to rip that much more coal out of the mountains just for my comfort, so it doesn't really matter who's paying for it.

Yikes. This post got really boring really fast, huh? Let's keep that going: In the summertime we basically do the opposite of the wintertime routine: we (or more accurately I) wear as little clothing as possible (note: not naked or even pantsless, wierdos; you have to keep the interests of the furniture in mind here) and drink cold beverages frequently. We keep a fan blowing and try not to turn the air on. This can be tough at night, since it generally stays around 80 or 82 degrees even when the air is on, but once you fall asleep you don't know the difference anyway. You'd be surprised what you can get used to.

Does it piss anyone else off that the houses and apartments we have inherited and continue to build do absolutely nothing to utilize the environment they are in? Somehow people used to get by without air conditioning. They had front porches and windows that opened all the way. And trees to keep the sun off. Now, we just plop houses down in the middle of clear-cuts, but black asphalt roofs on them and set the thermostat to seventy. Our place doesn't even have any ceiling fans.

But we do turn the AC on (or the heat in winter) when we have visitors. I promise. So come see us. I'll even put a shirt on.

(We're at 88.2 degrees now, by the way. Summer is moments away.)

The ants haven't eaten them all?

2008-05-30T10:40:00.004-04:00

I just read this article on MSNBC. Holy crap! (No, seriously- click the link, if only to see the picture.)

Uncontacted tribes! It doesn’t explicitly say so, but I imagine this means an entire society (and there are an estimated 100 uncontacted tribes left in the world) that has no concept of Larry the Cable Guy, stuffed-crust pizza, or emo (and I mean the whiny, emasculating musical genre, but also, I suppose, the much more respectable comedian of the same name.) Or the Holocaust, for that matter.

The gist of the article, or rather the point of the group that took the pictures to prove the existence of such tribes, is that these people are threatened by illegal logging in the Amazon that will inevitably lead to their contact, which means not just contact with the global culture that spawned the likes of Toby Keith, but contact with new and unfamiliar diseases. Such as Toby Keith.

While I have no doubt that these tribes near the border of Peru and Brazil are guarding some lame-ass crystal skulls, I think it would be best to protect these people from ourselves. We are nothing but trouble after all (Exhibit V.)

But what makes us think they need protecting? What makes them so pristine? For all we know they are a bunch of hateful, fornicating, idol-worshipping sinners who only need the power of Christ and some timely assimilation to help them achieve everlasting salvation. Oh, right, we tried that already…with every other person on the planet. Ask Sitting Bull how that worked out for him.

Anywhip, wouldn’t it be cool to bushwhack into the jungle and show these folks your iPod and maybe something even cooler, like a cigarette lighter? You’d be a god to them. And then take them to the mall and watch them go all Brendan Fraser or Genghis Khan on the place. Oshman’s Sporting Goods better watch the fuck out.

But really- and here’s the serious “you can make a difference” part of this post- if you were planning one of those fun slash and burn deforestation hands-on vacations to Brazil, maybe you should consider taking a holiday that’s a little less damaging to the rainforest and its indigenous peoples, like caribou hunting on the North Slope or tortoise wrangling in the Galapagos.

Stick-wielding tribesmen of the world thank you.

Head-nodder's Ball

2008-05-29T09:20:00.003-04:00

I think I'm gonna have to lay down some randomness for you today since it's been almost a week since I've written a full-fledged post.

-Laziest Memorial Day weekend ever. About the most constructive thing the lady and I did was meet Em, of Joe's Used Toy Emporium and Wigshop fame, for a few beers at Barley's. I did my best to embarass myself by acting generally shifty, as I am wont to do when meeting new people, and by spilling a $4.50 beverage all over myself after being somehow surprised that the nacho plate was scalding hot. I still say they're supposed to warn you about things like that.

I actually have met Em before, but I'm happy to say that this time she didn't make me do sit-ups and push-ups until I nearly puke. Good thing, too, considering the beer and nachos. No, this time we all sat still and enjoyed the beers we didn't douse ourselves with and some pleasant conversation and sunshine. She brought us fresh-picked strawberries, too (which were awesome, Em, by the way.)

-My lady and I also got out and inexplicably played tennis three out of the four days of our weekend. I say our weekend even though mine is technically limitless in my currently unemployed state, and Courtney had Friday and Monday off because she's cool like that. We both pretty much suck at tennis and are playing with borrowed rackets, but we are also extremely white, so we have that going for us. The court we play on is seriously ghetto, though. There are two courts, and one of them is covered in broken glass and when the ball rolls into the corner of the fence you have to dig it out of the discarded Krystal boxes, drink cups and beer cans. We'd probably fit in better there if I brought my water bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.

-Went and saw Over the Rhine last night at the Bijou on my lady friend's dime. I was a little worried about going to a concert where the crowd remains seated for the duration and claps politely at the end of each song. I thought I might have to come home and clean out my ears with some Pantera so I can continue to uphold my young and rockin' self-image. Except Pantera is rather dated, just like me.

Anyshwoo, the concert was really good and I'm a better, more rounded person for having gone. Over the Rhine is kind of soulful, swingin' jazz, and the singer has one of the best voices I've ever heard. The drummer was incredible to watch as I've never really appreciated the kind of playing that requires anything other than bashing the shit out of the kit. His precision, touch and coordination were a sight. Plus, his name is Mickey.

I'd also like to add that the 99-year-old Bijou, apparently renowned for it's acoustics, is a gorgeous theater and the sound was in fact superb. I look forward to going to more shows there.

I still may pop in some Pantera today. My ears could use a little bleeding.

Worst Movie of the Year

2008-05-25T18:35:00.005-04:00

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of Shitty, Shitty Sequels.
Starring and directed by people who should know better.
Produced by a guy who clearly does not.

That many people still smoke? Jesus.

2008-05-23T10:33:00.005-04:00

As alluded to yesterday, The Presidents of the United States of America were indeed elected to rock our asses til' midnight at Sundown in the City last night. Actually, it was more like 9:30, but I had to work a song lyric in here somewhere; it's a hard and fast blog rule when writing about music, right?

For those not from these here parts, Sundown is a free concert series held in downtown Knoxville's Market Square. The series' lineup is mostly lesser known but quality acts with the occasional widely known has-been act thrown in to get people excited. PUSA, or as I prefer PotUSA, is this year's has-been act. Because it's free and live music in general is a good thing, each weekly concert is well attended. This also means that a much broader cross-section of people show up to rock, from seniors cruising around in their Rascals to self-conscious high school goth-punks. The opportunities for people-watching (one of my favorite pasttimes) are boundless.

The opening band was a local group that I've been wanting to catch for sometime, Cutthroat Shamrock. Their brand of music, acoustic Irish folk-punk, has always sounded intriguing and I wasn't disappointed. Replete with mohawks, lots of buttons, and impressive beards to go along with acoustic guitars, a stand-up bass and bongos, these guys really rocked. I'll have to catch them again sometime.

We worked our way to within about twenty-five yards of the stage during the opening set and were in a pretty good spot by the time the Presidents came on (I'm actually not a big fan of acronyms at all). At this point I refer back to the title of this post. Seriously- where did all these teenage-looking kids with bottomless packs of Marlboros come from? I normally don't mind being around smokers all that much because they are usually courteous enough to blow it away from other people, but in a crowded elbow-to-elbow concert situation that's just not possible. What was really annoying, though, was how much the people around us just would not stay still. After the first song starts is not the time to fight your way out of the crowd to go get a beer and then come back trailing eight new friends, all of whom top 6'5". Assholes.

That's a concert, though, and I can deal with it. The flailing arms and lit cigarettes tend to cause a bit more claustrophobia, however, for the barely five-foot set. I was about fed up with the face-full of hair I kept getting from the girl in front of me anyway when Courtney said she needed to get out of there. I needed no convincing.

We would have liked to have taken Wigshop kingpin C.K. up on his offer to let us join him in his second-floor offices above the square at that point, but there was no way anyone would have heard us shouting up at that point had we even been able to get over that way. Thanks anyway, C.K., and congratulations on the sweet location there.

Instead, we fought our way away from the stage and back to where there was room to breathe and that breath was occasionally smoke-free. Only occasionally. And there we were able to enjoy the show like the old farts that we apparently have become.

The Presidents rocked out pretty good. They are a tight little Seattle three-piece that seems to really appreciate the opportunity to play music for people. They spared not a single jump-kick or windmill in entertaining what was a very supportive and energetic, if emphysema-doomed, crowd. Good show. And it was heavy on the 1995, as one would expect. Actually, the lead singer, in introducing the song "Lump" said, "This next song was a big hit for us back in 1870." They clearly had a sense of humor about themselves.

Enter the madness.

Performance art, right? One of those guys that just stands really still.

Cutthroat Shamrock. The bass player is wearing a Rancid t-shirt and the drummer looks like Billy Gibbons if ZZ Top had come of age at CBGB instead of in Texas roadhouses.

In case you can't read it, the sign in the window says "The man who lives here is loony." I just always wanted a picture of it.

What my lady is up against in crowds. I told her to just punch Sasquatch in the kidneys, but she wouldn't do it.

Los Presidentes de los Estados Unidos de America. This is where we started out.

This is where we ended up.

This kid was feeling the rock. We should all be so fortunate. Anybody see "Air Guitar Nation?" Here's your champion, 2018.

We could be really clever and start calling her Joyce DeWitt

2008-05-22T12:47:00.002-04:00

Is there a better way to dust a dracaena than with a damp rag, leaf by enormous leaf? That bitch Janet*, champion dust collector (Living Room North End division), took forever to clean off yesterday. Plus, she’s about as tall as Courtney now and has grown top heavy (ahem, insert Courtney joke here, possibly referring to bra size, but without crossing the line), so I spent even more time trying to stake her up with an unused curtain rod and some twine to no avail. She’s going to need a heavier pot. No, dude, not some heavier pot, a heavier pot. She’s falling over.

And now I’m blogging about my house plants. Yes, I am at home on a Thursday afternoon dreaming of formerly dusty dracaenas because I am once again unemployed. All that Bejeweled and Zuma I was playing at that last job could only mean one thing: they did not need my temporary services after all. It just took them two weeks to figure it out. You should know that I left there Friday holding the IT Depot scoring records in not only Bejeweled and Zuma, but online Skee-Ball as well. I tend to leave my mark.

Due to pressing matters like dirty indoor greenery and my general aversion to the kind of work you can get paid for, I have opted not to contact the temp agency this week. I needed some time off anyway to do some spring cleaning, real job hunting (can anyone tell me how to do this?), catch up on your blogs, and take my walk in the woods. It’s that last part that someone needs to pay me for, because it’s what I’m best at.

Anyshway, it’s a beautiful day, so hopefully between giving our grubby apartment a springtime enema and looking for people who will give me money for doing things, I can get outside and breathe some more pollen and smog. At the very least, this fine weather portends a perfect evening in which to go see one of the finest novelty rock acts of the 1990s for absolute free down on Market Square. Anyone out there appreciate large quantities of peaches as much as I do? Millions of them, even?

*We’re not in the habit of naming our house plants. I think Janet is the cultivar name or something.

Valderi, valdera!

2008-05-20T21:18:00.009-04:00

In fourth grade music class, the teacher would always take a request at the end of the period for any song we wanted to sing from the textbook. My best friend and I practically monopolized the entire school-year's worth of requests by repeatedly, and with much groaning and eye-rolling from our classmates, demanding yet another rendition of The Happy Wanderer, every time. We freakin' loved that song because of its hilarious and oh-so-fun-to-sing chorus. I don't recall if anyone else in the room enjoyed our repetitive shenanigans, but we sure as heck did. Fourth grade is definitely when I developed my sense of humor. What I have of one, at least.

And so, almost twenty years later (holy shit!), I whistled that tune this very morning as I pounded down the Shining Creek trail, my knapsack on my back. Having satisfied the "temporary" part of my latest temp job, I believe I made the right decision in setting aside the whole "work" thing (so overrated) for a day or two and loading up my backpack (I'd never call it a knapsack) for a jaunt in the woods.

Of course I took pictures. Lots of 'em. Here are a few.

I-40 en route.

I don't know what this is, except it comes from a tree.

Water. It falls. Downhill. (gravity).

I gained around 3,000 feet going up and actually hiked from summer backwards to early spring. The trailhead was dense and green, further up the trees were just leafing out (seen here) and the trees near the top were still bare.

I knew someone would give me shit if I didn't get a picture of a dumbass flower. So here's a white trillium. Eww.

Your happy wanderer at the top of Shining Rock in the heart of the Shining Rock Wilderness. By the way, the "wilderness" designation also apparently means no signs or other trail markings, making it much easier to get lost and stay that way. Cool.

The view.

A few hours later atop Cold Mountain looking back toward Shining Rock. Yup, that Cold Mountain. I had set up camp near the high point just right of my right sleeve.

The ridge I followed between Shining Rock and Cold Mountain, from the latter.

Looks like a pointing finger, right?

The sun setting over the forbidding wall of clouds advancing from the west. I was sure it was going to rain during the night, but it never did.

I was glad I picked a spot in the trees because it was really windy all night. Campsites with views are nice, but not getting blown off the mountain is better.

Did I take too many pictures of myself?

Cozied up in the tent. It didn't get very cold, but it was still a sleeping bag night.

I carried a pad of paper all the way up there and figured I should write something in it before I turned out the light. You know, in case I died.

Morning.

Poser.

The trail through a tangle of rhododendron. It wasn't actually that dark.

There's just no way to end a lengthy photo-post other than with a pile of poop and his best friend, the snail. Seriously, anybody know what it came from? I'm thinking some sort of large cat. Like maybe a liger. A wild North Carolina Liger.

I hug trees

2008-05-17T20:50:00.003-04:00

Alright, I promised myself and the vastness of the world wide web that I'd write this post this week, even though at the time I thought it would be my only postable material for the rest of the week and then, lo and behold, dinner happened on Thursday. But a promise is a promise. And now it is 9:20 p.m. on Saturday, so I better get to it if I want to avoid the wrath of my judgmental readership. Oh, I don't mean all of you, just maybe Julie and Jacob.

So here, finally ('cause I know you have all been holding your collective breath on this), are my Five Things I Did to Celebrate Earth Day (which was on April 22nd, almost a month ago.)

1. Nothing.

Aw, shit. This isn't gonna work, is it?! Turns out, I don't much care about Earth Day, at least not personally. Sure, I care about it as far as it gives us an excuse to talk about environmental issues, but for me it was otherwise just another Tuesday. But, so as not to send you home with an empty stomach, here are (and I totally stole this whole idea from Allie, who tagged me with this in the first place) Five Things I Do Everyday Because I Have No Reason Not To.

(Also, I may be drinking right now, so bear with me. If I get a little insistent, well, that's my real personality coming through.)

1. I do not dry my hands with paper towels. Ever. This is a relatively new thing for me, but I don't know why it took me so long to come around to it. My inspiration for this came from No Impact Man. It's the same crazy reasoning I use for not using a clothes dryer: turns out that stuff wants to be dry anyway, whether you employ artificial means or not. I don't use paper towels to dry my hands at work or in public restrooms and yet they somehow end up dry within about one minute anyway. Magic. Just wave your hands around like an idiot for a few seconds and you're good to go. Unless you're Aquaman or Ariel, living happily under the sea, in which case wet is good.

2. I don't buy things. I think this is probably the most important thing I don't do, and maybe my only redeeming quality as a human being. Crunchy Chicken had a Buy Nothing Challenge for the month of April and I forgot about it until almost May, but when I thought about it I had unwittingly risen to the challenge anyway. Aside from food, gas and occasional toiletries (which I believe were exempt from the challenge for obvious reasons), I don't buy things. What else is there anyway? I pretty much have everything I need already. If everyone were like me, our economy would revert to the stone age, which may not be a bad thing.

3. Still not using bags at the grocery store. For that matter, I'm trying to cut back on my purchases and use of anything plastic. Plastic baaaaad.

4. Driving like gasoline ain't free. Because it's not. Accelerate slowly, leave a lot of space between you and the car ahead, drift to red lights, keep your cruising speed down, take corners really, scary fast, ignore speed bumps - these all help conserve gas, and that's good for everyone. I wish this entry could instead be "Not driving at all," but that isn't realistic at this point. We do what we can with what we have. By the way: don't believe the hype - gas is still really, really cheap and this is a poor person telling you this. I can drive 500 miles in a pickup truck for $60. In what bizarro dimension is that expensive? I used to do it for 25. That's insanity.

5. I give a shit. Every decision I make is informed with the idea that waste is bad (and I'm talkin' sin on par with homosexuality to a conservative Republican; like, top-tier offense) and that there is a right and wrong way to get through our short lives on this planet. I'm not saying I do everything right, because that would be an outrageously delusional lie. What I'm saying is that at least I'm trying, and I try harder every day. I don't know why, exactly, since if pressed I would admit that nothing really matters, but I do it anyway, as much a compulsion as anything else.

Ta Daaaa!