Monday, April 12, 2010
Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. President of Poland dies in plane crash. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods. Tiger Woods.
That should do it. Watch as my page-views soar and I will be awaiting the contractual offer from some major news syndicate shortly.
I mean, good God guys, I’m a sports fan. And I’m a Tiger Woods fan (former?), if we’re speaking for his golf abilities ONLY. But good God make it stop. He didn’t even win the tournament. He tied for 4th. Which is amazing after his 4+ month hiatus from a game that takes so much concentration and focus and repeatability. But, but, but – he is not the center of the entire fucking universe.
Moving on, Things That Amuse Me:
*The First Couple Steps in Mapquest Directions*
I love how when you get directions from Mapquest or any other map/directions site, the first couple steps are so stupidly basic. Yes, I know how to leave my own neighborhood! They might as well start with:
- Stand up from your computer chair. 0ft.
- Grab directions from printer. 4ft.
- Get drink from fridge. 60ft.
- Get in vehicle. 40ft.
- Pull out of driveway. 15ft.
And then pick up on the real beginning of directions. I mean, to leave my subdivision is two turns. Two, to be on one of the area’s decently major roads. But use Mapquest for anything leaving there and those two turns are broken down into four steps. Four. Maybe Mapquest should just add a button to click when you click, “Get Directions”. Click “Get Directions”, or click “Get Directions Starting On The First Main Road Leaving My Starting Point Because I’m Not Fucking Retarded”.
I have three stories from this past weekend to put under the same back story, so to type that once:
This past weekend, I decided to take the boy to his first big league ballgame. Well, Triple A, but close enough! We have the Baltimore Orioles Triple A affiliate here locally in Hampton Roads, and there’s a couple major leaguers on the team and their opponents usually. So it’s cool to see some up-and-coming players sometimes. Well, he’s almost three and it was time! We drove over and picked up his “papa”, my dad, and had a three-generational-father-son-son night of it at the ballpark.
*Kids Say the Darndest Things*
So, we’re driving over to pick up my dad to head to the ball park. It’s about a half-hour drive, all interstate. Actually, to get anywhere around here between our 7 cities, it’s all interstate. So we’re heading there when along side of us on our drive, there’s two crotch-rocket sport bikes fooling around and speeding around through traffic. I used to have a 1000cc rocket myself and know what it’s like to have that kind of power in your hands, which is hellafied exhilarating, but I never messed around in traffic on the interstate. These guys were zooming all around, speeding, then slowing to make room so they could fly again. I put my son’s window down and tried, remaining NOT-reckless myself, to keep them on my right side so my son could watch them. He was loving it. He was going crazy, probably thinking that these two bikes were putting on a show for him. At one point, one of them did a wheelie for essentially about a half-mile in the lane to my right, in interstate traffic, maybe they did see lil HokieJayBee and they were putting on a show for him.
He was eating it up, going ballistic with excitement and laughter. And the way he says, “motorcycle” sounds more like “MURDERcycle”, so fitting watching these two idiots dance around the interstate at high speeds, in traffic.
*It’s Not What It’s Worth, It’s What People Will Pay For*
On the same drive over to pick up my dad, I saw the new business model for modern ingenuity. It’s spring here, people’s allergies are acting up, and people’s cars are generally a tone of some sort of yellow.
We drove by a gas station on the way. There was a guy out front with a hose and a sign, “$3 Pollen Spray Off After You Fill Up”.
He had a line.
*Hey Wait, That Sounds Like a Brand of Cookies*
So, with all the background about our drive over to the ballpark, I guess I could actually end with a story AT the ballpark. When we were waiting in line to buy our tickets, there were two, very young, very attractive, very YOUNG women in front of us. Probably from one of the local colleges. They were flirting up a storm with lil HokieJayBee. He is a cutie! And he went into shy-mode-1.0. Like, he’s not shy, ever. Until now.
I mean, literally in the same ticket line, he was hamming it up with the couple in line behind us. A little older than me, nothing special or un-special about them, but just a husband/wife there to enjoy the game. And lil HokieJayBee put on his usual non-shy show for them. Not 2 minutes later when the attention from the young ladies started, did he shut right down and literally hide between my legs, actually blushing.
Later, when we got to our seats, I commented to papa HokieJayBee how funny it was, that even at this early of an age, boys seem to have a gene that makes them clam up in the presence or attention of attractive young females. And I jokingly told lil HokieJayBee that this won’t be the last time he clams up like that around cute girls. He had no idea what I was talking about and just wanted more Sprite.
So I have no idea, nor am I able to transpose for you how the conversation wandered as it did. I shouldn’t even begin to try and list the progression of the ideas in the conversation, but it went something like this:
- lil HokieJayBee shy in line in front of girls.
- I remark about how even at that young age, boys are like that.
- I wonder what they’re doing here at the ballpark alone.
- They probably go to one of the local colleges.
- Meeting dudes at a ballpark seems like a logical idea.
- They must be freshman.
- They haven’t put on the freshman 15 yet.
- Clearly not in the Navy (my dad is a retired Navy pilot).
- Or if they are, they have office jobs, because girls like that don’t get sent underway.
- Or if they are stationed on a ship, they haven’t been long.
- Because they haven’t yet put on the Navy’s freshman 15 yet.
Yeah. Papa HokieJayBee shoots and scores with that one. And it’s officially added to my repertoire.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Overheard on Sportscenter the Other Night.
I had Sportscenter on the other night, for a little background noise. I was in the kitchen crafting the boy a peanut butter and jelly masterpiece, with a cup of peaches and some mini-carrots too. My son was playing in the sunroom. He was bouncing back and forth between riding his three-wheeler-scooter-bigwheel-bike-contraption in a circle around the room, and shooting hoops with his mini-indoor-basketball hoop. I would saunter from the kitchen area to steal a quick peek now and then to make sure he hasn’t removed any limbs or donated too much blood to the hard wood floor out there.
So anyways, like I said, Sportscenter was on for some background noise. And it was the hockey segment. There was some Canadian mullet up there talking about the Washington Capital / Pittsburgh Penguin rivalry. (I’m not being rude here, Barry Melrose really has a full on business-on-top-party-in-the-back mullet). He was going on and on about how Pittsburgh is (7-1) against Washington in their last 8 playoff games, but Washington is (3-0) against them this regular season, Pittsburgh has Crosby, Washington has Ovechkin, etc. etc. etc.
Then, mid peanut butter spread (with a KNIFE dammit), he said it. Discussing how good Pittsburgh’s defense is, when all players are healthy.
“Oh man, when everyone is back on the ice, their back end is so good, and it’s so deep.”
Dude, my nearly-three-year-old son is listening. Have some class.
I think I Actually Have Hope for America.
Unfortunately, racial tension still exists in America. And, unfortunately, it exists where I live. I live in a very diverse area. There are some bad parts of town. You can read that how you want, “bad part” can just as much mean the uppity white mansion neighborhood as much as it means a predominantly black downtown government housing area, it depends on the point of view.
There aren’t a lot of blatant racial issues or physical fights, and not a lot of racially toned issues on the news – but it’s there. It’s there in traffic, it’s there in the grocery store, it’s there at the bank, it’s there at the restaurants, it’s there at work. It’s unfortunate, but you can still feel it and sense it sometimes. As a white dude, I have “oh shit” moments all the time and feel bad that someone might even feel made fun of by me and my whiteness, even if I didn’t say anything wrong. It really sucks to be a white dude sometimes.
Rarely would it be, oh man I hope that black/Mexican/Asian/Green/Purple guy didn’t hear what I said – like I don’t have stupid moments of racial-bigotry-emission. But I do have the feeling inside sometimes like, oh man I hope they don’t think we’re talking about them or oh man I wish they knew the context of what we’re talking about. Because when I said, “I chased that motherfucker out of my garage before he could steal that shit”, I meant the neighbor’s cat that I’ve caught in there going at my dog food or biscuits, not some neighborhood [insert race here] kid stealing my bike. Because if I were on my cell at the store and said that quote near a group of [insert race here] kids, I would just KNOW they think I’m talking about them and being all white and racist and shit.
So anyways, about my hope for America. I was out at a restaurant and bar the other night with a friend. We’re both in our 30’s, white, educated, stereotypical business white-guy-shit. We were both in our suit pants from work, with a starched collar dress shirt and all, out for a beer and a couple games of Golden Tee. [if you’ve never played, keep it that way, trust me, it’s like heroin. Not that I know what heroin is like.] We were in the back room of said restaurant, where the Golden Tee machine is, nestled in with the dart boards and pool tables. On the pool table closest to our machine, there was a group of 3 young black guys and 2 young black girls.
They were not dressed in dress pants and starched collars. There were some dreadlocks, some tattoos, some gold teeth, some saggy jeans, some really high leather boots. They literally looked like they just left a video shoot from a BET production.
Which me and my boy E were totally cool with. But there was that tension, right?
I’m an outgoing dude. I broke the ice. I chatted with them between shots. I made fun of the one girl’s jukebox choices. I made fun of the one dude’s straight shot that he missed. They made fun of us, the second we walked in we were destined for the golf game and not pool, they knew by our clothes. We talked some playful trash. Challenged them and kicked the shit out of them in 3 games of pool. Played some more golf. Had a beer with them. Suggested shooters they’d like for the one girl’s birthday they were there celebrating. It was quite an enjoyable ~hour or two at the restaurant. The 7 of us who didn’t belong together, if you were just going on the looks of the group from the outside, if you buy into that tension crap.
When their group went to leave, one guy went to the restroom before leaving. On his way back out, meaning he is now last of his group still back there, he came by to say bye one last time. He walked up, called us by name, and shook our hands. He said thanks. He said thanks for the great birthday we helped give his friend’s girlfriend. He said it turned out way different than he feared when the two white business men walked into the back game room at the restaurant and took up shop on the golf machine next to their pool table. He said it was a refreshing surprise, and he had hope for America. I do too Charles, I do too.
PS - I mean it, I really don’t know what heroin is like.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Near my office at work in one of the hallways, there’s some wall damage. It’s a hole that was cut by the IT guys or the electricians to pull wires. I don’t know enough about that kind of installation work to claim there’s a better way to do it or they could have done it with tools or wall snakes to avoid damaging the wall – and I’m not going to suggest that maybe after cutting the hole to get the wires pulled through where they needed, that maybe they could have patched the hole.
Side note: I’m using the term “cut the hole” loosely. Well, at least the word “cut”. It seems more of a punched or some sort of other blunt force trauma created hole. So it’s not even a professional-looking-hole-in-the-wall-in-your-office-hallway-for-electrical-installation, it’s more of a drunken-frat-party-punched-hole, if that makes sense.
I mean, maybe the IT/electricians were told not to worry about the damage, that a more mechanically inclined contractor would follow and do repair type work to the structure itself. Maybe the plan was to repaint anyways, so don’t worry about the damage, we’ll fix it when we repaint.
Side note again: we moved into this building in January 2009. I’m thinking the repainting or second mechanical contractor idea isn’t going to happen anytime soon.
But, not to worry, someone had a fix for the situation. It unfortunately became a null and void fix on January 1, 2010. When the 2009 calendar hung over the hole ended. No one has replaced with a 2010 version yet. Whoever removed the calendar made the choice that visible wall damage in the office hallway was a better look than a pretty landscape picture calendar from last year.
So, near my office at work in one of the hallways, there’s some wall damage.
There’s a gentleman in my office, who is quiet, straight-laced, never treads the line of improper or crass, and doesn’t dance the socially unacceptable line or play on innuendos. Ever. He had his hand in the hole in the wall the other day, “trying to figure out what wiring or electrical work they were doing that needed the hole.”
Co-worker 2 – “Hey careful, that was cut by the electricians to pull some wiring through here and they never put in a junction box, I wouldn’t go poking around in there.”
Hand-in-hole-guy – “Yeah, you’re right, I was just curious. My wife says I’m always poking my fingers around in holes I shouldn’t be.”
Really? Hand, hole, electrical wiring, finger, forbidden holes,………..must……not……….make……….shocker………….joke…………..must…………….remain…….quiet………in………..office
High In Iron:
This past weekend I spent Saturday out of town at one of my college buddy’s house. Myself and three of my best friends of all time had a boys day in, watching March Madness, grilling out for two meals, and generally finding the bottom of a-couple-too-many Miller Lites. I had green poopy a couple times on Sunday.
So That’s Everyone?
A good friend of mine and I play in a local flag football league together. He was asked to play by some friends of his from high school and then extended the invite to me when they still needed one more guy. His group of friends are all deputies in one nearby town’s sheriff’s department. Besides me and my friend, the team is actually just the department team from the sheriff’s office. Like, we’re on “the cop team”.
Needless to say, any time we get a close call in the game from the refs, there’s no shortage of conspiracy theories or claims of favoritism for the local deputies from the opposing team’s whines. Or when one guy on the other team was being a real jerk about something, one of the deputies replied with, “careful son, or we’ll see you on Friday”. That kind of stuff is funny. Or when one ref made like 7 calls in a row against us, we asked him if he was making up for a string of parking tickets or something.
I’ll add a side note here that a lot of these guys are in phenomenal shape, and work out a lot. And they are obviously very well trained in law enforcement tactics. This, unfortunately, does not project directly into football ability. But I digress.
The reason I’m writing to you here today about my sheriff football team though, is the chuckle I had at the game last week. The “nearby town” I speak of for this story isn’t a big town. And we’re on the flag football team with about 12 deputies. Last week, we were in the offensive huddle forming our play when two patrol cars went screaming by the field, lights and sirens a blazing.
“Heh, there goes Wilson and Stecker.”
“You could see the decals on the car and know which two cars that was?”
“No. They’re the only two on duty. We’re all here.”
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
It’s kind of therapeutic. Writing. In general. It doesn’t even have to be good. It doesn’t even have to really be about what’s really on my mind. I just find myself gaining clarity and feeling better about the constant battle in my head between sane thoughts and idle demonic chatter, when I’m writing. Maybe the whole idea of clearing out the nonsense through a simple blog like this, allows me to truly think about what’s important more easily when I do propose to sit and reflect.
Now that I’ve walked you in a complete circle of what-the-hell-is-he-talking-about…..
*Rip Van Winkle.*
He slept for what, 20 years in the original story? Fable? Folk tale? Or a 100 years. Who cares, the point is that Mrs. HokieJayBee and I got rid of one Rip Van Winkle aspect of our lives last night. I don’t know why we were hiding under that rock for so long, but we were. So we woke up from our extended slumber and wandered back into town, just like Rip. And you should too, if you haven’t.
Go see Avatar. Now. If you haven’t, go see it now. Leave work. Get a sitter. Skip your meeting. Skip dinner. Go see it. Now.
It is absolutely the most ridiculously well done movie I’ve seen in a LONG time. The story is predictable to a point, but aren’t 99.9% of movies anyways? When a movie like Sixth Sense or Seven or the original Saw comes out, isn’t it the abnormal movie to have a surprise rather than the norm? So Avatar’s predictability didn’t bother me at all. I was too lost in the world James Cameron built. The scenery, the storyline working into said scenery (literally), and the action scenes are just – I hate to repeat a word – RIDICULOUS. It is an amazing movie.
Go see it now*. Seriously, you’ll thank me.
*This is also based on the assumption that the rumors that Mrs. HokieJayBee and I were the only warm blooded Americans over the age of 12 that had not seen it yet, are not true. There’s bound to be a couple other people pulling a Rip Van Winkle. Right? If you are one of those few remaining people, go see it.
*Subtle Hints in the Bathroom.*
Mrs. HokieJayBee and I have been together for almost 12 years, and married for almost 8. All couples get to that point, you know, where you, uh, um, have no shame.
There’s even Man Laws about it. One of which states that, as a man, you cannot flatulate in front of a woman until you’ve gotten her to climax. And, that if you do flatulate in front of her, she is now officially your girlfriend. And, continued, if you do so while at the same time trapping her under any sort of sheets or blanket, you are either already married to her, or you inherently just proposed to her through actions. And she is allowed to take it as such.
This is serious stuff people. I mean, you know that point where you shower in front of each other, not intimately. Or even shower together, purely for speed and efficiency, with zero intimacy. Yeah, that sucks. Then of course there’s the whole peeing in front of each other, and closing the door when you do so becomes optional. Or heaven forbid, even dropping the deuce in front of your spouse. Or even being in the shower for work in the morning, and your spouse comes in to drop said deuce, while you’re in the shower, and then hits you with the scalding-hot-water-after-toilet-flush-shower? And the stinky-humid-shower-bathroom air? Love is such a vile beast.
So, you see where I’m going. As a couple, certain boundaries and walls of privacy become non-existent. That’s fine. It’s a natural progression of comfort with your mate I guess.
In our relationship, there’s also the subtle, or sometimes not so subtle, hints that happen in the bathroom too. Mrs. HokieJayBee uses the corner of our bathroom counter, near my sink, to remind me of things, or give those hints. She’ll leave items for me on the corner that I need to use, whether I knew it or not. She doesn’t put maintenance items here. I’m not so incapable of self-sufficiency that I need her to put my toothbrush or my deodorant there. This special reminder spot is more for non-normal needs.
 Nail Clippers – pretty self explanatory. I bite my nails too often, so this won’t usually be because I need a trim there. It usually follows a time where maybe I complained about a certain cuticle or maybe I scraped her legs to the bone at night in my sleep with a razor sharp toe nail. When I find the nail clippers in the reminder spot, I simply check all 20 appendages for sharp edges, make any trimmings necessary, and put the clippers back in the cabinet.
 Hair Gel – exiting shower, hmmmm, hair gel in the reminder spot. We must be going out to something nice. I should gel my hair a little. And probably put on a collared shirt. Oh yeah, we’re going to get lil HokieJayBee’s pictures done, and we’ll take a family shot too. Thank you Honey!
 Steel Wool or a Sponge of some sort – my turn to clean the shower. Roger.
 Medicine – see previous post(s). I don’t take medicine. Unless of course there’s some in my reminder spot on the bathroom counter. Whining too much about my back and legs after a flag football weekend? Advil on the counter. 8 days into a 10 day run of antibiotics, where your attention is waning and you’re not following the perfect every 8 hour dosage because you’re not sick anymore and why am I still putting these chemicals in my body? She knows better. And you need to finish out the recommended dosage. Either way, medicine in the reminder spot gets taken.
 Q-Tips – see, I said that the reminder spot isn’t for maintenance items. I guess maybe she saw a need and left me a subtle hint? Sorry honey. Maybe I just have some dry skin in there. Yeah. That’s it. Just a patch of dry skin. Nothing else to read into suggested Q-Tipping.
 Mouthwash – ouch. I’ll get right on that.
 Tweezers – ummmmmmm. I’m still lost on this one. I usually do a cursory check of the shoulders and upper arms for a freak hair that might need a yanking. Maybe check between the eyebrows to make sure I haven’t gone too far Cro-Magnon. And calmly put the tweezers away. Maybe she was using them and accidentally just left them there. Yeah. Probably nothing to look into when your wife leaves tweezers for you on the reminder spot. Nothing weird at all. At least I hope I haven’t missed anything that tweezers would be used for.
NOTE TO ALL NORMAL READER(S) OF THE BLOG:
Please ignore the following “paragraph”. I read an article online and I just wanted to test a couple theories it posed.
Megan Fox nude. Kobe Bryant. Twilight. Harry Potter. Lebron James. Hurt Locker. Dances with the Stars. Huge Tits.
Monday, March 8, 2010
We obviously wanted a “family” place, i.e. not a bar type chain that happens to have some restaurant seating around. We didn’t want a quiet place, obviously as we’re bringing in a boy in the rarest form of terrible two’s lately – and a 2 month old. Lil HokieJayBee could burst out at any time with rant of some form, and of course a near-new born could chime in at any time as well if she were cold or hungry. But we also didn’t want too hectic of a place, i.e. Chuck E Cheese’s or something off the wall like that.
We chose a Red Robin burger place. It was family oriented, and just about the right amount of loud. It accepted lil HJB’s behavior pretty fine. We started out waiting right outside, letting lil HJB play with one of his Hotwheels on a nearby bench. We could see through the windows into the waiting area, and pounced when we saw some inside seating open up.
Once inside, bonuses include the fact that the hostesses give out balloons to youngins. This granted us roughly 4 minutes of sanity in the waiting area. Also filed under Bonuses, there’s a flat screen TV and speakers IN THE FLOOR of the waiting area, covered by Plexiglas that the kids can stand/jump on. +10 genius points to whoever thought that up. With the Nickelodeon or Wonderpets or whatever was on, we were granted another 7 minutes of sanity in the waiting area.
These bonuses, mathematicians can see, granted us approximately 11 minutes of sanity in the waiting area. Unfortunately, our wait was about 20 minutes. Of the other 9 minutes remaining, Mrs. HJB and I were able to successfully distract and parent lil HJB for another 8 minutes. Leaving 1 minute at risk while in the waiting area.
Shouldn’t be a problem. What can a 2.5 year old get into on some benches between the front door and hostess stand of a restaurant. We successfully kept him from the taller stool seating, no fall damage. We successfully kept him from the potted plants, no dirt on his clothes or on the floor. We secluded him to one side of one cushioned bench away from other patrons, no accidental touchy feely on the nice ladies’ boobs nearby. OOOOH BEWBS! No brain, I mean the lady looked like a nice enough older lady, not that the lady had nice breasts. Dammit.
Only problem with the corner we chose to seclude him to of the front area, on said bench. While standing on the bench seat itself, one 2.5 year old boy at full reach is exactly tall enough to reach the Security System Panel for the restaurant. Yeah. I’ll let you move ahead of me here in the story to know what’s coming next.
My son, Alarm Panel Security System Hacker that he already is, at 2.5 years old. Somehow armed the panel and set it into an instant alarm. LOUD. Not a little loud. A lotta loud. Like, deafening for the whole place. The whole place shut down. The cooks ran out. It was ridiculous.
One of the manager’s ran over and tried to disarm it (her code is 2218 if you live near Hampton Roads VA and want to rob the Red Robin restaurant), but in the state of the current alarm, whatever instant-alarm-of-death-and-bad-things that my son put it in, the screen actually told her she didn’t have the authority to override. I’m not shitting you here, I think it said, in three successive screen flashes, “Override Failed”, “No Authority”, “Need Lock Code”. Or in other words, you ain’t the General Manager and I’m going to continue to beep ridiculously loud with my horn sirens and all.
It was at this point, witnessing one of the manager’s fail at turning this thing off, that I started to really think we could be in for a closed restaurant, and maybe even a trip up for the police to find out who set this damn thing off. And Murphy’s Law would come too, and I’d be liable for some negligent parenting thing allowing him to do so, and I’d be liable for the restaurant’s lost wages for the remainder of the Saturday night or something. It was actually beginning to be a sucky story in my head.
Then a different manager ran over to the other panel behind the hostess stand and punched in a bunch of crap and the alarm stopped. Wow, talk about relief. Everyone cheered and everybody went about their merry way. Including my son who thought it was the funniest thing in the world. And we had to restrain him from trying to return to the panel above our bench.
It’s also hard to reprimand your son when you’re a little embarrassed at everyone staring at you, and when you’re trying your hardest to not laugh hysterically yourself.
Then dinner sucked. Don’t get me wrong, the burgers were “fine”. But for two burgers, two beers, and a kid’s meal, I’m not thinking $58 is a nice family dinner place. But, I guess you have to pay for the TV in the floor up front, and the cool alarm panel toy they have for your kids to set off.
((By the way, I’m kidding about the manager’s alarm code. I wouldn’t put it here if I did remember it and I wouldn’t suggest robbery anyways. ))
((By the way part II, WTF with the alarm panel being in reach of the customers (kids) in the waiting area and not having some physical keypad cover, or electronic keypad lock, to keep this from happening. I can’t help but think my son isn’t the first 2.5 year old aspiring hacker that got that thing to go off.))