Summer! Quick, before it's gone...

Here we are half way through another summer and I just got the deck chairs out. Why is it that winter takes what seems like 250 days and summer is over in about 12? I like summer. I like winter. I like summer better than winter. Fall is good. Spring never lives up to its name. Spring comes one day and summer pushes it right out of the way overnight. Anyway... My point. It's hard to believe that it is half way through July already. Next month: NY State Fair, then Septemeber and cool temperatures and freakin' Christmas songs at the mall. Then the radio stations that play nothing but freakin' holiday music from October through January. For chrissakes already! It's only July.

Oh, shit. Never mind.

What The Hell Happened?

As many of you know, I got married in May. Let me prefix this with: It was a great wedding and my wife is the absolute greatest. Now, on with my point here: Throughout my single years, I have owned several automobiles, most of which were actually registered and insured. From junk to new, cars to trucks, I have owned quite a few vehicles in my days. I also have wrecked quite a few, too, but that is another blog. I remember my first car. A 1975 Jeep Cherokee Chief. Jeep was then owned by AMC and the Indians weren’t pissed off about the “Chief” part yet. It was black. Black paint, black wheels, black windows. It had a 390 cid engine, four-wheel drive, crank up windows and no heat. I drove the piss out of that truck, mostly off the road, sometimes on, and mostly right side up. It died a painful death when I blew the engine while exceeding the legal limit a wee-bit driving by the high school during lunch leaving a swath of oil down the middle of Route 11. WooHoo. Anyway.

My next set of wheels originally belonged to my grandmother. Apparently, she no longer needed her ’77 Dodge Monaco as she couldn’t go more than twenty feet without her oxygen tank. It had a 318 cid engine, 4-barrel, crank up windows, AM radio, vinyl seats and a whole lot of go. I used this vehicle between ages seventeen and eighteen and practiced getting air off the hills on Sky High Road between LaFayette and Tully. The Dukes of Hazard was on prime-time television then.

I sold the Monaco to a boob and then bought my next car, a 1982 Plymouth Gran Fury Police Interceptor. 440, 4-barrel, cruise, tilt, power windows, cool dome light, spot light, dog dish hubcaps and black wall tires. I would drive it on the Thruway and watch everybody’s brake lights as they saw me coming. It looked exactly like an unmarked police car. It was very cool to drive that car. The transmission lost reverse one day and I put a sign on it. Sold it for more than I paid for it. Another boob, I guess. Didn’t need no stinkin’ reverse.

During the ownership period of the Interceptor, I had a brain fart and bought a Chevrolet Corsica from a guy that worked for my father. It had a 3.0L V6, a bad steering box and a leaking gas tank. It had 195,000 miles on it when I bought it for $250 and 240,000 miles when I donated it to a family friend whose daughter was in need of her first car. That car could jump a snow-bank with no problem and was easily put into a reverse 180.

Next: A 1984 Olds Cutlass Supreme with the pitiful 231 V6, all power, buckets, black with black glass. My mechanic told me to get rid of the wheezing V6 and try a small block Chevy. I said “OK”. Two months and $450 later, it had a Chevy 350 with headers. Loud and fast. I put in a Denon tape deck with an amplifier and subwoofers in the trunk. This was waaaaaay before it was “cool” to have tunes of this magnitude. Now I laugh when I see those cars with the chrome rattling off from the ear-blasting bass exuding from the trunk. I sold it.

Because I didn’t want to drive my Cutlass through the winter, I was talked into a 1983 Plymouth Reliant K Wagon. It was blue with a very strange smell. The car rode great for the initial test drive, where I didn’t exceed 40 m.p.h. After I bought it, however, the first time I got to the top of an on-ramp the front end vibrated and shook violently enough to scare the living crap out of me. I donated it to The Rescue Mission where my $900 investment became a $2400 write-off.

Needing a car that could break the 40 m.p.h. barrier, I happened upon my neighbor whose son knew a guy that knew a woman who bought a car from the estate of a lady that had died. The car, a green 1979 Ford LTD 2-door with 29,000 miles on it, was in immaculate condition. The Cleveland 351 had balls and a four-barrel carb. The Corinthian Leather (I know, Chrysler, not Ford) was like brand new and the paint actually shined, defying the car's age. This pristine condition lasted about 2 months. While celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with J.P. and my girlfriend at the time, we decided it would be cool to drive this LTD off a cliff. Actually, it was all her idea. “Let me drive, let me drive” as we left Rosie O’Grady’s. “Sure, go ahead”, I said. So, into the driver’s seat she went, with J.P. in the front passenger seat, and I in the back. She started the engine, revved way over redline, and as the RPMs were about half way down the other side, she dropped it into drive with steering wheel cranked all the way to the right. She drove the car over the railroad ties that marked the edge of the parking lot, off the cliff behind Rosie O’Grady’s, down a short ravine and slammed the car into the back wall of Monroe Muffler and Brake. The car was totaled in about the distance of eight feet. Dumb bitch. Donated as a parts car to a guy that had a black 1979 Ford LTD. I saw this boob driving the green one about a week afterward.

Next on the list is a 1985 Buick Riviera. This was a very nice car. Power everything, moon roof, charcoal gray, power trunk, self-leveling. I drove this car for three years and never had a problem with it. She was always clean and shiny and I kept her covered whenever she was parked. An Alpine CD changer with front and rear Alpine amps was added later. I never let that stupid bitch drive it either. It was an over-the-road automobile and was made for long trips. I sold it to an electrician who backed it into the path of a Centro bus on State Street one sunny Sunday afternoon. Idiot.

With the Buick gone, I needed transportation. While looking, I stopped into Sam Dell on Genesee Street to see what could be had for nothing down and payments below $250. A 1999 Jeep Cherokee Sport could be had. So, I signed up for a 36-month lease and drove off the lot in a brand-spankin’ new Jeep. It was my first brand new car, so I was anal about not letting dust, dirt and interior grime accumulate. This level of attention to detail lasted until we got a Golden Retriever puppy that promptly chewed a hole in the carpet during his first ride in the back. Traded it in.

Next was a green 2002 Dodge Durango SXT with a 4.7L V8 and four-wheel drive. I loved that truck. It looked good and I liked the color. Foz had his own spot in the way-back and until I put the tail lights of an idiot’s Ford Taurus in his trunk, he actually liked riding back there.

While looking for a replacement for the Durango a last week, I had a temporary mental lapse in thinking. I test-drove a new Durango with a Hemi, a Magnum with a Hemi, and a Ram with a Hemi. We had decided on the Durango until the talk turned to payments. It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford the payments it was just way too much for a car. I don’t know why people drive Suburbans, BMWs, Cadillac’s or Hummers with their payments exceeding $800 a month. Why? So we shelved the Durango idea. Looking out the dealership's big window, I saw about fifty mini-vans parked in a nice neat row near the far side of the lot. Then, my temporary lapse in reason kicked in and I said, “How about a Caravan?” Millisa said, “A Caravan? Really?” And I said, “Why not. Lots of room and loaded with options.” So, we drove one and before we knew it, we were signing the paperwork. I now drive a loaded 2005 Dodge Grand Caravan.

So, what the hell happened?

Michael Jackson, Not Guilty
(Not Innocent Either!)

Ten indictments. Ten acquittals. Ten facelifts. By the end of the nineties Michael Jackson was estimated to be worth 750 million dollars. I think I read that the man (sic) has over thirty number-one hits to his credit since going solo in the early eighties. The entire world has watched with amazement the young talent slowly turn into a freakish circus sideshow that could be found riding a Ferris wheel with little boys on his 270-acre hideaway. He bought Elephant Man, for crying out loud. He owns the Beatles!! How could we let ‘ol Wacko-Jacko marry the King’s daughter, for krissakes?

Here’s the scariest part, from CNBC.com: “Superstar Michael Jackson will no longer open himself up to child abuse allegations by sharing his bed with young boys, his lawyer said tonight. “He’s not going to do that any more,” Tom Mesereau told NBC. “He’s not going to make himself vulnerable to this any more.” The man with the blow-hole on his face decided that it is not a good idea to sleep with little boys anymore. He’s going to give it up. What the hell kind of asinine statement is that? You have just been vindicated of child molestation charges that could have put you in the hole for thirty years and the first thing you say to your adoring public is that you don’t think sharing a bed with minors is such a good idea. This pisses me off! At least OJ had the sense to maintain that he was innocent, even searching for the “real killer” for months after his acquittal.

Michael says he will sell Neverland and move out of the country. I think that is a great idea. Hey, Michael. Take OJ and Mr. Blake with you!

Chowder!

Yes, I'm Blogging Again

boob - n. (būb) 1. A stupid person; a dolt. 2. A person of mild mental retardation having a mental age of from 7 to 12 years and generally having communication and social skills enabling some degree of academic or vocational education.

I know way too many boobs. Come back and I will list the names of every single one of them.

Vacation Is the Best Medicine

Millisa and I got back from our two-week honeymoon on May 21. It was the first time either of us had left our jobs for such an extended period and, whether our employers agree with us or not, was a well-deserved break. Upon returning home, we both felt recharged and refreshed. We had acquired a positive new outlook on the future and that gave us incredible feelings of happiness - nothing could stop us. 36 hours later – Reality crashed landed at 6:30 Monday morning with a screaming alarm clock and the wreckage of a wonderful vacation strewn everywhere. By the end of the first day back, the refreshed and recharged feeling I had a mere day and a half earlier had mysteriously vanished, replaced by the familiar feelings of stress, frustration and the good old “screw it” attitude. Like I said, it wasn’t instantaneous. It started with the alarm clock and gradually accelerated through 10 a.m. and never let up until the ride home. In the back of my mind, I still felt good. I was, psychologically, still on the wedding/honeymoon high that had gripped us both for the better part of the month prior.

So here we are, violently jerked back to reality from a state of mind that only a vacation can generate. Meandering through the work day occasionally looking at the clock as if to confirm that it ain’t time to go home yet.

Chowder.

Cashin' in on Deep Throat (ChaChing)

June 1972. The second in command of the FBI has a little secret. No, it is not the advance knowledge of the newest Foster Grant styles for 1973. Or is it that the Middle East is about to choke the oil loving shit out of us. The anonymous man’s little secret has the potential to bring down a President and eventually did, along with all the President’s men. He tells his tales to The Washing Post’s Woodward and Bernstein who write article after article exposing the truths of a corrupt White House. For that they call him Deep Throat.

June 2005. A spokesperson and attorney for the family of a 91 year-old man living with his daughter in California, writes a story for Vanity Fair that just happens to reveal the true identity of Deep Throat as W. Mark Felt, the old man in California. Amazing!

Who cares, really? Did we care in 1972? We sure did! It was breaking news that enveloped the country for over two years and changed history forever! The Watergate Hotel would have been torn down years ago if not for this once powerful, now failing old man in California. During the early seventies he was privy to scandals and cover ups that never made it to the public eye, let alone bring down a President. So why come forward now? Why spill your guts to your lawyer that is writing a column for a make-up and fashion magazine? Those two loons from The Washington Post promised never to reveal their sources, and haven’t, as far as we know. Hell, Pat Buchanan admitted just this morning on the Today Show that he has known the identity of Deep Throat for years and never said anything. Ronald Reagan even pardoned the man in 1981 for other illegal “behind the scenes” type operations and never mentioned that this guy knew some shit. So why blow your wad 30 plus years after the fact. Is it the money? No way. Not money. Not the stuff of which dreams are made. It must be something else. No – it’s money. You see, Mr. Felt’s grandson needs to pay for college and it is up to ‘ol Deep Throat to foot the bill. Millions of dollars have been made on the portrayal of Deep Throat in articles, books and a feature film starring Paul Newman. Did poor old DT get a dime? Notta. So it makes perfect sense that he would want to cash in. That's the ONLY reason the truth is coming out now. $$$$. Now you wonder why the hell it took so long. Maybe he went broke paying off all the people who knew his true identity and now he needs the money to buy Depends. I thought Pat Buchanan had a nice suit on.

I can't wait to see Elvis again. He'll rake it in.

Chowder

AH – MARRIED LIFE

May 7. It came and went like any other day, except for the major difference of getting married. Seventeen months of planning is all wrapped up. All that is left to do is pen the thank you notes and drop them in the mail. The ceremony is over. The reception was a hit. The honeymoon was a blast. I can truly say that I really enjoyed our wedding and everything that went along with it. It was a whirlwind, as they say. If I had to sum it up in one word it would be: OVERWHELMING. Three days in Alex-Bay starting on the Friday before. Packing the truck, traveling up, getting into our respective rooms, guests arriving and checking in, impromptu tail gate party, the rehearsal dinner, setting up the reception and ceremony rooms, getting gift bags ready, seeing people and more people and even more people. The wedding day; getting dressed (in front of the photographer), getting nervous, the ceremony, the reception, the people, the day of the event. Two-week honeymoon: DisneyWorld; packing, traveling, unpacking, walking, drinking, sunning, swimming, packing, going home.

Now, I have been to many weddings and have actually been a participant in three or four, not including this one. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what went into preparing for and ultimately pulling off a day like this. Well, I was very wrong. A month before the “day”, I watched, helplessly, as Millisa’s head turned from her normal pinkish-white, through red, then through two shades of blue, into a grayish tint of purple, before finally exploding into thousands of cute, tiny, little pieces. She made it, though! And, I have to give her and her very generous friends ALL of the credit. I thought Jaime actually lived with us for a while. She was at the house to help with flowers one night, gift bags the next and table favors on another. I tried to keep a low profile during the “crunch time” knowing that if I attempted to “help”, I would promptly be bashed over the head, dragged into garage and stuffed into the Rubbermaid storage container that sits on the bottom shelf and the lid sealed tight with a burp! Remember, I am a man and have absolutely no right giving an opinion on how to pack a box of plastic flowers so they will fit in the car with all of the other stuff that has to be taken.

Well, I am sure this is only the first of many blogs regarding the happiest day of my life. So, stay tuned for more. They will make you want to run out and find your own bride! Trust me.

Chowder!

IN MEMORIUM

We lost a friend in April. If you have read this blog, specifically “St. Patrick's Day”, you have learned a little about The Thousand Islands and the people that have become almost like family to Millisa and I. A man of the river called Clay McIntosh, a Canadian, who lived and worked on the River, was killed in a freak boating accident on April 22. Details of the crash are not important. What is important is that you understand and realize how fragile life is. Clay had a wonderful family, the smarts to do whatever he put his mind to and, most of all, he loved life. All of that was taken away in the darkness of that cold, drizzly night. Millisa said that she is mad at the River. So am I, I guess. How could a place of such happiness be so mean.

Within a week of Clay’s death, his daughter, Nicole, had a baby boy that was promptly named Clayton River McIntosh. Clay’s grandson will grow up without ever meeting his grandfather but he will never not know who he was. He was larger than life and had countless friends who cared and respected him greatly. Those will be the ones that will pass Clay’s legacy on to little Clayton. The stories, the memories. He will be missed and talked about forever and will always be “A Man of the River”.


Cheers, Clay.

St. Patrick's Day
A Reason to Drink (Like I Need One Of Those)

March 17 is to most males under 60 as Christmas is to any child under 12. I am sure you have seen the beer commercial where three guys in their twenties wake up on St. Patrick's Day morning in their four-leaf clover clad pajamas, race for the stairs, slide down the banister, run into the living room and over to a bunch of six-packs and beer cases placed around a tinsel and green garland draped keg in the corner where a tree would normally stand on Christmas morning. Great commercial.

Well, let me tell you, if Millisa would allow me to have a keg in the living room, I would be one of those dudes diving for the stairs, trust me. Not because I like to wake up with other guys in green pajamas, but because I think St. Patrick’s Day is the best day of the year. Since I was 21, March 17 was the most looked forward to day of any other. When else are you expected to carry on like an Irish drunk, in public, competing for the honor of having the best time of anyone that you know, or talk to, for the next week afterward.

Picture it. Sicily, 1933. Kidding! A little hooya to my babe! Seriously, picture it, 1000 Islands, 2005. A 52’ steel tug with 1700 HP, a river frozen with 24” of ice, nine guys, more beer than necessary, rum, stingers, Manhattans, and a full year of anticipation. What do you get? The annual Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day 1000 Islands Cruise.

Cast of Charaters: Clay McIntosh, 50, a Canadian, whose father is a legend in his own time, owns the tug and the business he uses it for. Mike Bresnahan, 75, the grouchiest man on the planet is a true Irishman and only acts his age when there is something in it for him. Flory Basile, 65, is the nicest guy you’d want to meet and wouldn’t miss this outing, or any other party for that matter. Wayne “Boob” Morrow, 66, (no relation), another Canadian, is along on this trip and owns a marina on the River. Ask Wayne what time it is and he’ll tell you how the watch was made. Paul Hartwick, 48, a Canadian tire salesmen with a sense of humor and knows “Big Tom” of Survivor fame. JP Bresnahan, 35, is my best friend and remembered to where his drinking shoes. John McDonald, at least 60, is my father’s Canadian accountant. Dan Morrow, 60, my father, the ‘ol boy. Me, we've met.

Starting at 7:30AM, my father, one of the most iconic non-Irish Irishman on March 17 there is, picks me up and we drive to Syracuse to pick up Flory & JP and then on to Watertown to pick up Mike. By 10:30, shortly after clearing Customs, we are standing on a dock looking at a frozen river and a half dozen other guys whoopin’ it up, trying to get a party started. We unload the truck and by 11:00, all nine of us are aboard and heading out. This is actually my first cruise, but I am familiar with the antics of these River Rats and can’t wait to break some ice.



This boat that we are on resembles nothing that any of you have probably ever had the pleasure of being aboard. At 52 feet, it is pretty huge. A 1700 HP diesel under foot provides enough power and torque to pull anything, anywhere and is absolutely necessary for this trip. A two-inch thick steel hull and high bow makes this craft a menace to anything that gets in its way. Any other boat, aside from a hovercraft or fan-boat, would disintegrate under the stress we are about put on it. And, once it is full of beer and booze, there isn’t much left to do other than to fire it up and go!
We start at a leisurely pace heading for Fiddler’s Elbow and eventually, hanging a right, make our first stop at Bobby’s. Bobby ain’t there. He’s in Florida, where he lives during the winter. Nobody is up here. Nobody is on the water. IT’S FROZEN! REMEMBER? Back under way, we swing left, slamming ice floats and shoot towards the bridge. The water opens up a little because of the current and we gain some speed to help us get through the massive amounts of frozen river that is still ahead. Once under the main Canadian span of the TI Bridge, the river is frozen from one side to the other with 18”. ONWARD!!! FULL SPEED AHEAD!!! GIVE ME A BEER!!! It takes us an hour to go a mile before the ice proves too thick and we decide to turn around. An hour back, we wind up at Paradise Island. We drop Paul on the ice and he walks to the dock. We back up fifty feet, surge ahead and slam into the edge of the frozen water, driving the bow into the air (see pic). At this point we have again proven what we set out to prove on this St. Patrick’s Day and that is that you do need to drink to have a good time. I have always maintained that if you can see your breath, it is too cold to be outside than for any other reason than to go inside. So, imagine standing on the steel floor of a steel boat on a frozen river in 30-degree temperatures without alcohol. Why? Why do it? Right. You wouldn’t. However, you would do it to drink and say you did it. I had a blast and can't wait 'til next year!

I WATCH WAY TOO MUCH TV

Wife Swap? American Idol? The Bachlorette? The Apprentice? Anna Nicole Smith? Big Brother? Survivor? Elimidate? Super Nanny? Simple Life? Surreal Life? Temptation Island? The Biggest Loser? Extreme Makeover?

What is this world coming to?

Chowder!

YES, I'M WORKING ON SOMETHING VERY IMPORTANT

I have a long list of shit I should be doing (at work). It all demands undivided attention and brainpower that is definitely unique to the group I work with, here at Morrow Graphics. But you know, screw it. I’m going to add to my blog. So, here is today’s installment of “Yeah, OK”:

It amazes me that most of the people that I deal with on a daily basis, outside of the ones I work near, can’t decide which color white shirt to wear on a given day. I mean, come on people! WHAT DO YOU WANT? Tell me, please. I would be delighted if you would just tell me what you would like me to do for you! I don’t need the history of this project you are hiring me to do for you. I don’t need to hear about how phase 2 was planned from the start three years ago. You mean to tell me that you have been working on this for three years and this is all you got done? IDIOT! So much time is wasted going over useless details. I was told once that life is short. It is way too short for me to agonize over details that are irrelevant! Get on with it!

I AM GETTING MARRIED

Yep! That’s right! You heard it. I am tying the knot this spring and, believe it or not, I can’t wait. Don’t get me wrong here, gentlemen. I mean listen, I am still a red-blooded, all-American kind of guy with the same testosterone pumping through my system that you have, albeit, perhaps, in only similar doses. Let’s face it (you too, girls); being single is way cool, to a point. How many unhappy single people do know? Not many, is my guess. Sure, there are some sad old maids out there, but statistically, happiness and being single are usually a good combination. Unfortunately, being happy is only a fraction of what life is all about and until you find someone that makes you smile on the inside, do you truly have a life worth living. Believe me. I know this first hand.

I am fast approaching forty! HOLY SHIT. Hold on. Is that right? Yep. DAMN! I’ll be forty in 2007. That’s in like two years. Anyway, people of my age that I have encountered are well into a marriage and have kids and stuff. Since I was 18, the thought of getting married always seemed like something that would definitely happen in my life and it would probably be… Well, I knew it would definitely happen. I have listened to my parents all of my life make comments to the effect; “Wow, time flies.” Or; “Seems like only yesterday.” I now know what they meant. Time does fly and it actually accelerates, as you get older. It seems like the last five years have just evaporated and I didn’t even get a chance to take pictures. Millisa and I have been together for that time and it has just flown! I asked her to marry me on Christmas Eve, 2003 and we set a date for May 2005 thinking seventeen months was plenty of time to plan a wedding and ultimately get married. Whoa, are we surprised. Here it is, January 2005 and the wedding is four blink-of-the-eye months away. Don’t worry, sports fans, the plans are well underway and we promise to give you one hell of a party in May!

I am absolutely the happiest I have ever been.

Chowder!

#$%&* Re-dux

Well, I just realized that the post that I thought I lost actually did publish. I am not, however, retracting my previous post that eludes to my displeasure of losing a post. Because I actually felt the frustration of losing the post, I believe I retain the prerogative to let the spew remain. On the same note, I am relieved that I did not re-key the post I thought I lost only to have it appear on the home page, as it did when I viewed the actual blog page. Anyway, chowder!

#$%&*

This blogging shit is supposed to be a portal for putting down random, useless crap in a relatively unique manner. Well, I just spent ten minutes on a couple of paragraphs and the goddamn blog server applet crashed during the publish command and I lost it. BASTARDS!

It's stupid cold. It's not 30 or 20. It's freakin' -10 outside. Why is it necessary to be that cold. I watched a CNN interview of a couple of idiots from Minnesota, where it was -54, and they didn't even have hats on. Idiots! My truck moans when I start it in the morning. The cats walk out and right back in the front door when they scream to go out. It was 65 three or four days ago. Our furnace is real tired of running and has a real appetite for fuel oil, at $1.89 a gallon. Ron Bush Oil, Inc. holds the third mortgage on our house. Bastards! One of the members of my trombone quartet left for Hawaii on Sunday. Bastard! I hope his pipes freeze while he's on the beach.

I JUST WANT TO GET OUTTA THE DAMN HOUSE



Keep in mind that I am old enough to remember things that happened thirty-plus years ago. I know, it scares the hell out of me too. I can remember a time when all that was required to leave the house to go somewhere was to get dressed and grab your wallet and car keys and you were, for all intents and purposes, out the door, as they say. While out at Colemen's last night with some people, we were talking about Bill's new I-POD and how cool it was to have all your music in digital form and reside on a device small enough to loose between the couch cushions and expensive enough to skip your car payment this month. Don't get me wrong. Technology is a wonderful thing and, in my very informed opinion, will be the cause of all kinds of human uprising in about 50 years. Yes, I have time-traveled and I know that humans from all walks of life will rise up and ultimately reject all forms of technology reverting to making their own music with two sticks and a deer skin stretched across a hollow log.

Let’s get back to my point. I hate interruptions. When I was old enough to buy beer and had the means to do so, I would first, run out of beer, then go to the front door, reach to the left, pick up my wallet and keys and exit the residence, moving toward the car. The total time between the decision to buy beer and actually being in the car going to get beer was 45 seconds, maximum.

The scenario in today’s technological world plays out much, much differently and requires more thought than 15 years ago. Now, after running out of beer, the first item on the list of things required to get out the door and on your way is booting the computer. You need the computer so you log in to your checking account to make sure you have enough money to even buy beer. After electronically transferring $30 from your savings to checking, you swing around and grab the pirated MP3 CD that you burned the night before only to realize that the CD recording session didn’t finalize. So, you browse you’re My Music folder and re-burn the CD. Hey, you need God Smack for the three-minute trip to Nice-N-Easy. Time check: 20 minutes in. Proceeding with CD in hand, you stop at the kitchen to grab your cell phone, which is supposed to be on the charger overnight. After locating the cell phone in your jacket pocket, you notice two voice mails that you promptly listen to and then delete or re-listen to, then delete. The cell phone is needed in case you need to call someone on the way to tell him or her that you are finally in the car going to buy beer. Now you are ready to find the digital camera that you need in case something unusual happens on this trip that you may want to snap a picture of and add to a blog later. Now your ready! Time check: 42 minutes in. Car keys with FOB, MP3 CD, cell phone, debit card, digital camera and the grocery list that Millisa gave me because she had plenty of time to take an inventory and realize that you were running out to buy beer. Well, back to the computer we go… I need to transfer more funds.

PLEASANTRIES

I figured I should probably tell you a little about myself since you will need a point of reference when reading any of this crap. I created this blogger account in April of 04 and that was about it. My fiancée and I thought it would be cool to use the capability to post back and forth to each other during the workday. You know, email, Instant Messanging, cell phones and real phone lines just aren’t enough to keep in touch these days. It wasn’t until a Christmas party that we hosted a couple weeks ago, for our “group of ten” (more on that as this blog grows, no doubt), that we saw an opportunity to explore this relatively new method of creating useless crap. Several members of “the group of ten” (GO10) had already started to catalog their pitiful lives with their own blogger sites. So, the GO10 stood around my computer screens during the party and read the diaries and quotes from the posts of the others. It was actually very interesting to read what these friends of ours had posted. You know, you spend time with people within the same type of environment every day and don’t realize that they have crap to deal with, just like you. So it is cool to read about their crap so you can worry about them too.

I sleep, eat, crap, work and screw just like everybody else on the planet with little deviation from this pattern of life. Just because we all think we are unique doesn’t mean that we actually are. And money has absolutely no impact on the quality of your pattern. It just makes your pattern look better to others. So why would you need to know about my own personal patterns, you ask? Well, like I said at the top, you need a point of reference… So here it is: I sleep next to my fiancée every night. This is a very nice place to be at the end of the day, and the beginning, for that matter. The mattress sucks but the sleep is, undoubtedly, very good. I eat breakfast at a downtown deli, lunch at a downtown deli and dinner with my fiancée at home. I crap in a bathroom (just like you!). Those bathrooms are at home and the office. I work at the family’s 33-year-old business and love it/hate it. Face it, working sucks! Selling pencils on the beach is my idea of a great job. A hot-plate and a grass hut would suit me just fine, thank you very much! I screw on the same mattress with same fiancée that I mentioned above. I like to screw.

And so begins this blog.

Chowder!

PLEASE, BE A PART OF MY STRESS

Listen. We all encounter stress. Whether at work, in our relationships, financial, all over the place. Why does stress exist? Well, I can't tell you. I can, however, give you my theory. It exists to give the human animal a chance to relax. Nothing feels better than to have the worst day at work, one that makes you want to run everybody off the road on the way home, kick the dog and climb into the oven for the night, and then have your significant other say, "How was your day"? From that point on, hopefully, by design, stress should leave your senses. In Stepford... this would be the norm. In reality, it just doesn't work that way.

Honestly and without offense, in most of the cases of my own stress experiences, I need to be in that oven. It is at that point that I begin my process of relaxation. It isn't deep thought of the day's events or the analysis of what may have caused the stress.

Anyway... I lost my train here.

Chowder!

THE CAT BOX (Whoa!)

Cats are shitting machines! 'Nuff said.

ALL THESE FREAKIN' SOCKS



I have a drawer full of useless, holy, mis-matched socks. The purpose of this drawer and its contents eludes me. I open it every day, push a pile of these socks to one side, in search of the perfect pair of better socks to wear for the day. The pursuit of a worthy pair socks ensues every morning and usually concludes with the capture of a pair of matching, fully wearable socks.

Why the hell do I keep so many useless socks? Will I ever wear them? No. Will I ever find the missing mate? No. Will the wide elastic top that lost it's elasticity five years ago magically re-appear and make this pair of wool, very warm and comfortable, gray socks a permanent resident of this drawer? No.

Emotional attachment will be my undoing, I guess.

I hate electricity.