When Life Gives You Lemons...

You'd better hope you don't have a bizarre citrus allergy. Otherwise, it's probably a good way to stave off scurvy. Do you Vitamin C what I'm talking about?

So devoted reader — and by that I mean that one person that reads this blog, namely me, not google reader, which I don't really use because I don't check enough news sites and blogs; I should, I really should, but man there is a ton of shit out there. As always I rely on the human internet (which I have made mention of in this very blog on probably more than one occasion) for the bulk of my news. Thank the potential dude upstairs for that — I'm seated in my skivvies watching Shaq Vs and he is having a showdown with Rachael Ray. That aside was pretty lengthy, even by my standards. So in a sense, things have come full circle then, as when I first started up this blog, a decent quantity of the fuel came from a dislike of Ray. But then I softened as I tend to, especially, as I noted way back in said day, upon realizing the degree to which so many disliked her. Watching Rachael cook up burgers with Shaq I judged that she is looking as if life has been hard on her these last three years, and the bubbly effervescence (redundant, but how I love that) seems to be more forced and wearing than ever. It can be hard being up all the time. So though it can be boring being nice, I hope life isn't giving you lemons Rachael or, if it is, that you have a deep-rooted love of citrus.

As usual there were some things and also stuff that I intended to cover in here but I don't remember what most of them are and I'm pretty sleepy. Before I expire I will take note of what I think is a somewhat creepy aspect of Blackberry's messenger app aka BBM (which I would priorly have deemed an abbreviation for big bowel movement) and that is confirmation a sent message has been read. It seems great knowing whether a message you have sent has been delivered and read, but do we really need complete transparency in everything in life? How about people are just honest and we trust them instead? Except that there will always be sociopaths. Whatever, not really that big a deal.

A deal I consider perhaps larger is the presence of typographical errors in this CBS news report on Obama's vacationing. I wish I never made any such errors because it comes across a tad hypocritical to judge the very errors one makes. Still, the folks who do this are paid. Bogus.

Exhibit A:
Critics say all his should be on the dire economy and the plight of average Americans. I assume the word "attention" was meant to be inserted betwixt "his" and "should." Yes, I said "betwixt."

Exhibit B:
Presidents, thought, are never truly on vacation. Here we see another small error of "thought" in place of "though." If it was Bush, it might be possible they meant "President's thoughts are never truly on vacation," were they, for instance, trying to attest that Bush was not aloofly out-to-lunch on many topics. It would be weird to refer to the president as simply "president," but it would alter the voice of the piece to that of shorthand, that kind of staccato pacing a la a telegram. That was a lot of qualifications and vagaries. I shall cease typing on this topic now.

So these simple typos and omissions are relatively commonplace but we all have our pet peeves right? I ain't even no editor. Anyway, sleep is in order. Cheerio bitches.

8-9-10

As in today is August 9, 2010. That won't happen for another century folks. Of course, you can say the same thing about 8/8/10, 8/10/10 and, well, you get the idea.

There were definitely some things and also some stuff that I meant to talk about but my brain is operating slowly. For me, diminished physical activity leads to a good degree of decreased mental activity.

I was lucky enough to attend Lollapalooza this weekend with roughly 239,999 other people. That is not meant as sarcasm, because the crowd is part of the quality of the experience. I always find that sort of outdoor festival deal pretty exhausting, all the more this time round as I continue to hobble about like a dipshit. I don't really know that dipshits hobble, but this one does.

In general it just reminded me of the good that results from saying yes to things. Like a young couple complimenting me on my mismatched shoes. Like the teenage kid with the water bottle full of cheap vodka trying to stay standing. Like the droves of folks dodging traffic, hopping an eight-foot fence, then sprinting through a VIP section to hop one more eight-foot fence. Shit's always more fun when you sneak in.

I was surprised at the crowd for Mumford and Sons, not because they don't kick ass (because they do) but because I had no idea they were, well, so popular. That was mildly redundant, to put it mildly, but that's kind of my thing. Hard not to like "Little Lion Man."

But because nobody likes it when people are overly positive (let's face it, it's annoying because no one should ever be that happy right?) I can briefly reference my completely unfounded dislike for actor Jesse Eisenberg, reminders stemming from a sighting of said person outside Second City the other day.

But since I could really give a shit about that guy, for a true negative (but also not a negative because it's a digital photo) here's a shot of the retarded bruise on the back of my leg. For a week or more there I couldn't figure out how it was that a bike ran into me at top speed and I had no mark to show for it. Well no more. Thanks delayed bruising.



Next year we can all look forward to 9/10/11.

Cuanto Cuesta?

Last night I had the strangest dream and it involved a bowl of Frosted Mini-Wheats. There was never any mystery about what percent milk I would need...It really wasn't that strange, but the only detail I remember was the bowl sitting there on my kitchen counter, on an inexorable march toward sogginess.

This entry's going to be rather link-heavy, so apologies if that bothers you, and your welcome if that's your sort of thing. Now the following apparently took place some time ago, but since it was pointed out to me only a couple of days ago, I will share it with you all. It is an incident of what I consider to be clear cheating an episode of Price is Right. I used to watch this show pretty religiously in the summer, in middle school in particular. It was my reason to awake by 11am. Drew Carey as a host is tough to take. I really think they should have handed the job off to me. I could use the money a little more than dear old Drew, but then so could a lot of people.

The next links are kind of my favorite and are all courtesy of my buddy Tom. In the late 1970s, there was no Nintendo Wii, and there was no internet for porn, so those things had to be combined. There was the Atari 2600 and, thanks to the folks at Mystique, a perfect trifecta of outrageous pornographic concept games:



Bachelor Party



Beat 'Em and Eat 'Em



Custer's Revenge

I won't bother to summarize those or anything since wikipedia covers it in quite excellent fashion. "Custer's Revenge" is definitely my favorite, as it is closest to the absurdity and hilarity dating back to when a buddy of mine was sent an Oregon Trail -inspired pornographic story. Inspiration doesn't do it justice, as the format was adopted pretty accurately. There I was thinking the girl who had written it was a pioneer...

To close out I just have to remark on a couple of song similarities that my ear has picked up on in the last day or two. Feel free to agree or disagree. The first is the clear influence of Hall and Oates's "You Make My Dreams Come True" on the Ducktales theme. Though Hall and Oates came first from what I know, I still give the point to Ducktales.

After that, take a moment to observe the common riffs between Morrissey's "First of the Gang to Die" and Yellowcard's "Inside Out." Point
Morrissey.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled programming...

RABBI

I'm not talking about the teachers of half of my unobserved faith. No, I'm talking about my newly founded organization: Runners Against Bad Biking Individuals (RABBI). That could probably use a little work. Edit: I changed "idiots" to individuals. Also, bad-biking might connote that they are bad-ass, but really it's a grammatical shortcoming implying that these bikers do not excel at biking. I really wanted it to be abbreviated RABBI as you can tell, but perhaps RAPBI is not bad either, though potentially confused with bisexual or bipolar rappers.

That's a little non-sequitury, even by my standards so allow me to explain. See sometimes I like to focus on really positive stuff that I enjoy, like taking a bum shower outside a bar in a thunderstorm but the fact is, for the time being, the most prominent thing on my mind is getting rear-ended by a biker last night while running. Not a motorcycle, a bike-bikes-bikecycle. Who gets hit by a bicycle? I know, I've repeated this very phrase many times since last night when this occurred.

The story is less homosexual than a lead in like "getting rear-ended by a biker" may originally have insinuated. So there I was, doing my thing on the Lake Shore pedestrian and bike path, my thing being running, when I thought I'd go around a couple of women walking in front of me rather than maintaining my full speed and slamming into their backs. Seemed like common courtesy, and I do this quite frequently, every day while walking and running in fact, amounting to tens of thousands of times even. The guy on the Specialized road bike behind me apparently has a different concept of etiquette, deciding instead to slam straight into my back. Oh those points of contention. Now even though I was simply navigating around a couple of walkers, I did look behind me because asshole bikers are always riding much too fast and much too close to myself and others. Didn't matter as I didn't see the guy and I guess he didn't see me. I get wanting to move quickly, I do it myself occasionally, but this is a shared path, and not really the place for it. Those damned shared free spaces and their idea of rules. I was probably in the wrong.

Lucky for the guy on the bike I am a total pussy and completely broke his fall, leaving he and his bike unscathed. I asked if he was okay, and he me, seeming awfully concerned that I was training for something. I said no, as if it would make a difference either way. I suppose he might have felt a little worse if I had said yes, but that won't heal my body any faster and I don't think he'll be covering my medical bills. I just found a snapshot of the path where it went down (I was going in the other direction, not that it matters).



So I took it left knee first and since it's a paved path it took a lot of my skin off, including a delightful chunk out of my inner right arm. I like to say it looks like Jared Leto in Requiem. It's an exaggeration, but when it was still bleeding I think it was pretty spot on. The thing is, as pissed as I was from having road rash, oozing wounds, and a really swollen knee, the guy who hit me wasn't a bad guy or anything. I just don't know why he was biking so fast and, more importantly, into my back.

So, to keep this an entry you don't want to read and view during a meal, here are a couple of dinky photos from photobooth.


What up ribs?



The crowning achievement.

Photos of my knees just came out blurry and my left knee is so swollen it looks like a fake shadow. No matter.

After the collision I limped around for a little while at which point, since I was still two miles from my apartment, I decided I ought to just jog it home. My left knee got a little stiff, but otherwise it was all good. As blood dripped down my legs and from my right forearm and sand-covered road rash adorned my ribs, I took pride in being met with periodic cries of "Jesus Christ" and "What the fuck?" as I cruised home. Perhaps pride is the wrong word. So with my future as a forearm model in serious jeopardy, I'm off to go investigate some other career options.

AC Drip

The title is not in reference to the intellect of one Mario Lopez, no, it is in reference to the condensation that forms and drops from window air conditioning units, often onto unsuspecting humanoids below. In my case I am a suspecting humanoid, but they still get ya. There is really nothing particularly gross about it, but it tends to weird me out just the same. Where I am seated currently I am victim of an indoor AC drip, but it's preferable to the out of doors where I would be sitting in a puddle of my own vile cooling system.

The other night I stepped out of class and there were cop cars and fire department vehicles and that telltale yellow tape blocking off the streets of Old Town and onlookers seemed excited thinking it was the filming of the upcoming Transformers film. Instead it was a good old-fashioned bomb threat. What is the difference between a bomb threat and a bomb scare? I suppose the latter indicates the confirmed presence, or maybe it's when you just take the threat seriously. Reminded me what a lousy bomb diffuser I would be likely to make as a colorblinder. I believe certain other contributing factors would also make me a less-than-ideal selection for this position.

I love looking at lists like the "100 Best Places to Live." Not quite as ironic as calling something a "best kept secret," but I would think putting these places on the radar more might lead to their decline. Then again, maybe not, since I won't be moving to any of them. There's something fun about seeing lists of places I'll never live, great places to raise my imaginary family, and also marveling at how much money some people really have. I had some other stuff, and even things, to discuss, but they are eluding me for the time being.

Don't melt this weekend folks. Cheers.

Pooparoni

Some people say they would give you the shirt off their back. I like to think I am one of them, one reason being that I have done it before, but also because I am so damned sweaty that a shirt is a waste of time for me. By token of this very same virtue, you may not want the shirt I am offering. This has always been abundantly clear to me and I'm sure I've stated it before, but I never said I wasn't redundant.

In line with redundancy, one might say I made the same calculated error on back-to-back evenings in consuming pepperoni pizza. Rarely in my lifetime have I consumed this Jew-forbidden meat, but I admit to its salted deliciousness. In discovering this, I also discovered its propensity for giving me heartburn, especially the day after. Though I successfully dodged this bullet after Sunday evening consumption, a repeat performance Monday was not to be had. This is not entirely accurate, as I did not suffer heartburn, merely burn in another arena. And no, I did not mean area. Inaccuracy abounds as it may not have been the pepperoni but, in fact, the undercooked cheese, of which there was a great quantity, and the undercooked dough. Mmmmmm...

While I seem to pay quite often for the substances I choose to ingest, the opposite appears true regarding one of my old high school teammates. Probably standing 5'5" and weighing in at something like a buck-twenty-five, this monstrosity manages to consume frightening quantities of booze and gut-rending munchies. When people discuss eating and drinking prowess, it is easy to remain skeptical without proof, but I would say his newly launched blog is reasonable proof. I'd use his name, but I like the mystery of things like eyes blocked out with photoshop paint that is a theme on said blog.

In other news, it wouldn't hurt for it to get a little less hot and humid up in this mother. I must choose my days for wearing khaki shorts very carefully as swamp-ass is a foregone conclusion. Admitting this may seem a bit gross, but when the telltale miniature heart-shape of damp becomes visible on the lower ass of my shorts to anonymous real-life humans, why not share it with anonymous internet ones as well.

Anyway, the face of the girl sitting at around 10 o'clock from me is really starting to piss me off so I've got to shuttle out of here. I can only fight the urge to laugh like a maniac or pour coffee onto her computer/face for so long. I think I watched too much negative stand-up last night! I need to study up on Einstein's Theory of Negativity...Plus I'm really hungry. Happy Wednesday!

Charles Barkley on the American Flag

I was going to say and now that I'm typing it I guess I am saying that it is hotter than monkey tits out. I don't even know that monkey tits get that hot. Probably not, since those dude[tte]s live in some pretty tropical climates and have all that fur and yet don't combust or anything. It's also muy humid, which is my homage to Spain on winning the World Cup. I have to get around to learning some Spanish. Muy caliente, not to be confused with muy caliendo, which is synonymous with not being funny but then getting your own TV show called Frank TV but then dropping off the face of the Earth soon after. I take that back, nothing against Frank, he just wasn't for me. I hope he got paid a lot of money and is retired nicely somewhere. I would like to do that too.

My brain is addled from excessive writing attempts, but I needed a mid-month update in here to keep pace so here it be. Some props to Charles Barkley because every time I wear his Phoenix Suns jersey I get props galore from humans on the street. Thanks Chuck. Similarly, American flag stuff goes over huge. I was rocking my American flags shorts as referenced in the last entry here, strolling down the Lake Shore path (is that a proper noun, I don't know) this time when I was stopped by a bikini-clad twelve year-old. By strolling I mean running and I should also probably point out I was wearing mismatched shoes, another frequent occurrence for myself. She was with several other children of her approximated age and she asked if I would take a picture with them. Normally I hate to stop during runs, but since I'm not good at running anymore, I said yes. I mean, that's a tenet of improv anyway, say yes. So there I am, drenched in sweat, arms around two giggling twelve year-old girls in bikinis while a couple of dudes and I believe one more girl get into frame to have a photo taken by yet another child of similar age. What these kids were doing out there by themselves who knows. "Yeah, 'cause this isn't weird," is all I could muster. I wish I'd given them my email so I could post the photo, I really do. Good thing I never plan to run for public office.

The very next day, I yesterday learned, one of my Second City classmates witnessed me running down this path. He then proceeded to do an impression of my running. I have long known I run like a total goof, but seeing impressions of it never gets old. I hope I do not look like he made it out that I do, and yet it would explain the insane looks I get from most everyone I pass on the path. That, my short length (and by this I mean the length of my shorts), and my propensity for dancing to the tunes flowing through the old noggin.

But I've got to go outside and soak through my t-shirt again and then go for one of these runs I was talking about. Stay tuned for more unexciting adventures.