First I should point out that none of what I assume about this couple can be proven without talking to them, and I'm far happier making assumptions than getting to the truth.
Second, we do in fact refer to them as the "bathroom fuckers." And, keeping point one in mind, this might be totally inaccurate.
There is a couple that visits the place I work. They came in regularly for a while before taking a break, but we've been seeing them again. They always ordered the same sandwich that they want ready at a certain time. They meet in the very back dining area, the one that's essentially in the kitchen, at the farthest table from the front.
My guess is that they are cheating on their spouses with each other. I can't prove it, but there's a certain something about them that gives them that air. Do I suspect cheating because I've developed a sense, an ability to recognize it? Or am I just an ass that likes to assume the worst.
After several months in which we didn't see them we nearly forgot about them. Sure, occasionally someone would remember or mention them. Perhaps they'd be the butt of some joke or the topic of a "remember when" sort of conversation. Restaurants change rapidly on the inside, and something that you've grown so used to that you completely take it for granted can disappear and be forgotten in a moment.
This couple, while ordering and sharing the same sandwich each visit, doesn't want it split and put on separate plates. According a to one server the separate plate thing was tried, but the bathroom fuckers put the sandwich back onto one plate and disregarded the attempted good deed.
And now they're back. He dresses sort of normally, but she dresses a bit nicer than you'd expect for an office drone. Yesterday her tight top and fairly short skirt seemed to beg for attention. They sat with their heads together, and then, when no one was looking, the couple was gone.
They weren't too far gone, as they'd left stuff on the table, so we knew where they were. They were in the bathroom again.
We discussed in low whispers what we could do to learn about them. I suggested someone try the old ear to the glass to the wall trick to see if we could hear anything, but no one really wanted to be that guy.
Eventually she exited the bathroom and retrieved her stuff. She pulled on a jacket and left wearing a look that was difficult to read. Had she just been penetrated in our bathroom? Had she performed for him? We waited until he made his exit a few minutes after her. He had a whole other look about him, and he walked away with what I'd describe as a forced nonchalance.
I can't say for certain that they fuck in our bathroom. I sent a server in as soon as the man left, ordering the server to do smell check "for spunk." Yeah, I know that's nasty, but it made me laugh both then and now, so I'm sticking with it.
Apparently there was no spunk odor, and we still can't prove anything, but we'll still call them the "bathroom fuckers."
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
dirty basement water legs
I feel like I've written about the flooding that sometimes happens in my basement. If so I've explained that the pump is in the farthest corner from the door, and I've probably described the crate walk.
Because the pump is in the far corner there are two milk crates in the basement. When it floods I use the crates to move above the water. Standing on one crate I move the other ahead of me then step onto it. I repeat this process until I reach the pump then jiggle the pump until it starts pumping. Sometimes I have to dig around in the hole to break loose the collected flotsam, and I have a stick that stays in the basement for this very reason. Once the pump is working I turn and do the crate walk back to the door.
Rain has been falling throughout the day, and I was even lucky enough to get to bike in some light rain this morning. I arrived at work thoroughly damp, though my butt was nearly soaked from the spray off the back tire. I won't even attempt a description of my hair, but it needs to be cut and was the combined crazy of rained on and wind blown.
I left work an hour early and met Momma and The Boy near the square. She needed to be at work earlier than usual, and I was able to leave work in order to take her car and meet Big Brother at his school. She warned me to avoid our usual driving route due to flooding, and as we travelled I saw plenty of flooding around town. Our town is a very hilly town, so between the hills and the paved surfaces and the low places we can see lots of rapids down road ways as well as a number of 24 hour ponds.
I knew of course that the chance of my basement being flooded were very good, so upon arriving home my first goal was to check. I could tell the basement was flooded more than usual, but I couldn't really see how deep it was. I could see one of my crates, but I needed a long stick to get it close to me. I try to leave them near enough the door, but sometimes they get pushed out of the way on dry basement trips.
I found a long stick and braced myself against the brick doorway and leaned as far as I could and just could reach the crate. I wasn't sure how easily it would move, so I wasn't expecting instant cooperation. I also wasn't expecting for the crate to be floating and to slowly roll over when I did reach it.
But it did.
I ended up changing into shorts and donning my flip flops. I was dreading my adventure into the cold, brown water, but it exceeded my expectations. The water is in fact cold and brown and reached just above my knees when I was finally brave enough to step out into it. It's so cold in fact that it nearly took my breath away, almost like that first jump into the pool.
I'm sure the boys above in the house heard me as I made my way to the pump. I was singing loudly, "Oh my god it's sooooo COLD!" a little ditty I made up trying to keep the water temperature from driving me over the edge of sanity. I could only move so quickly as there are plenty of dangerous and invisible things in the brown water ready to trip me or worse.
Thankfully I did finally reach the far corner, and thankfully the pump didn't take too much jiggling to start working. Now I've got coffee steeping and another trip outside to peek into the basement. I hope to hear the pump still working, and I hope to see a noticeable drop in the water level. And I hope to relight the water heater's pilot soon. The boys already needed baths tonight, and now I'd really like a shower.
Because the pump is in the far corner there are two milk crates in the basement. When it floods I use the crates to move above the water. Standing on one crate I move the other ahead of me then step onto it. I repeat this process until I reach the pump then jiggle the pump until it starts pumping. Sometimes I have to dig around in the hole to break loose the collected flotsam, and I have a stick that stays in the basement for this very reason. Once the pump is working I turn and do the crate walk back to the door.
Rain has been falling throughout the day, and I was even lucky enough to get to bike in some light rain this morning. I arrived at work thoroughly damp, though my butt was nearly soaked from the spray off the back tire. I won't even attempt a description of my hair, but it needs to be cut and was the combined crazy of rained on and wind blown.
I left work an hour early and met Momma and The Boy near the square. She needed to be at work earlier than usual, and I was able to leave work in order to take her car and meet Big Brother at his school. She warned me to avoid our usual driving route due to flooding, and as we travelled I saw plenty of flooding around town. Our town is a very hilly town, so between the hills and the paved surfaces and the low places we can see lots of rapids down road ways as well as a number of 24 hour ponds.
I knew of course that the chance of my basement being flooded were very good, so upon arriving home my first goal was to check. I could tell the basement was flooded more than usual, but I couldn't really see how deep it was. I could see one of my crates, but I needed a long stick to get it close to me. I try to leave them near enough the door, but sometimes they get pushed out of the way on dry basement trips.
I found a long stick and braced myself against the brick doorway and leaned as far as I could and just could reach the crate. I wasn't sure how easily it would move, so I wasn't expecting instant cooperation. I also wasn't expecting for the crate to be floating and to slowly roll over when I did reach it.
But it did.
I ended up changing into shorts and donning my flip flops. I was dreading my adventure into the cold, brown water, but it exceeded my expectations. The water is in fact cold and brown and reached just above my knees when I was finally brave enough to step out into it. It's so cold in fact that it nearly took my breath away, almost like that first jump into the pool.
I'm sure the boys above in the house heard me as I made my way to the pump. I was singing loudly, "Oh my god it's sooooo COLD!" a little ditty I made up trying to keep the water temperature from driving me over the edge of sanity. I could only move so quickly as there are plenty of dangerous and invisible things in the brown water ready to trip me or worse.
Thankfully I did finally reach the far corner, and thankfully the pump didn't take too much jiggling to start working. Now I've got coffee steeping and another trip outside to peek into the basement. I hope to hear the pump still working, and I hope to see a noticeable drop in the water level. And I hope to relight the water heater's pilot soon. The boys already needed baths tonight, and now I'd really like a shower.
Monday, February 21, 2011
loose pad
Fortunately my back brake is tight, tight as in works well enough that I can skid without too much trying. Also I was fortunate in not having been moving very quickly when I hit my front brake which suddenly wasn't really working in a way that was even a little bit helpful.
It probably wasn't really nice or proper of me to refer to the kid as a sack of shit, but either one or both of his parents are a sack of shit for letting him play with my bike.
Entering the restaurant where I work through the front door you pass between our bar area to the left and a separate dining room on the right. Continue through and you reach the courtyard which is essentially fenced off inside the greater room, separating it from two walkways on the outer edges of the room. These walking areas lead to the doors that lead to the stairways that lead to the condos on the floors above. Continue your walk from the front door to end in the kitchen, where we have more dining, but if I start talking about the tourists I might start to rant a little.
Only one of the two doors to the upper living areas is used often, so the walkway leading to the less used door has become parking for those of us who ride our bikes to work.
At some point today, as I was moving between the kitchen and somewhere else in the restaurant, there was a family seated in the courtyard. Only the parents were actually seated at the moment I walked through. The two young girls and young boy that were also part of the party were in the less used walkway. While the girls admired the horrid painting of crap that takes up nearly a twenty by thirty foot area of the wall there the boy could be seen fucking with my bike.
I have no proof that the kid fucked with my brakes. One of my pads on the front was loose when I left, and I didn't know this till I was pedaling away and tried to use the brakes. I tend to use the front brake more for control and the back for stopping or to slow myself more quickly. In a sense I kinda rely on them a lot.
And it's not as if the kid was off somewhere, unattended and unwatched. The parents were seated at a table facing the exact direction of my bike and their kid and were not more than five feet away. Looking at their child would have confirmed that his bike was not in fact the one leaning against the divider fence and that he was in fact fucking with a bike not his own.
Perhaps they just didn't realize that the machine their child was treating as his own is in fact my main mode of transportation, much like their car is for them. Maybe they just don't realize how dirty my bike probably is. And it's not that it's so dirty so much as that I ride on regular ol' city streets where anything can and likely does go. Bikes also hold potential dangers for small children, not the least of which is that they could easily pull the bike over on themselves.
Maybe the kid didn't loosen my brake pad, but it was working when I arrived in the morning, and it wasn't working when I left. I easily found and fixed the problem, but that didn't really help when I first attempted to use that brake and it wasn't really there suddenly.
My front brake works, but it isn't as tight as the back. The back is my stopping brake or my sudden need to decrease speed brake. My front is a more delicate sort of control of speed. That doesn't make it any less essential, but it also doesn't make it the point.
So, I saw the kid fucking with my bike, and I wanted to approach the parents and say something. I'm also a restaurant employee and have been trained for years to not piss off the customer. I also know how some parents can be when approached about something their kid is doing but should not be doing. It's almost as if you're questioning their entire ability to parent as well as the general goodness of the children.
And I'm still not sure what I should have done. Perhaps the simplest thing would have been to push my way into their little zone and remove my bike. There are a couple of places I could have moved it to, and without having talked at all other than to excuse myself there'd be no reason for the parents to turn douche, though some people never need a valid reason.
The best idea really would be for people to control their kids and teach them that fucking with other people's stuff is really never cool. They aren't special, and my bike should be understood to be off limits. More than anything, the fact that parents didn't already get this idea is just baffling to me. And that's part of my reluctance to say or do anything. What can you really say or do to people like this?
p.s. Is the post title an homage or just a coincidence that made me think of this?
It probably wasn't really nice or proper of me to refer to the kid as a sack of shit, but either one or both of his parents are a sack of shit for letting him play with my bike.
Entering the restaurant where I work through the front door you pass between our bar area to the left and a separate dining room on the right. Continue through and you reach the courtyard which is essentially fenced off inside the greater room, separating it from two walkways on the outer edges of the room. These walking areas lead to the doors that lead to the stairways that lead to the condos on the floors above. Continue your walk from the front door to end in the kitchen, where we have more dining, but if I start talking about the tourists I might start to rant a little.
Only one of the two doors to the upper living areas is used often, so the walkway leading to the less used door has become parking for those of us who ride our bikes to work.
At some point today, as I was moving between the kitchen and somewhere else in the restaurant, there was a family seated in the courtyard. Only the parents were actually seated at the moment I walked through. The two young girls and young boy that were also part of the party were in the less used walkway. While the girls admired the horrid painting of crap that takes up nearly a twenty by thirty foot area of the wall there the boy could be seen fucking with my bike.
I have no proof that the kid fucked with my brakes. One of my pads on the front was loose when I left, and I didn't know this till I was pedaling away and tried to use the brakes. I tend to use the front brake more for control and the back for stopping or to slow myself more quickly. In a sense I kinda rely on them a lot.
And it's not as if the kid was off somewhere, unattended and unwatched. The parents were seated at a table facing the exact direction of my bike and their kid and were not more than five feet away. Looking at their child would have confirmed that his bike was not in fact the one leaning against the divider fence and that he was in fact fucking with a bike not his own.
Perhaps they just didn't realize that the machine their child was treating as his own is in fact my main mode of transportation, much like their car is for them. Maybe they just don't realize how dirty my bike probably is. And it's not that it's so dirty so much as that I ride on regular ol' city streets where anything can and likely does go. Bikes also hold potential dangers for small children, not the least of which is that they could easily pull the bike over on themselves.
Maybe the kid didn't loosen my brake pad, but it was working when I arrived in the morning, and it wasn't working when I left. I easily found and fixed the problem, but that didn't really help when I first attempted to use that brake and it wasn't really there suddenly.
My front brake works, but it isn't as tight as the back. The back is my stopping brake or my sudden need to decrease speed brake. My front is a more delicate sort of control of speed. That doesn't make it any less essential, but it also doesn't make it the point.
So, I saw the kid fucking with my bike, and I wanted to approach the parents and say something. I'm also a restaurant employee and have been trained for years to not piss off the customer. I also know how some parents can be when approached about something their kid is doing but should not be doing. It's almost as if you're questioning their entire ability to parent as well as the general goodness of the children.
And I'm still not sure what I should have done. Perhaps the simplest thing would have been to push my way into their little zone and remove my bike. There are a couple of places I could have moved it to, and without having talked at all other than to excuse myself there'd be no reason for the parents to turn douche, though some people never need a valid reason.
The best idea really would be for people to control their kids and teach them that fucking with other people's stuff is really never cool. They aren't special, and my bike should be understood to be off limits. More than anything, the fact that parents didn't already get this idea is just baffling to me. And that's part of my reluctance to say or do anything. What can you really say or do to people like this?
p.s. Is the post title an homage or just a coincidence that made me think of this?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
food war? srsly?
Apparently two brothers in DC have competing pizza restaurants, and now they're "jumbo slice" is going to be on tv as they compete to see who has the best.
Food competitions sorta bother me. I watched and enjoyed Top Chef when I had the good cables, but the competition aspect always bothered me a bit, and sometimes it irritated the shit out of me.
On a personal level it's not uncommon for cooks/chefs to have to feel like they are the best. It's part of the thing, and it's probably completely natural. Maybe it's just a guy thing because many of the guys I know are like this while few of the girls are, and by guys and girls here I mean those with whom I've worked in various kitchens.
The only reason the tv and show are even on behind me is that I'm just too lazy to go turn the damn thing off. The remote works mostly, but the power button doesn't tend to. Sometimes if you mash the button hard enough and enough times in quick succession the tv will turn off and then back on, but generally it's just easier to walk the couple steps to the tv.
Everyone likes different foods in different ways and for different reason. And there is no single food that every single person on the earth is going to like. Cilantro is a great example of how we taste. I personally love it. I feel like too much is almost enough. But many people don't like it, and in fact they will often taste is as having a chemical like flavor.
Do you win by pleasing the greatest number of people? or do you win a food competition by having the best food? or do you win by being happy with what you've made?
Maybe there's my real problem. I'm my biggest critic, and if I'm happy with something I've made then I'm satisfied that I've created what I wanted. I don't always feel like I've created what I set out to accomplish, but I'm also a good enough cook that I can make people happy while not feeling like I got it right.
Here's another example, chicken and dumplings. Momma and I both make really good chicken and dumplings, but we make the dish somewhat differently, and we end with fairly different versions of the same thing. We've also put some amount of time over the years moving our own personal chicken and dumplings recipes into our own territory where we play with the different variables to further create the dish as we imagine it.
As a side note I didn't really grow up with chicken and dumplings. It just wasn't in my mother's repertoire, so it wasn't something I ate a lot. If anything this just means that I'm less wedded to an ideal that I'm trying to recreate and/or perfect.
How about a final example? Take a pound of green beans and trim them then steam them just right so that you've just brought out that lovely shade of green. Half of that pound goes into an ice bath to stop the cooking while the other half gets tossed with a bit of butter and some sea salt. The plain cold bean will have a nice crispness and sweetness to it. It will almost seem to pop in your mouth, tasting just like itself. The other bean has that bit of salt and butter, the salty and fatty being two things we tend to crave as humans. Which is truly better?
Food competitions sorta bother me. I watched and enjoyed Top Chef when I had the good cables, but the competition aspect always bothered me a bit, and sometimes it irritated the shit out of me.
On a personal level it's not uncommon for cooks/chefs to have to feel like they are the best. It's part of the thing, and it's probably completely natural. Maybe it's just a guy thing because many of the guys I know are like this while few of the girls are, and by guys and girls here I mean those with whom I've worked in various kitchens.
The only reason the tv and show are even on behind me is that I'm just too lazy to go turn the damn thing off. The remote works mostly, but the power button doesn't tend to. Sometimes if you mash the button hard enough and enough times in quick succession the tv will turn off and then back on, but generally it's just easier to walk the couple steps to the tv.
Everyone likes different foods in different ways and for different reason. And there is no single food that every single person on the earth is going to like. Cilantro is a great example of how we taste. I personally love it. I feel like too much is almost enough. But many people don't like it, and in fact they will often taste is as having a chemical like flavor.
Do you win by pleasing the greatest number of people? or do you win a food competition by having the best food? or do you win by being happy with what you've made?
Maybe there's my real problem. I'm my biggest critic, and if I'm happy with something I've made then I'm satisfied that I've created what I wanted. I don't always feel like I've created what I set out to accomplish, but I'm also a good enough cook that I can make people happy while not feeling like I got it right.
Here's another example, chicken and dumplings. Momma and I both make really good chicken and dumplings, but we make the dish somewhat differently, and we end with fairly different versions of the same thing. We've also put some amount of time over the years moving our own personal chicken and dumplings recipes into our own territory where we play with the different variables to further create the dish as we imagine it.
As a side note I didn't really grow up with chicken and dumplings. It just wasn't in my mother's repertoire, so it wasn't something I ate a lot. If anything this just means that I'm less wedded to an ideal that I'm trying to recreate and/or perfect.
How about a final example? Take a pound of green beans and trim them then steam them just right so that you've just brought out that lovely shade of green. Half of that pound goes into an ice bath to stop the cooking while the other half gets tossed with a bit of butter and some sea salt. The plain cold bean will have a nice crispness and sweetness to it. It will almost seem to pop in your mouth, tasting just like itself. The other bean has that bit of salt and butter, the salty and fatty being two things we tend to crave as humans. Which is truly better?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
something about a hill or something
I really should have gone to bed before two o'clock this morning, but I was up by seven, and I did wake the boys up and get them moving toward clothes and breakfast, and I did get The Boy's lunch. Big Brother is opting to buy lunch today because they're having barbecue trukey and/or pork.
Yes, the menu does say "trukey," and yes, we have resorted to calling it that. It's kinda like when your very young, not quite speaking clearly/correctly child refers to granola bars as "goobahs" and it sticks so that years later you say it without quite thinking. I'm sure my mother still sometimes refers to "bibbits."
I could have gone back to bed, but I seem to have just as much trouble waking up after that little bit of extra sleep, so I made my first cup of coffee of the day and decided just to stay up.
As our weather turned cold and business dropped on the square my place of employment ditched one of the day shifts. This weeks sees us getting warmer weather, and with that there's every chance we'll have busy-ish lunches, or at least busy enough to need that third person back.
I should be off today, but I'm going in at eleven to be the third person for a couple of hours. And since I'm up I can leave the house by ten. I won't feel like I'm having to pedal so damn hard just to be at work on time, and I can finally explore some alternate routes that may or may not be almost just as bad as the basic route I've been riding to get to work.
Also, I really need to get my ass in gear and move closer to town, but that's really not the point at all right this moment.
I am slowly getting the hang of proper gear shifting, or at least shifting that feels proper. But in this town it seems like a true art, because we have lots of hills. Mostly I'm doing fine, avoiding most of the worst hills, but I'm also learning that there is always going to be at least one big hill between me and my destination.
I shouldn't complain, though I will, because the ride has to be good for me. I'm sure I'm going to be in decent shape before too long, but I also need to get in the habit of eating better. The machine can't work properly without enough fuel, and my eating habits have sucked so much for so long that it's difficult to change.
And now I have another hour before I want to be rolling down the driveway. I'm feeling the sleepiness that wants to push me back under the quilt. And I'm fighting the voice in my head that's telling me I could sleep for an hour and be up and ready to go on time. I'm fighting that voice because I know better.
Yes, the menu does say "trukey," and yes, we have resorted to calling it that. It's kinda like when your very young, not quite speaking clearly/correctly child refers to granola bars as "goobahs" and it sticks so that years later you say it without quite thinking. I'm sure my mother still sometimes refers to "bibbits."
I could have gone back to bed, but I seem to have just as much trouble waking up after that little bit of extra sleep, so I made my first cup of coffee of the day and decided just to stay up.
As our weather turned cold and business dropped on the square my place of employment ditched one of the day shifts. This weeks sees us getting warmer weather, and with that there's every chance we'll have busy-ish lunches, or at least busy enough to need that third person back.
I should be off today, but I'm going in at eleven to be the third person for a couple of hours. And since I'm up I can leave the house by ten. I won't feel like I'm having to pedal so damn hard just to be at work on time, and I can finally explore some alternate routes that may or may not be almost just as bad as the basic route I've been riding to get to work.
Also, I really need to get my ass in gear and move closer to town, but that's really not the point at all right this moment.
I am slowly getting the hang of proper gear shifting, or at least shifting that feels proper. But in this town it seems like a true art, because we have lots of hills. Mostly I'm doing fine, avoiding most of the worst hills, but I'm also learning that there is always going to be at least one big hill between me and my destination.
I shouldn't complain, though I will, because the ride has to be good for me. I'm sure I'm going to be in decent shape before too long, but I also need to get in the habit of eating better. The machine can't work properly without enough fuel, and my eating habits have sucked so much for so long that it's difficult to change.
And now I have another hour before I want to be rolling down the driveway. I'm feeling the sleepiness that wants to push me back under the quilt. And I'm fighting the voice in my head that's telling me I could sleep for an hour and be up and ready to go on time. I'm fighting that voice because I know better.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
school stuff
Big Brother is reading for fun, which is sorta what he does. He told me earlier that he's supposed to read seventy five minutes a week, and he even has a sheet to list what he's read and for how long. I get to initial it, I suppose as proof that he read what he said.
Seventy five minutes? I laughed when he said that and pointed out that he'd only need to read for fifteen minutes a night and only on school nights. He told me that he thinks some kids do exactly that. I felt bad for those kids. I just can't imagine not reading for pleasure and not enjoying reading.
When I initialed Big Brother's reading sheet earlier he'd already been reading for just over two hours. He has a book that's due back tomorrow, and he wanted to finish it. He's already well into the next book. Before the night's over I'll initial his sheet again for another two hours worth of book two.
The Boy is hating doing his homework. I suggested throughout the evening that he do it, but I never said "do it" as opposed to "you really should do it." Part of me wants to get him to learn and understand the benefit of doing the work earlier rather than later in order to have that time later.
Right now he's taking a break. He's written two of the six sentences that are his homework. He's learning contractions and has to rewrite six sentences changing the underlined words into contractions. It's easy enough, but he hates the writing. I try to remind him that it's great practice and gets easier, but that's absolutely lost on his seven (nearly eight) year old point of view on how the world works.
I have to remember sometimes to pronounce words properly, but I also have to point out sometimes that we are in fact southern and mostly used to the accents around us. I myself do sound southern, just so you know, and I'm pretty much okay with that. Apparently I sometimes say "aigs" when I mean "eggs."
I also had to make a point when reading contractions to pronounce the word "didn't" properly instead of my more common "dittun." I don't think they cover "ya'll" leaving to society to instill the proper use of the word.
He's finally on sentence number four, and he's got ten minutes before we need to get him moving toward bed. They've been at Momma's for the last few days, so we haven't gotten to read The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe for a while. Three of the four Pevensie kids are about to leave the Beaver's dam, while one already has.
"You can always write smaller," I mentioned moments ago to The Boy. Before he begins each sentence he extends the line that he has to write the sentence on to the edges of the page so that he'll have enough line to write the sentence.
He answered, "I don't really like writing smaller." I can't argue with that.
p.s. This is what's playing right this moment.
p.p.s. I do understand that The Boy may disagree about whether it's better to finish the homework earlier or later, but I can't help but think my was is better, and I can't help but wish he'd at least try it once.
Seventy five minutes? I laughed when he said that and pointed out that he'd only need to read for fifteen minutes a night and only on school nights. He told me that he thinks some kids do exactly that. I felt bad for those kids. I just can't imagine not reading for pleasure and not enjoying reading.
When I initialed Big Brother's reading sheet earlier he'd already been reading for just over two hours. He has a book that's due back tomorrow, and he wanted to finish it. He's already well into the next book. Before the night's over I'll initial his sheet again for another two hours worth of book two.
The Boy is hating doing his homework. I suggested throughout the evening that he do it, but I never said "do it" as opposed to "you really should do it." Part of me wants to get him to learn and understand the benefit of doing the work earlier rather than later in order to have that time later.
Right now he's taking a break. He's written two of the six sentences that are his homework. He's learning contractions and has to rewrite six sentences changing the underlined words into contractions. It's easy enough, but he hates the writing. I try to remind him that it's great practice and gets easier, but that's absolutely lost on his seven (nearly eight) year old point of view on how the world works.
I have to remember sometimes to pronounce words properly, but I also have to point out sometimes that we are in fact southern and mostly used to the accents around us. I myself do sound southern, just so you know, and I'm pretty much okay with that. Apparently I sometimes say "aigs" when I mean "eggs."
I also had to make a point when reading contractions to pronounce the word "didn't" properly instead of my more common "dittun." I don't think they cover "ya'll" leaving to society to instill the proper use of the word.
He's finally on sentence number four, and he's got ten minutes before we need to get him moving toward bed. They've been at Momma's for the last few days, so we haven't gotten to read The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe for a while. Three of the four Pevensie kids are about to leave the Beaver's dam, while one already has.
"You can always write smaller," I mentioned moments ago to The Boy. Before he begins each sentence he extends the line that he has to write the sentence on to the edges of the page so that he'll have enough line to write the sentence.
He answered, "I don't really like writing smaller." I can't argue with that.
p.s. This is what's playing right this moment.
p.p.s. I do understand that The Boy may disagree about whether it's better to finish the homework earlier or later, but I can't help but think my was is better, and I can't help but wish he'd at least try it once.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
not my job
Some amount of conversation happened at work tonight between me and a coworker, and part of it involved me reminding him that I'm not into girls. It wasn't so matter of fact as that, and I really don't remember any of what was said other than me using the phrase, "if I was into girls . . ."
Part of his answer involved him saying, "I know; you tell us every chance you get."
I don't know that I do the thing he said, but I won't pretend that I don't. The thing is that I don't feel that I'm reminding people "every chance I get" as much as I'm just not playing any games or pretending anything. To me, being out is more than just letting people know that we're gay.
To me being out means that I'm myself. If my not gay friends are willing to notice and/or comment on the attractive women around then they need to accept that I'm going to mention and/or notice the guys I think are hot.
Okay, on some level I am aware that I'm messing with them. I get that it's not something they're used to. I know way more people who are not gay than people who are. It's merely a matter of fact. It's how it is. And I would wager that the vast majority of people as a general rule know far fewer homos than not.
While sometimes I do set out to shock and to fuck with people, for the most part I'm just not willing to not shock and/or fuck with. I'm not going to go out of my way to help keep their life squick free. And for what it's worth, I do love telling people to "fuck your hetero normative bullshit!"
I should probably also admit that I can sometimes be the guy that turns too much into a euphemism, and of course mine are all totally gay. I can throw some not gay euphemisms out there, but most of the time they too disturb the not gays. Sadly, my ability to make things into a euphemism has become sort of it's own inside joke. I think maybe I should do something about it, but it almost always makes somebody laugh, so I'll probably just keep going for the easy ones.
So, do I let everyone know every chance I get? or do I just keep it real? Do I sometimes take things too far? or am I just being myself?
I probably should answer the one that means I need to think before I speak, but that would apply to my life in general. I seldom stop to stanch the flow with forethought, and it's failed me just fine up till now. I can't imagine doing something differently just because it makes sense to try a new direction.
And even if one day I do reach a point and finally start to ruminate a bit on my thoughts before verbalizing them, I'll still make sure you know.
Part of his answer involved him saying, "I know; you tell us every chance you get."
I don't know that I do the thing he said, but I won't pretend that I don't. The thing is that I don't feel that I'm reminding people "every chance I get" as much as I'm just not playing any games or pretending anything. To me, being out is more than just letting people know that we're gay.
To me being out means that I'm myself. If my not gay friends are willing to notice and/or comment on the attractive women around then they need to accept that I'm going to mention and/or notice the guys I think are hot.
Okay, on some level I am aware that I'm messing with them. I get that it's not something they're used to. I know way more people who are not gay than people who are. It's merely a matter of fact. It's how it is. And I would wager that the vast majority of people as a general rule know far fewer homos than not.
While sometimes I do set out to shock and to fuck with people, for the most part I'm just not willing to not shock and/or fuck with. I'm not going to go out of my way to help keep their life squick free. And for what it's worth, I do love telling people to "fuck your hetero normative bullshit!"
I should probably also admit that I can sometimes be the guy that turns too much into a euphemism, and of course mine are all totally gay. I can throw some not gay euphemisms out there, but most of the time they too disturb the not gays. Sadly, my ability to make things into a euphemism has become sort of it's own inside joke. I think maybe I should do something about it, but it almost always makes somebody laugh, so I'll probably just keep going for the easy ones.
So, do I let everyone know every chance I get? or do I just keep it real? Do I sometimes take things too far? or am I just being myself?
I probably should answer the one that means I need to think before I speak, but that would apply to my life in general. I seldom stop to stanch the flow with forethought, and it's failed me just fine up till now. I can't imagine doing something differently just because it makes sense to try a new direction.
And even if one day I do reach a point and finally start to ruminate a bit on my thoughts before verbalizing them, I'll still make sure you know.
Monday, February 07, 2011
oh the places I'd like to go
I'm falling in love, and it's with a bike.
My Saturday work schedule is usually eleven or twelve to whenever, whenever usually falling sometime around ten. Somewhere in there, roughly in the middle, is usually an hour long break. It's usually enough time to eat and walk the few blocks to the tobacco store.
This past Saturday my break was nearly two hours and involved a walk to the bike shop that is slightly farther away. I've been needing to start looking around, beginning my quest to hopefully find that bike that is the perfect balance of actually useful to me along with quality and economy.
I've assumed I was going to spend some time making this decision. I've never really owned a good bike. The bikes I had when I was a kid were fine. They weren't the fancy ones I drooled over in the BMX magazines, but they took a beating and came back for more. The bike I have in the garage as well as the one I rode for a short time over the summer both were purchased originally at that horrid bastion of American made crap, Wal Mart.
I explained to the sole visible occupant of the shop that I was replacing a totaled car with a bike and emphasized cheap and used as being key issues. He pointed out a bike hanging above us, upside down that he seemed happy enough to pull down for my inspection.
My decision may have been a bit rash, but I've proven myself right by having researched the bike after the fact. I did take a test drive. The guy at the shop asked for and i.d. and explained just how far I could actually take the bike for a test, but I didn't have quite the time.
Perhaps if I'd declined the test ride I might have held out and not purchased this bike. Certainly as I pedaled around the first corner I was taken aback. The handlebars are shorter than I'm used to, and the bike felt unsteady as I dealt with this thing I hadn't considered. I overlooked the handlebars as I tested the shifters and pedaled easily and then furiously. I found a good gear for the terrain and slope and found some speed.
Other than a few turns around the square after work earlier today I haven't really ridden this bike for fun yet. I've recognized that the short handlebars help make the steering more responsive. Actually I read it on a forum last night, but then riding today I found it to be true. And riding today involved to work.
I put about five miles on the bike within twenty four hours of ownership. I've also already pulled both wheels off to get it into a car trunk and reassembled it on the kitchen floor. I've flipped it upside down so that The Boy could see as the derailleur worked while I changed gears.
It's sitting in the kitchen right now, waiting next to the door. I can feel it wanting to go outside and ride, and I can feel it trying to will it's desires onto me. I have to go to bed so I can get up and be responsible tomorrow, but I'm already thinking about when I have a day to myself and what I'll do.
My Saturday work schedule is usually eleven or twelve to whenever, whenever usually falling sometime around ten. Somewhere in there, roughly in the middle, is usually an hour long break. It's usually enough time to eat and walk the few blocks to the tobacco store.
This past Saturday my break was nearly two hours and involved a walk to the bike shop that is slightly farther away. I've been needing to start looking around, beginning my quest to hopefully find that bike that is the perfect balance of actually useful to me along with quality and economy.
I've assumed I was going to spend some time making this decision. I've never really owned a good bike. The bikes I had when I was a kid were fine. They weren't the fancy ones I drooled over in the BMX magazines, but they took a beating and came back for more. The bike I have in the garage as well as the one I rode for a short time over the summer both were purchased originally at that horrid bastion of American made crap, Wal Mart.
I explained to the sole visible occupant of the shop that I was replacing a totaled car with a bike and emphasized cheap and used as being key issues. He pointed out a bike hanging above us, upside down that he seemed happy enough to pull down for my inspection.
My decision may have been a bit rash, but I've proven myself right by having researched the bike after the fact. I did take a test drive. The guy at the shop asked for and i.d. and explained just how far I could actually take the bike for a test, but I didn't have quite the time.
Perhaps if I'd declined the test ride I might have held out and not purchased this bike. Certainly as I pedaled around the first corner I was taken aback. The handlebars are shorter than I'm used to, and the bike felt unsteady as I dealt with this thing I hadn't considered. I overlooked the handlebars as I tested the shifters and pedaled easily and then furiously. I found a good gear for the terrain and slope and found some speed.
Other than a few turns around the square after work earlier today I haven't really ridden this bike for fun yet. I've recognized that the short handlebars help make the steering more responsive. Actually I read it on a forum last night, but then riding today I found it to be true. And riding today involved to work.
I put about five miles on the bike within twenty four hours of ownership. I've also already pulled both wheels off to get it into a car trunk and reassembled it on the kitchen floor. I've flipped it upside down so that The Boy could see as the derailleur worked while I changed gears.
It's sitting in the kitchen right now, waiting next to the door. I can feel it wanting to go outside and ride, and I can feel it trying to will it's desires onto me. I have to go to bed so I can get up and be responsible tomorrow, but I'm already thinking about when I have a day to myself and what I'll do.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
i didn't even have to use my ak
The weather has turned back to cold. Perhaps we're getting our little bit of the big storm. The forecast I looked at has us having a good chance of snow and rain by the weekend but with temperatures higher than freezing. Maybe it'll just be a pretty snow.
Today was sunny for the most part. I opted to stay awake after Momma came to get the boys for school and hadn't really planned my day when the phone rang.
It was work asking if I'd come in to replace a sick coworker who was there but needed to not be and would come and pick me up. Being inside working meant that I didn't see a lot of the sun, but the nicest part of the day might have been my walk to the bus station after work.
I tried to chase the sun as much as possible but kept finding myself in the shadows of buildings until the last and longest stretch. That final stretch involves two long blocks headed east which put the sun at my back.
One of those little things I crave during the winter is that sunny day with the sun at your back creating that little circle of warmth. It helps, I think, that I wear a black leather jacket that seems to soak up the energy.
A little tense from the cold I turned that block and was a short way down when I felt that little spot growing on my back as the sun shone down on me. I relaxed a little bit and might have even walked a little taller. I certainly didn't slow down my pace. I was cutting my timing a little close and didn't want to miss my bus again.
I had no need to worry. I arrived on the platform with time to spare, though not much at all. I met the driver as he came from the driver holding pen and boarded the bus right behind him.
I'm glad to have picked up the hours at work and will be glad to see them on my check. My favorite coworker was there, and she and I nearly always have a great time in the kitchen. I got a needed dose of sunlight and blew some of my last little bit of money till I get paid Friday on pizza because Papa John's delivers and I can pay online with my debit card. If I'd had a bike I could have easily taken the #22 bus to the grocery store and biked home from there, but alas that has yet to transpire and is not germane to this conversation. Homework help was provided, pizza was eaten, Scribblenauts was played, and chapter five of The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe was read.
title of post taken from
Today was sunny for the most part. I opted to stay awake after Momma came to get the boys for school and hadn't really planned my day when the phone rang.
It was work asking if I'd come in to replace a sick coworker who was there but needed to not be and would come and pick me up. Being inside working meant that I didn't see a lot of the sun, but the nicest part of the day might have been my walk to the bus station after work.
I tried to chase the sun as much as possible but kept finding myself in the shadows of buildings until the last and longest stretch. That final stretch involves two long blocks headed east which put the sun at my back.
One of those little things I crave during the winter is that sunny day with the sun at your back creating that little circle of warmth. It helps, I think, that I wear a black leather jacket that seems to soak up the energy.
A little tense from the cold I turned that block and was a short way down when I felt that little spot growing on my back as the sun shone down on me. I relaxed a little bit and might have even walked a little taller. I certainly didn't slow down my pace. I was cutting my timing a little close and didn't want to miss my bus again.
I had no need to worry. I arrived on the platform with time to spare, though not much at all. I met the driver as he came from the driver holding pen and boarded the bus right behind him.
I'm glad to have picked up the hours at work and will be glad to see them on my check. My favorite coworker was there, and she and I nearly always have a great time in the kitchen. I got a needed dose of sunlight and blew some of my last little bit of money till I get paid Friday on pizza because Papa John's delivers and I can pay online with my debit card. If I'd had a bike I could have easily taken the #22 bus to the grocery store and biked home from there, but alas that has yet to transpire and is not germane to this conversation. Homework help was provided, pizza was eaten, Scribblenauts was played, and chapter five of The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe was read.
title of post taken from
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
figuring it out
The idea of homework has always been part of the deciding factor in homeschooling the kids. I just don't believe in homework. Very few jobs really require you to do work outside of doing your work. Sure, there are some times when you might spend some personal time taking care of some business, but when do we, as adults, really have homework?
So to think that schools can't, in the time they have, do the job we expect of them maybe suggests we should assume something is wrong. But now that I'm seeing some homework and helping, I'm actually developing a different appreciation, though I'm only going so far with this. I'm not really changing my mind.
By the time I got home The Boy had already finished his math homework, and he's doing well it seems. He needs very little help except with understanding sometimes what's being asked. The homework I helped with tonight involved eight sentences which were missing their verb. The verb was place at the end of the sentence, apart and hugged only by ( ) but needed to be translated to past tense and inserted into the blank space.
Out of eight sentences offered there were only four verbs, so each was repeated. We worked through the first four, and he once again impressed me with his reading. He's taking his time with it, but he's actually doing it even though it takes a lot of reminders of what things sound like. Of course we're also learning American English, and it feels that sometimes you almost need to work in our own Southern dialect. How many times can you tell a kid that this time that letter sounds different from nearly every other time that you see it, and it actually sounds just like a letter that exists, which begs the question why it's spelled this way instead of another, and I'm not even stopping homework to discuss how many non English words seem to exist in American English, which is still only some amount of the issue, none of which is even the point.
After completing the first four sentences we agreed to take a break. I settled back expecting a few minutes of playing followed be requesting food which would then be followed by a reminder from me that we needed to finish. Less than five minutes passed before The Boy was back telling me he was done with his break.
He sat down and took a few seconds to look at his work paper before making the realization. He looked at the four remaining improperly tensed verbs and realized that he didn't even need to do anymore reading. He explained completely what he was doing, that the words repeated and he could just write them in without needing to read the sentences, and I couldn't argue with him.
It's true that reading the sentences would have been reading practice, and I even pointed out that it would be good to read them anyway. I tried to entice him with the idea of being able to work on reading and to get better at reading. I told of reading for pleasure, and he agreed that he'd like to be able to read better and to read whenever he wanted to.
I couldn't argue with his better way. And I'm willing to go with the idea that he's learning not to work any harder than the worksheet. He did the assignment, and he saved himself some time so that he could get on the computer quicker.
And honestly, he's really doing great with reading. He isn't fighting it, a concern I once had, though he's not at the point where it's easy enough to do so much. He'll get there, and in unschooling fashion I'm going to step aside if he figures out how to beat the system once in a while.
And I'm glad I just remembered to look up Turkish Delight. The White Witch enticed Edmund with it, and we've read about it the last three nights that the boys were here. The Boy keeps asking what it is, but the only answer I have is that I think it's a confection. Then he asks, What's a confection? and I have to tell him it's kinda like candy or a sweet treat or something, that I'm not really sure, but I'll look it up.
so . . .
So to think that schools can't, in the time they have, do the job we expect of them maybe suggests we should assume something is wrong. But now that I'm seeing some homework and helping, I'm actually developing a different appreciation, though I'm only going so far with this. I'm not really changing my mind.
By the time I got home The Boy had already finished his math homework, and he's doing well it seems. He needs very little help except with understanding sometimes what's being asked. The homework I helped with tonight involved eight sentences which were missing their verb. The verb was place at the end of the sentence, apart and hugged only by ( ) but needed to be translated to past tense and inserted into the blank space.
Out of eight sentences offered there were only four verbs, so each was repeated. We worked through the first four, and he once again impressed me with his reading. He's taking his time with it, but he's actually doing it even though it takes a lot of reminders of what things sound like. Of course we're also learning American English, and it feels that sometimes you almost need to work in our own Southern dialect. How many times can you tell a kid that this time that letter sounds different from nearly every other time that you see it, and it actually sounds just like a letter that exists, which begs the question why it's spelled this way instead of another, and I'm not even stopping homework to discuss how many non English words seem to exist in American English, which is still only some amount of the issue, none of which is even the point.
After completing the first four sentences we agreed to take a break. I settled back expecting a few minutes of playing followed be requesting food which would then be followed by a reminder from me that we needed to finish. Less than five minutes passed before The Boy was back telling me he was done with his break.
He sat down and took a few seconds to look at his work paper before making the realization. He looked at the four remaining improperly tensed verbs and realized that he didn't even need to do anymore reading. He explained completely what he was doing, that the words repeated and he could just write them in without needing to read the sentences, and I couldn't argue with him.
It's true that reading the sentences would have been reading practice, and I even pointed out that it would be good to read them anyway. I tried to entice him with the idea of being able to work on reading and to get better at reading. I told of reading for pleasure, and he agreed that he'd like to be able to read better and to read whenever he wanted to.
I couldn't argue with his better way. And I'm willing to go with the idea that he's learning not to work any harder than the worksheet. He did the assignment, and he saved himself some time so that he could get on the computer quicker.
And honestly, he's really doing great with reading. He isn't fighting it, a concern I once had, though he's not at the point where it's easy enough to do so much. He'll get there, and in unschooling fashion I'm going to step aside if he figures out how to beat the system once in a while.
And I'm glad I just remembered to look up Turkish Delight. The White Witch enticed Edmund with it, and we've read about it the last three nights that the boys were here. The Boy keeps asking what it is, but the only answer I have is that I think it's a confection. Then he asks, What's a confection? and I have to tell him it's kinda like candy or a sweet treat or something, that I'm not really sure, but I'll look it up.
so . . .
Thursday, January 27, 2011
liberal locust that I am
Let's get all the perfunctory out of the way, so I can bitch about the dumbass. A friend on the book of faces posted this Salon story about a mother who defrauded the government out of millions of dollars and punched a clown AND a kitten. She also tripped kids in glasses and made puppies feel really bad about themselves.
The piece was written by Elon James White who also has his own blog, This Week in Blackness, which I've added to my reader because he's awesome apparently. FWIW, he's also kinda cute, but the smarts is why I want to read more of him.
Actually, the mother in question apparently told the local school board that her kids lived with their grandfather. She did this so that her kids could go to a better school, described in the article that spawned the piece as a "rich white school."
If I have regular readers then they likely know that my kids have started attending school after having been homeschooled for all their life up till this year. The Boy, from Momma's house, is zoned for the school he attends, though for middle school both boys are zoned for the school Big Brother attends. We could probably have given either address for the kids as their primary domicile as they stay at whichever house makes the most sense based on the day, Momma's and my work schedules, and any number of other possible reasons that may come up based on any number of things that we may or may not foresee. They're zoned for a different elementary school from the house I'm currently in, but I don't know anything about that school. They can see their potential high school from Momma's back porch. I don't really know anything about it other than it's much more racially diverse than the rich white school, and yes, we have at least one of those. There's a fair variety of schools around this town, and there's really no point in arguing the fact that the whiter the student population is the nicer the school seems to be.
Most of the comments to the story at Salon seem to suggest my own feelings, that this mother did what any number of other people do or would do. She did break a law, but what she wanted to accomplish by breaking the law was to get the best education for her children. And the reasoning behind her act should be considered in whatever legal issues arise from this act.
The bigger point, and the bigger problem, has little to do with this one family. The real problem is that within any one city there can be such a variety of schools so that one could actually know, based on ethnic makeup, which school was likely to be a better school, to have better and newer equipment, to have more options for the students. It's sickening that this happens, but it does.
And while I considered posting my own rant about this story I hadn't made up my mind till I got to the comment HERE, by someone calling himself something that he isn't. I'm not a regular reader or commenter at Salon, so I can't know how well this guy is known. But something I notice in blog comments is how open people are. If you hide behind the veil of an anonymous and nebulous username then you can get by with being the world's biggest douche and a half.
Let me just give you a snippet of the insanity so that you don't have to actually visit the comment.
-liberals (the locusts that they are) destroy poor neighborhoods by building welfare offices and abortion clinics
-that boogeyman, “racism” that we are always told is everywhere all the time except that we never ever ever ever fucking see it
-Liberals are disgusting baby killing race exploitive pieces of shit
Seriously, he says all those things.
Let's look at it one at a time.
How many "welfare offices" does your town/city have? I know of one here. Momma and I, once upon a time, received what were essentially food stamps. And we went to the same place as everyone else, sat in the same shitty waiting room, and were just as happy as most people when we were doing better and no longer qualified for the help. I could easily qualify now if I'd swallow my pride. Also, abortion clinics? Really? I know where two are, and I know some people who've had abortions. I don't like that they felt they had to, but that's not especially my place. I'm glad they could do so safely. I know of two places that will perform abortions, and both of them are nearer campus than in our city's poorer neighborhoods.
That boogeyman racism is alive and well, or at least more well than many of us would like. But that doesn't mean we all see it all the time. That doesn't mean that we all see it when it happens, and it doesn't mean we recognize it when we see it happening. I can see things I think are racist, but I can't suddenly be black and see life through the lens that growing up black would give me. I can be gay and see homophobia, but at the same time I'm still a white male that can pretend he's not gay. Yes, that comes with it's own baggage, but I wouldn't dare compare being black to being gay or being gay to being black. Black people who are not gay can't see through my lens any more than I theirs.
Finally, I've never killed a baby, and I don't think I've ever exploited race. I killed a snake once, and I've killed my share of mosquitoes, and some of the bugs I've squished might have been babies, but I'm not stopping to look. I want to not understand what he means by "race exploitive" because ignorance is supposedly bliss, but I have to accept that this is proof that racism is alive and well. I may have mentioned that. It gets back to that lens thing. I don't get to decide what is or isn't racist to black people. I can disagree all I want, but my balls aren't really that big.
My point with this post isn't about this one commenter. I live in the south, and I think I have a slightly better handle on racism than some white people. I do think being gay gives me at least a little peak into, but as mentioned above, I don't think there's a way to compare racism and homophobia, and I don't want to say either is worse or less worse.
I hate reading comments like this because it just makes my brain hurt. It makes my heart hurt. It makes a bad place in my day. It's too good to be satire, and it's too likely that this guy believes what he says. He really, honestly thinks what he is saying is true. He doesn't see a problem with black schools and white schools, or he just doesn't see that this problem exists. If he does see it then he just doesn't care that racism is alive and well and that he's perpetuating it.
If you happen on an alligator that wants to eat you, hiding your face in your hands won't make it go away.
The piece was written by Elon James White who also has his own blog, This Week in Blackness, which I've added to my reader because he's awesome apparently. FWIW, he's also kinda cute, but the smarts is why I want to read more of him.
Actually, the mother in question apparently told the local school board that her kids lived with their grandfather. She did this so that her kids could go to a better school, described in the article that spawned the piece as a "rich white school."
If I have regular readers then they likely know that my kids have started attending school after having been homeschooled for all their life up till this year. The Boy, from Momma's house, is zoned for the school he attends, though for middle school both boys are zoned for the school Big Brother attends. We could probably have given either address for the kids as their primary domicile as they stay at whichever house makes the most sense based on the day, Momma's and my work schedules, and any number of other possible reasons that may come up based on any number of things that we may or may not foresee. They're zoned for a different elementary school from the house I'm currently in, but I don't know anything about that school. They can see their potential high school from Momma's back porch. I don't really know anything about it other than it's much more racially diverse than the rich white school, and yes, we have at least one of those. There's a fair variety of schools around this town, and there's really no point in arguing the fact that the whiter the student population is the nicer the school seems to be.
Most of the comments to the story at Salon seem to suggest my own feelings, that this mother did what any number of other people do or would do. She did break a law, but what she wanted to accomplish by breaking the law was to get the best education for her children. And the reasoning behind her act should be considered in whatever legal issues arise from this act.
The bigger point, and the bigger problem, has little to do with this one family. The real problem is that within any one city there can be such a variety of schools so that one could actually know, based on ethnic makeup, which school was likely to be a better school, to have better and newer equipment, to have more options for the students. It's sickening that this happens, but it does.
And while I considered posting my own rant about this story I hadn't made up my mind till I got to the comment HERE, by someone calling himself something that he isn't. I'm not a regular reader or commenter at Salon, so I can't know how well this guy is known. But something I notice in blog comments is how open people are. If you hide behind the veil of an anonymous and nebulous username then you can get by with being the world's biggest douche and a half.
Let me just give you a snippet of the insanity so that you don't have to actually visit the comment.
-liberals (the locusts that they are) destroy poor neighborhoods by building welfare offices and abortion clinics
-that boogeyman, “racism” that we are always told is everywhere all the time except that we never ever ever ever fucking see it
-Liberals are disgusting baby killing race exploitive pieces of shit
Seriously, he says all those things.
Let's look at it one at a time.
How many "welfare offices" does your town/city have? I know of one here. Momma and I, once upon a time, received what were essentially food stamps. And we went to the same place as everyone else, sat in the same shitty waiting room, and were just as happy as most people when we were doing better and no longer qualified for the help. I could easily qualify now if I'd swallow my pride. Also, abortion clinics? Really? I know where two are, and I know some people who've had abortions. I don't like that they felt they had to, but that's not especially my place. I'm glad they could do so safely. I know of two places that will perform abortions, and both of them are nearer campus than in our city's poorer neighborhoods.
That boogeyman racism is alive and well, or at least more well than many of us would like. But that doesn't mean we all see it all the time. That doesn't mean that we all see it when it happens, and it doesn't mean we recognize it when we see it happening. I can see things I think are racist, but I can't suddenly be black and see life through the lens that growing up black would give me. I can be gay and see homophobia, but at the same time I'm still a white male that can pretend he's not gay. Yes, that comes with it's own baggage, but I wouldn't dare compare being black to being gay or being gay to being black. Black people who are not gay can't see through my lens any more than I theirs.
Finally, I've never killed a baby, and I don't think I've ever exploited race. I killed a snake once, and I've killed my share of mosquitoes, and some of the bugs I've squished might have been babies, but I'm not stopping to look. I want to not understand what he means by "race exploitive" because ignorance is supposedly bliss, but I have to accept that this is proof that racism is alive and well. I may have mentioned that. It gets back to that lens thing. I don't get to decide what is or isn't racist to black people. I can disagree all I want, but my balls aren't really that big.
My point with this post isn't about this one commenter. I live in the south, and I think I have a slightly better handle on racism than some white people. I do think being gay gives me at least a little peak into, but as mentioned above, I don't think there's a way to compare racism and homophobia, and I don't want to say either is worse or less worse.
I hate reading comments like this because it just makes my brain hurt. It makes my heart hurt. It makes a bad place in my day. It's too good to be satire, and it's too likely that this guy believes what he says. He really, honestly thinks what he is saying is true. He doesn't see a problem with black schools and white schools, or he just doesn't see that this problem exists. If he does see it then he just doesn't care that racism is alive and well and that he's perpetuating it.
If you happen on an alligator that wants to eat you, hiding your face in your hands won't make it go away.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
duckface
If we're Facebook friends you may already have seen this, but this syndrome is so out of control that I feel this song needs to be shared as widely as possible.
I'd like to think none of my friends do the duckface in their pictures on social networking sites, but sadly I know that I've seen it on people who should be smart enough not to.
Watch the video and stop making the duckface.
I'd like to think none of my friends do the duckface in their pictures on social networking sites, but sadly I know that I've seen it on people who should be smart enough not to.
Watch the video and stop making the duckface.
struggle this
Anti gay activists in Iowa want to take away the marriage equality that the state's supreme court gave us and aren't stopping there. They want to make sure that there is no chance that relationships between gay couples are recognized on a civic level. This means that they aren't happy just to take back marriage equality, but they want also to make sure we can't even look forward to civil unions.
They know that there will be gay people rallying in support of our cause, our cause being the desire to maintain equal rights, and to show that they are driven by love the anti gay activists are planning on giving away bags of cookies. That's right. They're going to show us love by trading their cookies for our equality.
I've actually seen this story a couple of times, and I've been outraged by the sizable balls on display when christianist tell us how much they love us but don't want us to be equal in the eyes of the law. The Friendly Atheist posted about this today, and I was finally compelled to say something myself.
What's especially galling is the wording so often used by the anti gay activists. They can't just admit that we are people, people who also happen to be gay. So, like usual, they play with words to put us in a light that they feel makes them look better, makes them look like their cause is not a despicable and nasty jab. What they want, in their words is to show love "to people who are struggling with homosexuality."
Here's the thing. I once struggled with homosexuality. I call it being in the closet. I knew I was gay, but I pretended I was just bi and that being in a heterosexual marriage and having a family was going to make me hetero enough so that being my true gay self didn't need to happen.
I was unhappy and miserable for the most part. I struggled to be okay with my decision. I tried to be strong and maintain my family, though what I never realized is that tearing myself up inside was as unhealthy for me as for those around me.
I struggled with homosexuality until I finally accepted that I am gay. Now I've embraced that I'm gay. I'm happy and proud to let myself be who I always should have been. I no longer struggle with homosexuality.
Of course there are still struggles. Sometimes it feels that life is a series of struggling from one struggle to another. But when it comes to my sexual orientation I don't struggle with it anymore. I admitted the truth to myself.
They know that there will be gay people rallying in support of our cause, our cause being the desire to maintain equal rights, and to show that they are driven by love the anti gay activists are planning on giving away bags of cookies. That's right. They're going to show us love by trading their cookies for our equality.
I've actually seen this story a couple of times, and I've been outraged by the sizable balls on display when christianist tell us how much they love us but don't want us to be equal in the eyes of the law. The Friendly Atheist posted about this today, and I was finally compelled to say something myself.
What's especially galling is the wording so often used by the anti gay activists. They can't just admit that we are people, people who also happen to be gay. So, like usual, they play with words to put us in a light that they feel makes them look better, makes them look like their cause is not a despicable and nasty jab. What they want, in their words is to show love "to people who are struggling with homosexuality."
Here's the thing. I once struggled with homosexuality. I call it being in the closet. I knew I was gay, but I pretended I was just bi and that being in a heterosexual marriage and having a family was going to make me hetero enough so that being my true gay self didn't need to happen.
I was unhappy and miserable for the most part. I struggled to be okay with my decision. I tried to be strong and maintain my family, though what I never realized is that tearing myself up inside was as unhealthy for me as for those around me.
I struggled with homosexuality until I finally accepted that I am gay. Now I've embraced that I'm gay. I'm happy and proud to let myself be who I always should have been. I no longer struggle with homosexuality.
Of course there are still struggles. Sometimes it feels that life is a series of struggling from one struggle to another. But when it comes to my sexual orientation I don't struggle with it anymore. I admitted the truth to myself.
Monday, January 24, 2011
yeah, that's right
I missed my bus today and had to walk about two and a half miles to reach the next available but that would make me not late for work. Google mapping the way I walked suggests a trip time of forty six minutes, but I think I did it quicker.
Actually if I hadn't slowed down walking on my street I wouldn't have missed my bus, but I saw what I assumed was my bus and assumed, based on where I know the bus goes and how long it takes to go there and come back on its way back downtown that I had plenty of time. I don't know what bus I saw, but it wasn't mine.
Rushing up the street, as always unsure of exactly when the bus will arrive, I saw the apparition bus and slowed my pace. I even smiled to myself at how well I was doing. And I have been doing well. In just over a week I've now missed the bus once, and that's required me getting up at least an hour earlier than usual.
I suppose not having a car helps. I can't reasonably go anywhere other than work or home unless I know for a fact that I have a ride, or it's going to mean me getting to the bus on time coming and going. My bus doesn't run nearly as late as I used to, so neither do I.
Perhaps it's a good thing. I can't say I like it, but I can admit to being home and ready for bed nearing midnight. I can also admit that this is becoming a bit of a habit.
I don't really like it. I'm a boring person who wastes time when by myself. I suppose it's what I do all the time, but I'm actually noticing me do it. Having to stare that in its ugly face is kind of a downer.
Actually if I hadn't slowed down walking on my street I wouldn't have missed my bus, but I saw what I assumed was my bus and assumed, based on where I know the bus goes and how long it takes to go there and come back on its way back downtown that I had plenty of time. I don't know what bus I saw, but it wasn't mine.
Rushing up the street, as always unsure of exactly when the bus will arrive, I saw the apparition bus and slowed my pace. I even smiled to myself at how well I was doing. And I have been doing well. In just over a week I've now missed the bus once, and that's required me getting up at least an hour earlier than usual.
I suppose not having a car helps. I can't reasonably go anywhere other than work or home unless I know for a fact that I have a ride, or it's going to mean me getting to the bus on time coming and going. My bus doesn't run nearly as late as I used to, so neither do I.
Perhaps it's a good thing. I can't say I like it, but I can admit to being home and ready for bed nearing midnight. I can also admit that this is becoming a bit of a habit.
I don't really like it. I'm a boring person who wastes time when by myself. I suppose it's what I do all the time, but I'm actually noticing me do it. Having to stare that in its ugly face is kind of a downer.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
fwiw
It being twinnyleven I used the Facebook instead of actual talking or writing a letter or whatever people used to do. I sent a message to this guy that I'm afraid to like.
Maybe the problem with talking to him or saying anything is the writer that lives inside me and wants to edit everything before the recipient receives the message.
I hate talking to people sometimes because I can't edit. I suppose that I don't misspell words when I'm talking, but that's small consolation.
In the end I think I'm happy with what I wrote. Now I get to enter that period of waiting, hoping that he sees things similarly to how I see them. I get to hope that he likes me and that I haven't frightened him off. He takes my phone calls, so that's good, but I just don't trust myself.
I really do manage to fuck things up more than you might realize. I'm probably ruining something right now even though all I'm doing is typing words and trying to manage to convey thoughts. It's kinda how I roll.
And now all I can do is wait.
Maybe the problem with talking to him or saying anything is the writer that lives inside me and wants to edit everything before the recipient receives the message.
I hate talking to people sometimes because I can't edit. I suppose that I don't misspell words when I'm talking, but that's small consolation.
In the end I think I'm happy with what I wrote. Now I get to enter that period of waiting, hoping that he sees things similarly to how I see them. I get to hope that he likes me and that I haven't frightened him off. He takes my phone calls, so that's good, but I just don't trust myself.
I really do manage to fuck things up more than you might realize. I'm probably ruining something right now even though all I'm doing is typing words and trying to manage to convey thoughts. It's kinda how I roll.
And now all I can do is wait.
not trying equals not doing
I feel like I'm setting myself up for a big let down again.
There's this guy, and he's nice and sweet and hot, and I kinda like him. I kinda like him because I'm not letting myself get too far into this thing, but I also can't help feeling stuff and thinking things.
He lives just far enough away so that the car thing is an issue, and that's compounded by him having his own car problems right now. It's a situation, and it probably sounds worse than it is, or maybe I'm making it sound less worse than it is.
The last time I liked a guy it kinda blew up in my face when he incredulously and vocally realized that I really did like him that way and really did want a boyfriend. It was kind of a moment, and it wasn't fun.
There's another guy who just wants to have fun. I've been there once, and I'm not entirely against the idea, but it just isn't where I want to be in life. It isn't the kind of person I want to be. But what I want and what I feel like I can have are so often completely at odds with each other.
And neither of these situations need to be where I am in life. The one that I'm actually worried about could be part of where I want to be, but it shouldn't be the key component. That's so much easier to say than it is to act on, which raises a whole other bunch of list of whatever.
I feel like I've covered this, but it's probably something I've written about but never published. There are probably a few drunken rants in my drafts file, rambling rants that need never see the light of pixelated day.
So what to do? It's late enough tonight that I'll probably just dig up some obscure Les Paul and Mary Ford on the Youtube, because that seems to be what I'm doing right now. I'll wade through all that's built up in Google reader, all the blogs that are just sitting there, patiently waiting for me.
It isn't going to help me figure anything out, and it will more likely just keep my mind occupied enough that I don't have to think too deeply about anything. It's the internets and like a drug that way. Maybe if I actually had some drugs I could forget about everything the right way, but for now I'll just think about the cute and sweet boy, and I'll begin to compose Facebook messages to him where I bare my soul. And then I'll click on "cancel" instead of "send."
It's easier that way. And I can drag out the enjoyment of possibility longer before I say something and fuck the whole thing up.
There's this guy, and he's nice and sweet and hot, and I kinda like him. I kinda like him because I'm not letting myself get too far into this thing, but I also can't help feeling stuff and thinking things.
He lives just far enough away so that the car thing is an issue, and that's compounded by him having his own car problems right now. It's a situation, and it probably sounds worse than it is, or maybe I'm making it sound less worse than it is.
The last time I liked a guy it kinda blew up in my face when he incredulously and vocally realized that I really did like him that way and really did want a boyfriend. It was kind of a moment, and it wasn't fun.
There's another guy who just wants to have fun. I've been there once, and I'm not entirely against the idea, but it just isn't where I want to be in life. It isn't the kind of person I want to be. But what I want and what I feel like I can have are so often completely at odds with each other.
And neither of these situations need to be where I am in life. The one that I'm actually worried about could be part of where I want to be, but it shouldn't be the key component. That's so much easier to say than it is to act on, which raises a whole other bunch of list of whatever.
I feel like I've covered this, but it's probably something I've written about but never published. There are probably a few drunken rants in my drafts file, rambling rants that need never see the light of pixelated day.
So what to do? It's late enough tonight that I'll probably just dig up some obscure Les Paul and Mary Ford on the Youtube, because that seems to be what I'm doing right now. I'll wade through all that's built up in Google reader, all the blogs that are just sitting there, patiently waiting for me.
It isn't going to help me figure anything out, and it will more likely just keep my mind occupied enough that I don't have to think too deeply about anything. It's the internets and like a drug that way. Maybe if I actually had some drugs I could forget about everything the right way, but for now I'll just think about the cute and sweet boy, and I'll begin to compose Facebook messages to him where I bare my soul. And then I'll click on "cancel" instead of "send."
It's easier that way. And I can drag out the enjoyment of possibility longer before I say something and fuck the whole thing up.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
how was your day?
My day started as they have been lately, alarm going off while it's still dark outside. After forcing my eyes to remain open long enough to consider myself actually awake I started the ritual that is waking the boys up. Big Brother usually wakes quickly, while The Boy, in yet another instance of being just like me, does not.
I made sure they were putting on clean clothes and got The Boy to finally change his socks then helped them get bowls of cereal lined up. I made them sandwiches and peeled and cut kiwis for their lunches, and I made sure they both had milk money.
Momma arrived as the boys were finishing getting ready for school and whisked them away. I had time for a bowl of cereal before I went to stand up the street and wait for the bus. Sadly I had no coffee in the house, so my day didn't start as well as it could have.
The bus station/transfer point has a lunch counter at which I paid $1.09 for a horrible cup of of coffee delivered by a guy who was so cheerful that I wanted to drag him across the counter and beat him with the airpot.
The municipal court/police station is an uphill walk of two long blocks from the bus station, and I was early enough to relax at the station while waiting till I needed to start my walk in order to get there early.
I'm glad I was there early, because in a random moment of making sense I checked my paperwork to see if I'd missed anything about my court appearance. I'm somewhat familiar with the court house that I went to as it's where I've been at least twice in the past ten years, once to pay a speeding ticket and once to pay one hundred dollars for committing the crime of not knowing I needed my registration in the car. To make that one worse I realized sometime later that the registration was in fact in the car.
Upon looking at my paperwork I realized I was at the wrong court. For my offense I did not need to go to municipal court. I needed to be over ten blocks away at general sessions court which is in the city/county building. I began the quick walk, glad that I'd arrived early, and called the phone number listed on my paper.
The lady that answered was nice enough even though she insisted that I was already an hour late. Her records indicated I needed to be there at nine, and she wouldn't accept that my records said ten. It didn't matter either way.
I did actually make it to court on time. The judge was finishing up his discussion of rights and the nature of the offense that most of us were there for and then began to call the roll.
My court date was actually an arraignment, so within about an hour I had my actual court date and was free to go. From there I walked another five blocks to my place of employment to mark the calendar we use to request days off so that I could be sure to have my court date free. A coworker was also there with his eight month old, so I got to hold a tiny baby. I then proceeded to tickle his toes and that spot on the back of all baby's necks that makes them shiver. It's so much fun.
I then walked to where Momma works, another couple of blocks, so that I could let her know about my court business. Another three blocks took me to a coffee shop so that I could eat a scone and enjoy a cup of good coffee.
Another three blocks saw me at the bus stop so that I could ride to the grocery store. From the grocery store I walked another two blocks to catch the bus that would have taken me home. I rolled a cigarette and checked the schedule only to find myself wishing I'd been there ten minutes earlier and debating how long I felt like standing and waiting. I opted to walk. The next bus wasn't due for about forty minutes.
Home was another two mile walk, and by the time I finally reached here I almost wished I'd waited. You'd think with all the standing and moving I do as a cook a little walking would be easy, but my legs, from the knees down, are some achy bastards.
I'm home, have some chicken stock simmering on the stove. I'll use it a bit later to boil some rice into which I'll mix some leftover chicken and whatever else sounds like it'll be good. I'll also hope The Boy eats some, otherwise he'll be a hungry little monkey.
And that was the first half of my day. I've since dozed for a few minutes in front of the television and checked Facebook. Momma is stopping at the co-op for me and bringing me coffee when she brings the boys later, and as soon as I see her car in the driveway I'll get water on. The French press is already clean.
Right now I'm hungry and tired. I really hope the boys don't have any/much homework. I don't feel like dealing with it tonight, though so far we haven't had any problems. The Boy is behind where his class mates are, so we're working with him to catch up. He's a smart kid, and when we work on combating the frustration he easily understands the math. The reading/writing may take a bit more patience, but it's good for me to learn some of that.
I made sure they were putting on clean clothes and got The Boy to finally change his socks then helped them get bowls of cereal lined up. I made them sandwiches and peeled and cut kiwis for their lunches, and I made sure they both had milk money.
Momma arrived as the boys were finishing getting ready for school and whisked them away. I had time for a bowl of cereal before I went to stand up the street and wait for the bus. Sadly I had no coffee in the house, so my day didn't start as well as it could have.
The bus station/transfer point has a lunch counter at which I paid $1.09 for a horrible cup of of coffee delivered by a guy who was so cheerful that I wanted to drag him across the counter and beat him with the airpot.
The municipal court/police station is an uphill walk of two long blocks from the bus station, and I was early enough to relax at the station while waiting till I needed to start my walk in order to get there early.
I'm glad I was there early, because in a random moment of making sense I checked my paperwork to see if I'd missed anything about my court appearance. I'm somewhat familiar with the court house that I went to as it's where I've been at least twice in the past ten years, once to pay a speeding ticket and once to pay one hundred dollars for committing the crime of not knowing I needed my registration in the car. To make that one worse I realized sometime later that the registration was in fact in the car.
Upon looking at my paperwork I realized I was at the wrong court. For my offense I did not need to go to municipal court. I needed to be over ten blocks away at general sessions court which is in the city/county building. I began the quick walk, glad that I'd arrived early, and called the phone number listed on my paper.
The lady that answered was nice enough even though she insisted that I was already an hour late. Her records indicated I needed to be there at nine, and she wouldn't accept that my records said ten. It didn't matter either way.
I did actually make it to court on time. The judge was finishing up his discussion of rights and the nature of the offense that most of us were there for and then began to call the roll.
My court date was actually an arraignment, so within about an hour I had my actual court date and was free to go. From there I walked another five blocks to my place of employment to mark the calendar we use to request days off so that I could be sure to have my court date free. A coworker was also there with his eight month old, so I got to hold a tiny baby. I then proceeded to tickle his toes and that spot on the back of all baby's necks that makes them shiver. It's so much fun.
I then walked to where Momma works, another couple of blocks, so that I could let her know about my court business. Another three blocks took me to a coffee shop so that I could eat a scone and enjoy a cup of good coffee.
Another three blocks saw me at the bus stop so that I could ride to the grocery store. From the grocery store I walked another two blocks to catch the bus that would have taken me home. I rolled a cigarette and checked the schedule only to find myself wishing I'd been there ten minutes earlier and debating how long I felt like standing and waiting. I opted to walk. The next bus wasn't due for about forty minutes.
Home was another two mile walk, and by the time I finally reached here I almost wished I'd waited. You'd think with all the standing and moving I do as a cook a little walking would be easy, but my legs, from the knees down, are some achy bastards.
I'm home, have some chicken stock simmering on the stove. I'll use it a bit later to boil some rice into which I'll mix some leftover chicken and whatever else sounds like it'll be good. I'll also hope The Boy eats some, otherwise he'll be a hungry little monkey.
And that was the first half of my day. I've since dozed for a few minutes in front of the television and checked Facebook. Momma is stopping at the co-op for me and bringing me coffee when she brings the boys later, and as soon as I see her car in the driveway I'll get water on. The French press is already clean.
Right now I'm hungry and tired. I really hope the boys don't have any/much homework. I don't feel like dealing with it tonight, though so far we haven't had any problems. The Boy is behind where his class mates are, so we're working with him to catch up. He's a smart kid, and when we work on combating the frustration he easily understands the math. The reading/writing may take a bit more patience, but it's good for me to learn some of that.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
taint ticklers
People have noticed lately that I haven't shaved in a while, though I have to wonder if they're noticing or just commenting. Very rarely has anyone had reason to comment on my facial hair, and the main reason is that I really don't grow it in a noticeable manner.
When I say I don't grow it I'm not suggesting that I shave daily in order to maintain my appearance. No, what I mean is that, whether or not I like it, my face doesn't produce hair in the manner typical for a man my age. I shaved just over a week ago, and I've just now reached a point where my face looks as if I'm attempting to produce a hair style upon it.
I know when I last shaved because it was in preparation for a visit from a cute friend. I won't go into that right now, though there could easily be a post out of where my head is lately. I then didn't shower again till Momma helped me purchase my freedom, and I was able to shed the layer of jail and the stink of bologna.
I just didn't feel like shaving then. And usually I don't. I suppose that I'm lucky in that regard. I do kinda hate shaving, and I don't really feel like I want facial hair, and I certainly have no need at all to shave daily to maintain a clean look, but there's also the part of me that just doesn't like not having that thing that men do. It's totally not available to me.
Long sideburns? Handlebar mustache? Satanesque Van Dyke with pointy beard? I can achieve none of these classic styles. Fourteen year old boy who shouldn't need to shave yet but kinda needs to? Yes, I can totally pull that one off. I'm doing so right now.
And I don't even like the facial hair on me. Okay, I'll tell you now that I don't like my own. It feels unpleasant for the most part. However, a bit of beard brushing against my neck? Let's just not even go there. That's not what this post is about, and my viewers may include mixed company.
Every so often I ignore my need to shave, and it does almost look as if I'm deliberately attempting something, and on even rarer occasions I consider for a brief passing moment just not shaving. I almost begin to pretend that if I don't shave a real mustache will grow while I'm asleep. That's where I am now.
I feel like I know better, and I'm sure I'll look like the kind of guy that has a van for very bad reasons if I were to actually have a mustache of my own, but I still wanna see, just once. Just one time in my life time I want to actually have this thing that so many take for granted.
When I say I don't grow it I'm not suggesting that I shave daily in order to maintain my appearance. No, what I mean is that, whether or not I like it, my face doesn't produce hair in the manner typical for a man my age. I shaved just over a week ago, and I've just now reached a point where my face looks as if I'm attempting to produce a hair style upon it.
I know when I last shaved because it was in preparation for a visit from a cute friend. I won't go into that right now, though there could easily be a post out of where my head is lately. I then didn't shower again till Momma helped me purchase my freedom, and I was able to shed the layer of jail and the stink of bologna.
I just didn't feel like shaving then. And usually I don't. I suppose that I'm lucky in that regard. I do kinda hate shaving, and I don't really feel like I want facial hair, and I certainly have no need at all to shave daily to maintain a clean look, but there's also the part of me that just doesn't like not having that thing that men do. It's totally not available to me.
Long sideburns? Handlebar mustache? Satanesque Van Dyke with pointy beard? I can achieve none of these classic styles. Fourteen year old boy who shouldn't need to shave yet but kinda needs to? Yes, I can totally pull that one off. I'm doing so right now.
And I don't even like the facial hair on me. Okay, I'll tell you now that I don't like my own. It feels unpleasant for the most part. However, a bit of beard brushing against my neck? Let's just not even go there. That's not what this post is about, and my viewers may include mixed company.
Every so often I ignore my need to shave, and it does almost look as if I'm deliberately attempting something, and on even rarer occasions I consider for a brief passing moment just not shaving. I almost begin to pretend that if I don't shave a real mustache will grow while I'm asleep. That's where I am now.
I feel like I know better, and I'm sure I'll look like the kind of guy that has a van for very bad reasons if I were to actually have a mustache of my own, but I still wanna see, just once. Just one time in my life time I want to actually have this thing that so many take for granted.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
mouth full of gravel and glass
There's a space between ordering the pale ale and sitting on the ground next to the car while that angry lady across the street yelled at me that isn't even a memory. I can't justify it any way at all, though my brain can't wrap around this quandary, and I keep telling myself that I didn't have that much to drink.
I don't remember paying my tab. I don't remember leaving the bar. I don't remember walking two blocks to the parking garage, and I don't remember any of the drive.
I remember that woman yelling at me about her kids going to school this way and that she'd already called the cops. I remember looking at my car and thinking that it was facing the wrong direction. I remember the telephone pole, though at the time I couldn't see that I'd hit it hard enough to break it. As my arresting officer said, "You cut it right off!"
I remember as the realization of what I'd done tried to crash down on me. I remember crying.
I remember the cop trying to get me to do the field sobriety test and that I honestly couldn't. Between being drunk and crying I couldn't do any of the things he was going to ask of me. I've done those things at least two other times and passed. I couldn't this time.
And regardless of how absolutely not even a little bit that it matters I didn't have that much to drink. And that's not a problem because I didn't have that much to drink. The problem is what does "that much" mean?
One of my "not resolutions" was to drink less. Wanna know how much I drank Sunday night? According to the slip I got when I clocked out from work Sunday I left there at about 3:15. I was at the bar with a bloody mary by 3:30. I drank that somewhat slowly and then had a beer. I finished that and ordered another beer and paid my tab at the same time. According to the receipt I paid out at about 5:00. I was probably done with that beer and two blocks away at another bar by 6:00. According to that receipt I paid out and left by 8:00. I was being processed at the Sheriff's department and sent to a cell sometime between 11:00 and midnight.
I can't tell you how much I had to drink at the second bar. I drank a beer that I ordered and at least two parts of a beer that the bartender gave me. He's a friend, and the beers he gave me were overpours, some of it run off from filling a growler. I remember ordering a second beer, and that's the last thing I remember before that lady yelling at me. My receipt doesn't reflect what I drank, and once you black out from drinking you don't know what you did unless someone tells you.
I do get that "a lot" of alcohol varies from one person to the next. I have a fairly high tolerance because I drink a lot. It's slowly starting to seem less like a badge of honor.
How much is a lot to drink? For me it's somewhere past a six pack. I can really put away cheap beer if I start early enough. Add to that the fact that my recent history sees me drinking cheap beer (and by cheap I mean PBR. I still have some kinda standard-ish) and at least a six pack a night. And that's just an average of what I'm likely to drink in an average day.
I feel like there's so much more to say. I feel like I should moralize and preach, condemn the beastly drink. I feel like I should loathe it so that I swear off the evil beverage, but I know I won't be doing that. The fact is that it's not beer's fault. It's not the fault of anyone person or thing other than me.
This feels like it's all part of some bigger conversation about drugs and the nature of addiction, but it's not a conversation for here and now. I stand by all I've ever said about these subjects, but I feel like I'm going to have to start being more honest with myself about my own drinking. I can say all day that I'm going to drink less, but until I really look at what I'm doing and where I am I'm not going to make any progress.
That's not going to happen tonight. I am drinking beer as I write this. The couple I have will hopefully ease the pain in my ribs that I have to assume is courtesy of the seat belt, and they will also help calm my nerves after the hell that is jail even if only for a couple of days.
The only other thing I can say is I'm sorry.
I don't remember paying my tab. I don't remember leaving the bar. I don't remember walking two blocks to the parking garage, and I don't remember any of the drive.
I remember that woman yelling at me about her kids going to school this way and that she'd already called the cops. I remember looking at my car and thinking that it was facing the wrong direction. I remember the telephone pole, though at the time I couldn't see that I'd hit it hard enough to break it. As my arresting officer said, "You cut it right off!"
I remember as the realization of what I'd done tried to crash down on me. I remember crying.
I remember the cop trying to get me to do the field sobriety test and that I honestly couldn't. Between being drunk and crying I couldn't do any of the things he was going to ask of me. I've done those things at least two other times and passed. I couldn't this time.
And regardless of how absolutely not even a little bit that it matters I didn't have that much to drink. And that's not a problem because I didn't have that much to drink. The problem is what does "that much" mean?
One of my "not resolutions" was to drink less. Wanna know how much I drank Sunday night? According to the slip I got when I clocked out from work Sunday I left there at about 3:15. I was at the bar with a bloody mary by 3:30. I drank that somewhat slowly and then had a beer. I finished that and ordered another beer and paid my tab at the same time. According to the receipt I paid out at about 5:00. I was probably done with that beer and two blocks away at another bar by 6:00. According to that receipt I paid out and left by 8:00. I was being processed at the Sheriff's department and sent to a cell sometime between 11:00 and midnight.
I can't tell you how much I had to drink at the second bar. I drank a beer that I ordered and at least two parts of a beer that the bartender gave me. He's a friend, and the beers he gave me were overpours, some of it run off from filling a growler. I remember ordering a second beer, and that's the last thing I remember before that lady yelling at me. My receipt doesn't reflect what I drank, and once you black out from drinking you don't know what you did unless someone tells you.
I do get that "a lot" of alcohol varies from one person to the next. I have a fairly high tolerance because I drink a lot. It's slowly starting to seem less like a badge of honor.
How much is a lot to drink? For me it's somewhere past a six pack. I can really put away cheap beer if I start early enough. Add to that the fact that my recent history sees me drinking cheap beer (and by cheap I mean PBR. I still have some kinda standard-ish) and at least a six pack a night. And that's just an average of what I'm likely to drink in an average day.
I feel like there's so much more to say. I feel like I should moralize and preach, condemn the beastly drink. I feel like I should loathe it so that I swear off the evil beverage, but I know I won't be doing that. The fact is that it's not beer's fault. It's not the fault of anyone person or thing other than me.
This feels like it's all part of some bigger conversation about drugs and the nature of addiction, but it's not a conversation for here and now. I stand by all I've ever said about these subjects, but I feel like I'm going to have to start being more honest with myself about my own drinking. I can say all day that I'm going to drink less, but until I really look at what I'm doing and where I am I'm not going to make any progress.
That's not going to happen tonight. I am drinking beer as I write this. The couple I have will hopefully ease the pain in my ribs that I have to assume is courtesy of the seat belt, and they will also help calm my nerves after the hell that is jail even if only for a couple of days.
The only other thing I can say is I'm sorry.
Friday, January 07, 2011
is they or aint they
Chic-fil-A, home of one of my favorite chicken sandwiches, is owned by people who happen to be Christian. They are also closed on Sunday. The restaurant I work at is owned by an older couple who have their own belief system that they've not shared with me. I have no system of religious belief, and I don't believe in a host of other things. I'll freely admit to wishing that I had a unicorn for a best friend, but that's neither here nor there. Also, we used to be closed on Sunday until the owner decided we could do some bidness adding brunch to our schedule.
fwiw, I hate working brunch. It's the very bane of restaurant life. Most people hate it. May you always go to good brunch places and never suffer the indignity of a pre-broken yolk on you benedict.
Anyway, somewhere there's a conference involving a couple of churches and Christian couples learning how to be married in the proper Christian way. Of course that proper Christian way involves someone's interpretation of someone's interpretation of bronze age myths, and it filters through other filters on the way to the conference which lasts a day and a half or something.
I imagine Christian couple sleeping in cots in the gymnasium, holding hands across the empty space. Being gay I'd probably have found some nook in which to trap my partner and commit sinful acts, but that's just me. We wouldn't be welcome anyway, so that's really beside the point.
Chic-fil-A, in addition to being a slight pain in the ass to type, may or may not donate money to random organizations. I don't know. I haven't looked. Some intrepid blogger may well do it for me. I am sure that they sometimes possibly donate food to groups for events that might also involve some amount of people who don't like gay people.
The Chic-fil-A sandwich is not something I'm willing to boycott. Their waffle fries may not be as good as McDonalds regular ass fries, but they are the perfect side dish to the sandwich.
Chic-fil-A is sort of a reward for not killing anyone at the mall. I sorta tend to live and work on the square. It's a nice public space in the heart of downtown. There are a variety of buskers through out the day. There's the homeless guy selling our town's new street paper. Right now there are the last remnants of the ice rink, and in a couple of days there will nothing left of that but the increasingly smaller piles of ice. Sometimes you'll find someone passing a football with a friend American style, though only the employees of the Mexican restaurant across from where I work ever seem to pass a football international style. At almost any time of the day or night you're likely to see someone walking their dog, and sometimes it's a dog you know and can say hi to.
The mall is made up. It's a "public" space entirely devoted to commerce. It's full of mall people, and while I don't necessarily not like them, I don't necessarily like them at the mall. Maybe it's a turf issue. Maybe it's that they're all so seemingly alike. Maybe it's me and not them. Either way the mall can sometimes stress me out a little bit, and sometimes there's only one antidote for that stress.
Chic-fil-A's sweet tea isn't too bad at all, for what it's worth, but it really is their namesake chicken sandwich. It's a decent sized breast half, deep fried, served on what was once a toasted bun with a couple of pickle slices in the middle. I eat around the last pickle bite personally.
It's served in a small bag, white paper with a foil inside, and if you rip that little bag down the seam on the underside and then rip it open along the crease at the bottom you have room to lay down your waffle fries and create your little piles of ketchup and mayonnaise. I put them next to each other so I can mix them in the middle and still have either one by itself as well. On the sandwich I put mayonnaise and hot sauce.
And while I enjoy that fast food paradise, the mall melts away, disappears around me and ceases to exist. All my worries are gone, and I can see heaven in the distance.
Okay, not really. I'm still being catty in my head about all the mall dorks, but at least for a while my mouth is full and mostly free of words. I can sink into the goodness.
p.s. the whole point of this post is thanks to the fine people at towleroad.com. I really do love the blog. The link HERE is just the latest in a story that is ongoing. My own comment that is this blog post is in answer to comments that I've read here as well as other blogs. It's easy to sit back and laugh, so I do.
fwiw, I hate working brunch. It's the very bane of restaurant life. Most people hate it. May you always go to good brunch places and never suffer the indignity of a pre-broken yolk on you benedict.
Anyway, somewhere there's a conference involving a couple of churches and Christian couples learning how to be married in the proper Christian way. Of course that proper Christian way involves someone's interpretation of someone's interpretation of bronze age myths, and it filters through other filters on the way to the conference which lasts a day and a half or something.
I imagine Christian couple sleeping in cots in the gymnasium, holding hands across the empty space. Being gay I'd probably have found some nook in which to trap my partner and commit sinful acts, but that's just me. We wouldn't be welcome anyway, so that's really beside the point.
Chic-fil-A, in addition to being a slight pain in the ass to type, may or may not donate money to random organizations. I don't know. I haven't looked. Some intrepid blogger may well do it for me. I am sure that they sometimes possibly donate food to groups for events that might also involve some amount of people who don't like gay people.
The Chic-fil-A sandwich is not something I'm willing to boycott. Their waffle fries may not be as good as McDonalds regular ass fries, but they are the perfect side dish to the sandwich.
Chic-fil-A is sort of a reward for not killing anyone at the mall. I sorta tend to live and work on the square. It's a nice public space in the heart of downtown. There are a variety of buskers through out the day. There's the homeless guy selling our town's new street paper. Right now there are the last remnants of the ice rink, and in a couple of days there will nothing left of that but the increasingly smaller piles of ice. Sometimes you'll find someone passing a football with a friend American style, though only the employees of the Mexican restaurant across from where I work ever seem to pass a football international style. At almost any time of the day or night you're likely to see someone walking their dog, and sometimes it's a dog you know and can say hi to.
The mall is made up. It's a "public" space entirely devoted to commerce. It's full of mall people, and while I don't necessarily not like them, I don't necessarily like them at the mall. Maybe it's a turf issue. Maybe it's that they're all so seemingly alike. Maybe it's me and not them. Either way the mall can sometimes stress me out a little bit, and sometimes there's only one antidote for that stress.
Chic-fil-A's sweet tea isn't too bad at all, for what it's worth, but it really is their namesake chicken sandwich. It's a decent sized breast half, deep fried, served on what was once a toasted bun with a couple of pickle slices in the middle. I eat around the last pickle bite personally.
It's served in a small bag, white paper with a foil inside, and if you rip that little bag down the seam on the underside and then rip it open along the crease at the bottom you have room to lay down your waffle fries and create your little piles of ketchup and mayonnaise. I put them next to each other so I can mix them in the middle and still have either one by itself as well. On the sandwich I put mayonnaise and hot sauce.
And while I enjoy that fast food paradise, the mall melts away, disappears around me and ceases to exist. All my worries are gone, and I can see heaven in the distance.
Okay, not really. I'm still being catty in my head about all the mall dorks, but at least for a while my mouth is full and mostly free of words. I can sink into the goodness.
p.s. the whole point of this post is thanks to the fine people at towleroad.com. I really do love the blog. The link HERE is just the latest in a story that is ongoing. My own comment that is this blog post is in answer to comments that I've read here as well as other blogs. It's easy to sit back and laugh, so I do.
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