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| Suck it DownThanks to Wrexie for posting this video first!
This is so stupid awesome. I'm totally trying this tonight.
I was never in a fraternity in school. I wasn't much of a partyer. Didn't drink, in fact, till I was about 23. For my 21st, my mom took me to TGI Friday's whereupon I ordered a margarita. She followed by ordering a Coke. We switched. What a puss. (Me, not my mom.) In any event, I have since made up for it. I'm a major tequila connoisseur snob now. I have about a dozen a$$pensive tequilas, agavceas, mezcals. (Still haven't had "the worm".) I love the distinct differences between the brands, aging levels, and fermenting techniques. Ask me if I drink beer during the game.
Now ask me if If I toast with champagne on New Years.
The answer to both is no. No wine, no beer. Ever. But tequila? Bring it on. And perhaps the occasional vodka snort--we'll see. (As for the game, I guess I'm a pretty atypical male, cause I rarely watch sports at all. Occasionally baseball, if the mood strikes. Hehe, I said strike.) My brother-in-law is a super-beer-maniac--loves microbrews and makes his own. From all accounts, he has excellent taste. Every year I see him on vacation and he brings me a new beer to try--each time certain that this will be the one I'll like. I try it every time. Every time it still tastes like rabbit piss. (I don't know why, I guess rabbits come to mind because of their diets. Yah, I'm a freak. So what?) If your only experience with tequila was in college--out of a plastic bottle--then I imagine you're nauseated at the thought of it. I invite you to try again. This time, go to a nice mexican restaurant, with a bar that carries more than 10 varieties. That's important. Try Sauza Tres Generaciones añejo. (Just one example.) If you don't like it, send me a bill. Enjoy!
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| Distra...uh...Distractions. What? Yah. Fries are up!I'm afraid I may be just plain unemployable. I owned my own business for several years and became rather accustomed to coming and going as I pleased. The whole clocking in and out thing (not to mention the kissing the boss' ass thing) is not my bag. The problem, as I revert back to freelance mode, is that staying on task is a major challenge. Everyone is vying for my attention: Mr. Refrigerator, Ms. Television, Miss Internet. (Ooh, don't mess with Miss Internet, either. She's a major ballbreaker.) Maybe it's ADD, I don't know. Though that's become something of a catchall diagnostic whipping boy, hasn't it? Probably it's another, more insidious disease--still awaiting a groovy label. Fridgevisionwebitis or something. It's SO frickin hard for me, that's for sure. I check all my email, need a little snack, come back for a little work, then play a little game online. Then it's lunchtime in front of the tube. (Usually Star Trek on Spike TV.) Then it's back to "work"... but not until I check that email. Ugh. I recognize that to some this might sound like "the life," but consider this: without productivity, there's no moolah. Take that where you will. (I'm not about to presume the value of money in your life.) Suffice it to say, without money, our lives would be...different. My mortgage lender would certainly notice the difference. | | |
| Coming Up for AirWell, I suppose it's been long enough since my last post that folks are sufficiently convinced I'm dead. Phew!! There's been too much to tell. I need a day to compose it, then I'll be back with a vengeance. Or not. But I think I will. Best wishes to all! -art | | |
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It's been a stinkload of time since my last post. (Sorry, to both of my readers.)
I've just finished my first month at my new job. It's been terribly stressful, especially given the fact that I'd been self-employed for the five years prior. Still, I feel pretty good to have accomplished a month on the job. My history has been somewhat shaky when it comes to long-term, difficult tasks. I try, but then I don't. You know?
Anyhow, I'm finally getting the hang . . . the tasks, the general conventions of the place. Now, just when I outwardly show of glimpse of such comfort, they suddenly begin pouring bucketloads of shit into my humble cubicle. (Metaphorically, of course. Ew.)
So THAT'S what it's like not to have time during the day to putter, to fart around, or to watch the lawn grow. Now I understand why the wife rolls her eyes (at the very least) when I suggest popping in a movie to watch for the evening! Regarding the lawn thing again, last spring and summer I had the nicest lawn in the neighborhood. Hah, that was when I had time to water it twice a day and preen it to perfection.
I've already made my first reasonably-sized blunders on the job. I hate that. I tried so hard to look perfect to my co-workers in during the formidable first few weeks. Now, alas, I'm human. Just like most of the others. I just hate it though, the realization that the error has been made. When you've been there long enough to no longer be considered the "new guy" and are thusly looked upon with more contempt than you'd hope to be!
Alas . . .
-Art | | |
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My wife's aunt, a former nun, was visiting over Thanksgiving. She's in her early sixties and has some very interesting tales to tell.
For one, it would seem that she was, for lack of a better term, lured away by the Dark Side. Ok, perhaps too harsh--she's not evil. She just likes to have fun and knew she never would while stuffed in her habit. (I think she was really horny, when it comes down to it.)
Here's a story she told from her last days in the cloth:
She was in New Orleans with a fellow sister and a priest. They were just wandering Bourbon Street. (Already a stretch of acceptability, no doubt.) Anyhow, they were in plain clothes--undercover Church Police, I guess. At one point, a street guy touting amazing deals in real estate lured them into a room. (If you've ever been to The Big Easy, you know what I'm talking about.) At that moment, my aunt and the priest wordlessly decided to pose as a married couple.
So they sit down in the room and are subsequently bombarded by glistening talk of sweet land deals in Florida. (Swampland, for sure.) I think she said the presentation lasted about half an hour. The holy trinity listened pensively, feigning interest in the scam. When they sensed the hustler was wrapping up—or closing in, my aunt starts to "become very interested." She begins to beg with her husband to buy into the land deal—to which he immediately becomes "irate".
Yep, they're all but brawling in this room, in front of the hapless, now scammed huckster. They end up storming out of the room, leaving the guy standing there, speechless.
She said they all laughed about that, privately, for some time--never having told any of their fellow holyfolk.
I so wish her only sister was more like her. | | |
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