I don't know if you've checked your calendar lately, but there's a big whoop-de-doo this weekend at my apartment. Being the jittery monkey I am, I am already revved to go. The bad part, unfortunately, is that I have to go to work tomorrow. Even worse, I have to lead an interview session for a new candidate. I just know my thirst for revelry is going to leak into the interview, and I'll end up asking questions like, "In your opinion, what's the best way to get puke out of someone's hair?" and "You don't buy into this light beer bullshit, do you?" Yeah, not much focus here.
And tonight's a big night, anyway. My beloved Dallas Mavericks are going to swap out the girls' team for their cadre of superstars, hopefully, and bring me back from the precipice of suicide. I swear, if they lose the game tonight, I'm storming the next court at the next one. I'll grab the ball, dunk it in Yao Ming's face, and announce to the team, "That's how you do it, ladies." And knowing Mark Cuban's propensity to pay untalented white people billions of dollars (see Shaun Bradley), I'll then get a contract big enough to buy my cat a pet human.
What I'm getting at is that I just don't have the goods tonight. I've got bigger fish to fry. This fish is called merriment, and I go after it like Santiago in the Old Man and the Sea. So, this weekend, woohoo. I'll see all of you on the other side, hopefully.
Unnngh! That's my James Brown grunt, it's hard to type. I guess it's an onomatopoeia. My favorite onomatopoeia is gershploink, which is the sound that's made when a glass eyeball falls into a can of bacon grease; I'm probably not the first person to say that. My second favorite is rrrrrraaaaggmmm, which is the noise a platypus makes when it's choking on a pixie stick.
Here's a little more information about the birthday party for Isiah Thomas and Kirsten Dunst that I'm throwing on Saturday night here in Austin. I look for festivities to start at midnight, Greenwich Mean time, or 2 AM, Helsinki time. What that is in Central time, I don't really know; I consider myself a global citizen, first and foremost. To firm it up a bit, let's all just agree that we won't imbibe any alcohol until Cinemax is showing movies with naked people. We will call it Skinemax o'clock. And since I don't get Cinemax, we're going to need someone peering through my neighbors' windows in order to get the timing right.
What else needs to be said about IT&KD BP? Well, I don't want any devil dogs storming through the front door, like Rick Moranis's party in Ghostbusters. I would pay good money to see Rick Moranis do that, though. And if you're relying on me to furnish beverages, we'll all be sampling the cheapest crap El Salvador has to offer. Are we agreed? Allright then. Prepare your flame-retardant suits and let's get ready to rock.
First of all, if anyone mentions the Dallas Mavericks' playoff collapse to me, I'll find an Easy Bake oven somewhere and throw myself into its flames. No matter who is playing or coaching, the Mavericks are doomed to failure simply because I support them. The same precept is at work with the Texas Rangers, the career of Andy Richter, and Mr. Pibb.
If you want to be successful and earn my support, the only safe way to do it is to die before I can get to you. Elvis had the right idea. He did his thing, had a lot of fans, and then, after consulting with my parents, died before I could be born. Good call on his part. If he waited until I was born and I could start rocking out to his music, it wouldn't be Fat Elvis playing the Barbary Coast for free, but the actual Elvis.
That is why no one should listen to my opinion on anything. If I recommend something, it may indeed be good, but the only way to get it is off of some Laotian dude on Ebay. Now that I've recognized it, it's time for me to take a more active stance here; I should start to support the things I'd like to see disappear. Forget about the things I like, from now on, I'm all about things that suck. It'll be my public service to the world. I'll probably start by going to see Ice Cube's sequel to XXX and giving it an enthusiastic review here. Then, if I'm really ready to step it up, I would become a roadie for Toby Keith. If that doesn't kill me, I'd follow that up in the only way possible, by marrying the entire cast of American Idol.
I turned in my 2 months' notice at my complex today, informing them of my desire to move at the end of June. So, if any of you know any bankrupt rappers who want to unload their mansions, point them in my direction. I just have too many housing needs that can only be satisfied by a former rapper's house. Where else am I going to get an affordable diamond-studded pen for my pit bulls? Or a Scarface-themed bathroom, complete with a bidet where the water shoots out of Al Pacino's tommy gun? And what about a separate wing of the house for my bitches? I've got to have a separate wing of the house for my bitches. By God, I won't live like an animal any longer.
It'll be fun to look for a new apartment. I didn't do such a good job of that when I picked my last apartment. Once I got my job, I walked 100 feet down the street to a complex and demanded lodging. I didn't look around anywhere else. In fact, I didn't even go into the leasing office, I just set up camp in the parking lot for a couple of weeks. I was there one night, roasting some pork-and-beans over a trash can fire when the apartment manager come over and said, "Hey hobo, would you like to move indoors?" My response, "Yes, but only if I can bring my army of alley cats."
This time, I'm shopping around. I will go to no less than two different complexes, and at each one, I will make sure to ask questions. Smart, savvy questions like, "Does this have indoor plumbing?" and "Would you guarantee this apartment isn't haunted?" and "If this apartment does turn out to be haunted, will you cover any poltergeist-inflicted damages?" And in the end, I will most likely stay in my current complex. But it'll be okay, because I'll either end up in the one unit where Crystal pours from the faucets, or I'll just set up shop up in the parking lot.
PS: I am ready to rock this weekend. So ready to rock in fact, that today has felt like Friday. If this continues, Saturday will feel like Wednesday, and I'll kick everyone out of my apartment so I can watch a damn episode of Will and Grace in peace. Hopes are high.
Exciting news: the beleagured carpet in my living room got showered with a wholly new fluid this weekend. After the beating it's taken, I wondered if any new liquids could possibly be introduced to it, short of dragon's milk or toxic waste. DUH, I completely forgot about dog's blood! Thankfully, my cat and Laura's dog had something to say about that. Now the carpet is not only disturbing to look at, but it could actually give me canine leukemia. If any of you begin to notice my coat dulling or me no longer holding any interest in my chewy toys, take me out to the country and put me down.
What else happened? I bought my mom a spear for her birthday. Not for humans, but for frogs, as if that makes it any more understandable.
And now, a cartoon whose idea is surely better than its execution.
As you may've noticed, there was no post yesteday. See, last fall, someone here made a rather poor decision to take a few courses this Spring at UT, and then compounded that poor decision with a completely bewildering choice of classes. So last night, I was hunched over my computer, typing away on a homework assignment, sobbing, and wondering how hard of a punch in the face it'd take for me to wise up on this school thing. I say wise up because even though this semester has been a failure, when I got that email about registration for the fall semester, I yelled out, "OOOOOOH, I wonder what I'm going to take!" How about I take nothing? How about I devote my weeknights to a more worthwhile cause, like beating Crimson Skies on X Box? Or seeing how fat I can get? Or learning how to crochet in the nude? Or pretty much anything that doesn't involve grades? Okay, I've made my peace with myself.
Oyez oyez, let it be known that I settled on a date for the next installment on the Powell Partay Plan, and it'll be held on Saturday, April 30th here at my apartment in Austin. I don't know if I've said that here or not. It's going to be fun though, especially if your idea of fun is bribing the police for me. I would do it myself, but at that point, I'll probably be passed out on the roof of my apartment complex, cradling a flower pot and some Funyuns. If you want to come and you don't know the way to my apartment, just drop me an email. Use a good subject, since my email is usually filled with crap.
The party isn't aligned with any site activity, since I'm somewhere between 400 and 500 posts. But do you know what April 30th is? Of course you do, it's the birth of Isiah Thomas and Kirsten Dunst! In light of that, I am declaring that to be my Isiah Thomas and Kirsten Dunst birthday party. Since I just made that official, I need to make a mental note to let Isiah Thomas in if he comes to the door. Kirsten Dunst, of course, is always invited in.Her lawyers, not so much. Anyway, bring your party hats on April 30th. And if you have any Isiah Thomas/Kirsten Dunst memorabilia, go ahead and bring that too, I guess.
What a weird ass day. It wasn't weird in a good way, like I found a baby leprechaun who guided me to a treasure chest. No, it was weird in a bad way, like the baby leprechaun made me eat a bunch of spoiled yogurt and then ordered me to wax his war. I'll stop there, not to be mysterious, just because I don't know the whole story and I don't want to write anything imprudent. So, if today's 'lash is completely insane and crappy, I have a convenient scapegoat.
The word scapegoat interests me. Why is it a scapegoat and not a scapepanda? My theory is that if you tried to blame everything on a panda, the panda wouldn't take it. He'd claw your nose off and then poke you with bamboo until you begged forgiveness. It's easier with a goat, though. Blame everything on a goat, and what can do it do in retaliation? At the very worst, you get a little less mohair. Big deal. Mohair went out with parachute pants and slap bracelets.
I bet it's more than just the unimportance of mohair, though. Back in the days of yore, there was probably a goat named Scape who used to break into people's homes and defecate on their belongings. When you'd wake up in the morning, you'd know exactly who did it, so you'd grab your pitchfork and run down the hill screaming, "Scape goat! Scape goat!" But then one night, some other rebellious scamp beat him to it. You think the home owner did a DNA test on the mess the next morning to determine who was at fault? No way, he went after Scape, the goat. From then on, whenever someone pooped on something and blamed it on someone else, it was known as finding a scapegoat. Perhaps later on, the term expanded to cover things not damaged by feces. I don't know, I'm no language historian. I do know, however, the whole thing could've been nipped in the bud had there existed a pair of goat diapers. In that sense, it's a lot like World War I.
Back to more pleasant matters tomorrow.
This weekend featured the first tubing trip of the summer. True, mid-April doesn't really qualify as summer in most circles, but it was somewhat warm and I had a stunning chili cook-off victory to celebrate. To paraphrase one Dean Farnsworth Zyvarb, it was time to let the rivers run yellow with our beer and urine.
It occurs to me now that if I ever want to rid myself of a body or some toxic waste, I could just take it tubing down the river with me. Every tubing expedition invariably leads to a lost possession for me; these are the consequences of being drunk and mobile for several hours at a time. This time, it was my fancy flip flops. That didn't hurt as much as losing my Budweiser bucket hat (which I later saw for $70 on Ebay), but I have to emphasize just how fancy these flip flops were. They were Mexican tourist trap flip flops. I spent roughly $400 on these flip flops, and then managed to keep up with them for two years. I had selected them as the flip flops I'd be buried in. But if the river wants them, the river can have them; it's going to take a bigger loss than that to keep me off the water ways.
The water wasn't exactly temperate, but no one ever said that tubing in April was like square dancing with grandma. No, it takes some fortitude. You have to possess the tenacity to assault your nervous system with alcoholic beverage after alcoholic beverage. And then, once you've reached the bottom and proven yourself to all around you, you must summon the chutzpah to go it again. The only thing I can compare it to, and this is without any hyperbole whatsoever, is climbing Mount Everest. Naked. While being chased by the abominable snowman. If a pair of shoes happens to get lost in the midst of such a feat, so be it. At least I avoided frostbite.
When it comes to cooking contests, only one place will satisfy me, and that's first place. Anything less and I'll be out in the parking lot, tampering with the brakes on the judges' vehicles. Friday was the highly anticipated chili cook off, where I debuted Chili Chili Bang Bang for the entire world. Did I walk away with the gold, or with a shirt covered in brake fluid? The only way to find out is to read on.
After some brief perusing of the recipe sites on the web, I thought I had a pretty good handle on the ingredients in chili. Meat, peppers, and tomatoes is simple enough, but I knew such a prosaic combination was a one way ticket to 3rd Place-ville. If I wanted to win, I needed secret ingredients, and assloads of them.
With this in mind, I hit the supermarket. I'm not a big fan of lists; I prefer to wander the aisles and let the cooking gods whisper the ingredients into my ears. Usually this either works really well, setting me up perfectly to create a wonderful meal, or I end up checking out with a cart full of pickles and flea spray. This time, the cooking gods told me, "Peppers. Lots of peppers, and the weirder they're shaped, the better." They also mentioned something about spiking the chili with beer. Who am I to rebel?
It's hard to see in the picture above just how many peppers I had, but I easily spent $15 just on peppers. That takes some doing. A single pepper is usually like $.10, so for the quantity I needed, I had to rent a tugboat to get all of them home.
Once I had the ingredients, I got to cooking. Step 1: brown some meat and some onions. This was really the only part that could be considered cooking, so I figured once I finished this step, I'd be home free.
And then, I opened up my tomato paste, only to discover there was no paste. Instead, I had a bunch of humongous tomato lumps. The lumps were so big at that point, I could've safely titled my dish, Tomato Lumps with Meat. Something had to be done.
First, I tried mushing the lumps up. After a few minutes of this, I had a bunch of slightly smaller tomato lumps.
Then, inspiration struck: I could spoon those lumps. Good bye Tomato Lumps with Meat, hello Chili Chili Bang Bang!
I added my peppers.
Followed by copious amounts of the first secret ingredient.
And then the second.
Ending up with this concoctation. Mmmmm, that's vaguely chiliesque!
I put the lid on the crockpot and then I went to bed. Around 1 in the morning, I woke with a start. "What in the hell is that awful smell?" I wondered. It didn't so much smell like a simmering pot of chili as it smelled like someone had replaced all of my furniture and possessions with road kill that had been soaked in liquor.
The smell was so strong, I couldn't sleep. I'm telling you, it was so painful, it was like the chili was keeping me as its POW. No matter how bad it smelled, I didn't want to interrupt the potent chili fermentation process.
The next morning, I woke up to see the following. Note the ring of death around the circumference of the crockpot.
I took a bite and barely kept from wetting myself. It was, without question, the spiciest bite of food I'd ever put in my mouth. The chili hadn't soaked in the peppers so much as it had enraged the peppers, leading to some sort of spicy fight to the death. No one's taste buds would be left standing.
Thinking quickly, I cracked open another beer and poured it in there, hoping that would neutralize the peppers. Ehh, not quite. Instead of being absorbed into the chili, the beer just floated on top.
It was now time for me to go to work, and my final assessment of Chili Chili Bang Bang was not a good one. The chili itself was incredibly spicy and really unappealing to look at; none of that was helped with the standing pool of alcohol I added to the top of the bowl. To really emphasize the disgusting nature of the chili, I considered forcing the cat to take a dump in it. But no, I had no time for that; the contest was about to begin.
As can be seen above, there were around 10 entries. Disturbingly, most of them resembled chili a lot more than Chili Chili Bang Bang did.
Just to let the other contestants know who they were dealing with, I printed out a placard that read, "Chili Chili Bang Bang: The only guarantee is digestive discomfort."
After all of the entries were set up, the contest began. Right away, I knew I made an impression. As soon as the lid of the pot came off, the oohs and ahhs started. "Man, that is weird looking," I heard someone say. "Holy crap, Chili Chili Bang Bang is SPICY." Really, the entire room got swept up in the discussion of my creation (Patrick can back me up there). We weren't supposed to reveal who made the dishes, so all I could do was to sit at a table and giggle furiously into the napkin.
While a lot of people talked about it, no one really came out and said, "Man, this is good!" Mostly they were just remaking on how bizarre it was. Sometime during the middle of this, a second panel of judges appeared. I think they only caught a few bits of what the other judges were saying, because right after they appeared, I heard one of these new judges say, "Chili Chili Bang Bang is supposed to be the good one." Ha! Somehow, my plan was working.
The tasting continued for a while, and the entire thing killed me because I couldn't reveal which was mine. A couple of people knew, and one of them came up to me midway through the contest to say, "Dude, your chili just melted my cup." Inedible, unattractive, and destructive: let it never be said I can't put a meal together.
A few minutes later, everyone had voted and the first place winner was announced. The received a plaque and a gift certificate to Chili's. Three guesses as to whose name was on that plaque.
Yeah, I have no idea. I could only stand to eat a couple of bites of the stuff before I wanted to rip my tongue out, yet a crowd of 50 selected it as the best. It just goes to show that the only ingredient that really matters in the end is the alcohol.
So, last night was not the chilipalooza that I built it up to be. I was ready for it; I had on my chef's hat and my flame retardant jumpsuit. I stationed my cat at the fire hydrant in front of my apartment with a wrench. But then, just as I was ready to light up the crockpot and usher in an incendiary new era of chili, I had a thought. My thought was, "Hey, don't I have some confusing homework I should be attempting? Like fragumlating an gigaopterometer in 27 dimensions or something?" I checked my Hello Kitty day planner and indeed I did. Goodbye chili, hello cursing at my Hello Kitty day planner.
By the time I was finished, it was midnight and I didn't feel ready to scour the supermarket for the cheapest, most rotten tomatoes in the joint. Is this a bad thing? Not necessarily. Much like a professional bomb defuser, I can only work my magic under great pressure. A week before a cooking contest, I feel nothing. If you were to pop quiz me on my recipes and baking strategies then, not only would you not be impressed, but you'd think I was borderline retarded. With time to spare, I am lazy and lethargic, like Garfield the cat. But once the clock is ticking, I literally transform into a whirling dervish of the culinary variety. If it weren't for my monogrammed spatula, you wouldn't even know it's me.
I look forward to this transformation taking place around 10 PM tonight. It won't be pretty. I except that when I come out of it, I'll find ground beef splattered all over the floor and my underwear hanging from the chandelier. But amongst all of the mayhem, what will be sitting in the crockpot? A little slice of fried gold with a name tag that reads, "Chili Chili Bang Bang." The competition is tomorrow, friends, and I only have room in my trophy case for a first place ribbon. Wish me luck.
Tonight, I give birth to Chili Chili Bang Bang, my soon-to-be award winning chili. It's hard to say exactly what kind of awards it will win; I have my hopes set on Most Likely to Induce Severe Distress to the Colon. Yes, I realize it may to take a gastrointestinologist to formalize that, but I'm willing to pay what it costs; sometimes you have to give a little to get a little. Except I'm not getting a little, I'm getting pretty much everything I could desire: a certificate of merit, the respect of fellow chili gourmets across the globe, and perhaps, if this thing is well publicized, a gaggle of chili groupies.
For a while there, I was thinking seriously about using a recipe. It's not so much that I don't distrust my innate cooking skills, I just wanted to point the finger at someone else should one of the chili tasters die from Chili Chili Bang Bang. And let's be honest, that's a distinct possibility. I can only hope that if someone does die, it's a rock star (perhaps the lead singer of the Scorpions) so that the chili can make its way onto Behind the Music. I would give anything to hear that narrator say, "He was on top of the world and on top of the charts, that is until he encountered Chili Chili Bang Bang." And then they could show a shot of me, foaming at the mouth, standing in front of my crock pot.
But I soon realized that genius doesn't follow instructions. I'm going to the store later tonight to buy ingredients, and I'm just going to wing it. Jellybeans? Sure. Shoe polish? Yes, but only brown. Chili powder? I don't think I'll be needing any of that. Chili Chili Bang Bang, welcome to the world!
Uh oh, the well has run dry. As I tend to do in these situations, I have written a brief vignette about a picture I saw in a news story today.
Yellow Robot: Yellow Robot to Red Robot.
Red Robot: Come in, Red Robot.
YR: I'm beginning to worry about Gray Robot.
RR: Has he overclocked his licking chip again?
YR: I don't know, but look at the way he's leering up at the audience.
RR: That's one hell of a leer.
YR: Can he mean anything good by that leer?
RR: No way, that's got mechanical hijinks written all over it.
YR: And what is that he's leering at?
RR: Ahh crap, it's a female humanoid.
YR: Exactly, a female humanoid. Do I even have to put two and two together here? If he's overclocked his licking chip and he's acquired the female humanoid as a target...
RR: Sweet Jesus.
YR: We have to clear out this room, or else...
RR: Don't say it.
YR: I must; it is my robot duty. If we don't clear out this room immediately, he may initiate the Apocalickse.
Gray Robot: APOCALICKSE!
RR: I thought they took that logic out after he licked the Japanese Prime Minister into a coma.
YR: Well, they tried, but no one could get close enough without being swept up in the licking frenzy.
Gray Robot: APOCALICKSE!
RR: What I'm not clear on is why we have licking functionality in the first place.
YR: I think it's for post offices and sex toy stores. It's what we do. Some robots can talk and play the trumpet; we are expert lickers.
Gray Robot: GRAY ROBOT LICK TO LIVE!
RR: Should we stop him?
YR: I would, if it weren't so beautiful.
Gray Robot: LICKY LICKY!
Dig on this, we've got another cooking contest coming at work. In case you missed it, one of my best entries ever was related to my triumph at our Pie Baking Contest last year. I honestly cannot blame my coworkers for picking another food entirely after the savage ass whuppin' I applied last year with Momma P's Mystery Pie. But do they really think it'll be a different story this time? Whether it's chili or pies, the same mastermind is behind it. And even more than that, the same cooking strategies apply: buy all the wrong stuff, throw out the recipe, and pray no one dies.
The Chili Cook-Off is this Friday, leaving me with precious little time to learn how chili is made, and more importantly, to pick my chili name. Anything I do is marked by bravado; I'm a lot like Liberace in that way. And chili names are all about bravado. Everyone likes a delicious dish, but how much better is it when the name of that delicious dish is a pun? In fact, forget the delicious part entirely; even if the chili were full of old boots and syringes, wouldn't you still want to eat it if the name were a pun? You wouldn't just want to eat it, you'd want to bathe in it probably.
And so here's the current dilemma: I'm having a hard time coming up with this most awesome of chili names. I've come up with a few on my own, but nothing blows my pants away. The best one I have so far (The Regurgitation Will Not Be Chilified), while amusing, lacks brevity. The other option (Hot Today, Chili Tamale) is maybe my favorite all time pun, but it's more about Mexican food than it is about chili. The options are there, but there are no clear winners. Until I make up my mind, I may as well show up with a can of Hormel and a big, sloppy kiss for the real winner. That's not the way I enter cook-offs, though. I do the cooking crappily, not the naming. Until I have my name picked, we're running on red alert here at Powell Manor. If you happen to be a professional chili namer, don't be scared to help a brother out.
Back in my teenage years, I was no stranger to physical activity. Not that I competed in many triathlons, but if I had to walk from my car to my front door, I could do so without the use of a defibrillator. I guess I kept up with that okay in college, managing to balance physical fitness and binge drinking as well as one could expect. But once I graduated, that train rolled off the tracks. I didn't actively avoid exercise, but I didn't seek it out either. So, while I haven't visited a gym in sometime, if a gym were to mysteriously appear between my car and my front door, I would definitely wander through it occasionally. Unfortunately, I've found that doesn't occur very often. As a result, I now have the physique of King Hippo from Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I've learned to love it.
But then on Saturday morning, I woke up with a curious idea in my head. What if I went out and did something active? Not just something a little bit active, like shaking my pants for quarters, but an actual activity, like playing tennis. That could be fun, right? It turned out that it could indeed be fun, for everyone watching me attempt to play that cursed game. For me, it was slightly unpleasant. Not only did my legs explode immediately when I walked out on court, but my opponent (Mr. Patrick Lioi) was a little more familiar with the game than I was. Just to emphasize, Patrick brought a racquet and a can of balls to the court; I brought an umbrella and a bib. Yes, it took me a little while to realize how tennis worked.
After an hour or so of that, I was sufficiently invigorated and ready to go back to my life of sloth. I limped off the court with gusto, anxious to recount my new active lifestyle for my cat. And then, we were presented with an unpleasant surprise: the door leading from the courts to the outside world was locked. The courts were fenced in with a 10' fence; the only way out was through the door. After banging on the fence the old fashioned way, I thought to myself, "You know, it's only a fence. Why not just climb the damn thing?"
In case you're curious, the first thing you lose when switch to a sedentary lifestyle is your fence climbing ability. If I were a lemur in the jungle (or wherever lemurs are found), I would be eaten in roughly 15 seconds because I wouldn't even be able to hop on top of a bush. Adding insult to injury, when I finally reached the top of the fence, I discovered it was layered in barbed wire; it was like I was busting out of Sing Sing. I picked another, safer spot to climb, and after a lot of grunting, cursing, and panting, I made it to the outside world. It's like the world was trying to send me a message: laziness always wins. Or if not that, always bring a grapling hook to a tennis court.
I have absolutely nothing to do this weekend. No tasks to accomplish, no guests from overnight, no school assignments. That sounds fun enough, but I suspect that without the structure, my apartment will devolve into a miniature scale Lord of the Flies, starring me and my cat. What will start out as a friendly game of chase will end up with us as warring tribe, battling it out across the length of the living room. It will conclude in the only way appropriate, when Octopussy rolls a boulder onto me, killing me in the process. If I'm going out, I'm going out to a formidable foe.
Since I have absolutely nothing of interest to share, how about a few music recommendations? I've made two acquisitions lately that have knocked my socks off. Acquisition the first: Shearwater, "Winged Life". I don't know who I could compare Shearwater to, so let's say a non-overrated Wilco. Awwwww, snap! I can't wait to see Wilco's next CD, "The Only Thing Cody Powell Is Qualified to Critique Is Generic Allergy Medication." Awwwww, snap again, but this time I did it to myself! No one is safe in the Powell/Wilco bloodfeud.
Acquisition the second: Devotchka, "How It Ends". This is some wild stuff, and in deference to my dad, I will compare them to a Eastern European Calexico. And if that means nothing to you, imagine a bunch of Bulgarians trying to play mariachi. Anyway, it's great. Even though the band is from America, every time I listen to it, I want to start plotting to overthrow the czar. Granted, that's my response to most music, but I mean it this time. Both of these CDs are available off of Emusic, so get an account and knock yourself out. Okay, I'm done here.
For those of you who aren't old-school Goulash, I used to throw parties at my apartment every 100 posts. I called them the Centennial parties. For a few different reasons, I didn't have a Quadcentennial when I hit 400; I really have to be at my strongest mentally and emotional to handle the clean-up on one of those parties, and I just didn't have it 6 weeks ago. But since I skipped the Quad, I've begun to realize the beauty of the Centennial parties. It usually takes me 4 or 5 months to do 100 posts, and 4 or 5 months between parties is the perfect amount of time. It's been like 6 months since I did the last one, and everytime I walk through my living room, I see my house plants and say, "Shouldn't someone have peed in that thing a few weeks ago?" I must have a 4.5 month circadian rhythym when it comes to hootenannies.
It's been 6 months now, and I just can't take it any more. Six months since the fire department tried to get into my garage? Six months since people have attempted to fornicate in my closet? Six months since giant bags of sand mysteriously appeared in my living room? Unacceptable! Unless you're imprisoned in North Korea, that's no way to live. I don't care if I'm months away from hitting 500 entries, I've got to do something, before I lose my taste for clogged-up plumbing and Doritos ground into the carpet entirely.
Either April 30th or May 7th (or really any either weekend), we're going to throw it down in my garage. I don't know why we're doing this or what's going to happen exactly, but something will occur. Maybe it'll just be me squirting WD 40 in my mouth. That's cool with me, so long as my apartment gets rocked to its core. Who's with me? Eh? Ehhhhhhh?
I can only guess that in the basketball game last night, the Illinois coach called a time-out with 1:00 left in the 4th quarter so he could distribute yesterday's Goulash entry. He said to the team, "Listen up, boys. We're in a tight game, and if we can hold them off here in the last minute, we'll be national champions. Maybe the sound of that makes you nervous, but it shouldn't, because we absolutely must lose. I know, it'd be a big deal if we won, but there's no way in hell I'm letting Cody Powell win his office NCAA pool. He'd become an absolute monster, struttin' down the halls and rolling around in his winnings on the floor of the break room. I can't let that happen. So from now on, miss all your shots. I'm sorry I have to order you guys to lose, but you know Cody would just waste that money anyway on some dumb-ass X Box game called Bath Time with Yoda."
I've now made my peace with the University of Illinois' men's basketball team. Their country-western dancing club is another matter entirely, but I'll stop there due to pending litigation. Besides, there's another basketball team far more capable of enraging me, the Dallas Mavericks.
The Mavs will soon be entering the play-offs, so all of you can look forward to an abundance of entries about me wanting to light bags of poop on fire in Shawn Bradley's front lawn. Well, you'll see plenty of those until the Mavs become the first team in the history of the NBA to get knocked out of the play-offs in a single game. After the first loss, Mark Cuban will become so enraged that he secedes his team from the league and takes them on tour around Texas, forcing them to play against the staff of every Dairy Queen in the Southwest. In fact, I'm so certain of this outcome, I would be willing to put money on it. I won't, though; I bet the Illinois coach has Mark Cuban's number.
I don't mean to excite you, but if things go my way tonight, we could be seeing a significant upgrade here to codypowell.com. I'm talking a kitchen sink made of diamonds, carpet made from Wooly Mammoth fur, and a fully functioning jello moat. All of this is mine if Illinois can manage to beat UNC in tonight's championship game of the NCAA basketball tournament. Our office pool has come down to the final game, and against all odds, I have a chance to win.
I say against all odds because I don't really get into bigtime college sports. I got my undergraduate degree from Trinity University, a DIII school for supernerds, where everyone is too stricken with asthma to attempt any physical activities. We saved all of the rowdiness for our astronomy labs, thank you very much. So when someone came to me to enter the office tournament pool, my first question was, "This is the game with the spheroid, right?"
I do have some first-hand knowledge of crazy college sports, since I've been taking some classes at UT Austin this semester. Well, it's not first-hand knowledge, since I haven't met any of the athletes yet; for some reason, the entire football team isn't in my Numerical Analysis class this semester. But I've seen some of the basketball players in passing, and they are huge. Even the women players could carry me around their midsection like a papoose. So when it came time to pick my teams, I didn't compare line-ups, playing styles, or coaching strategies; I just asked myself which team I'd rather have carry me around like a papoose. The answer, of course, is Illinois. If it gets a little rowdy around Powell Manor tonight, show some sympathy; it's just a papoose screaming for his mamas.