I am an expert at many things: diving, ice sculpting, competitive clogging, and spotting imperfections in collectible plates. One area I've yet to master is sleeping. I know I've catalogued my prior incidents somewhere on here; I'd provide a link but I'm a busy man with no time for search engine fiddling. Essentially, I am prone to freaking out in my sleep, especially if I've been under some stress. Well, last night here at Powell Manor II, I was sleeping saintly in my bed, dreaming of sugar plums. At some point during the middle of the night, the little lady got up to do something. It could've been a trip to the restroom, or it could've been a trip to her meth dealer; I can't rightly say.
Anyway, when she got back into bed, I was jostled just enough to wake up a little bit. I happened to be in the middle of a dream, so I just blurted something out: "What's the destination path?" I actually remember saying that, and it seemed like something of dire importance; I had to know the destination path. She said, "What's that? Are you asleep?" Here, I had no idea what was going on. I ask a perfectly reasonable question and she gives me the third degree. Frustrated by my lack of success, I yelled, "YES!" and then flopped over to go back to sleep. That's a pretty typical sleeping experience for me: ask an incoherent question and then get irritated when it isn't answered.
Laura and I talked about it this morning and she couldn't quite remember the question I asked. I had a hazy recollection, but I didn't know either. I thought about it for a second, and then I said, "Was it destination path?" The reason I thought of it was because I've been working on some code at work that has a variable in it called destinationPath. As if I needed to feel any worse about hollering things out in my sleep, my sleep hollerings are actually about variables from my programs. If I could do all of that while wearing a sequined sweatsuit, you'd be looking at the lamest guy on earth. I think the 2+ years worth of material on this site may've given that away, though.
I've got to tell you, I'm digging this Giant Squid thing. Any time you are the first person to capture a mythical beast with the word Giant in the title, I am officially a fan of yours. The fact it's a Giant Squid we're talking about just magnifies the whole thing. I've been a giant squid enthusiast for several years now, since I first read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I liked the book, but around the same time, I went to Disney World with my parents. They had a ride there based on the movie. You stepped aboard a board, it descended two feet into the water, and then... And Then... AND THEN A 3 FOOT CARDBOARD SQUID ATTACKED THE BOAT! It was pretty good stuff.
The best part of it was that I hadn't been on the ride before, so I wasn't actually sure was what happening. Was it scripted? Why on earth didn't they move the ride if they knew about this danger? And most importantly, did humanity stand any chance at all against a giant, cardboard, underwear nemesis? Right then and there, the Giant Squid moved up to first place on my list of Animals Whose Extinction I Am Praying For. No one attacks Disney World on my watch.
Fifteen years later, we finally get one on camera. As one might expect from the Giant Squid, it appears both very large and very squid like. Somewhat surprisingly, the species seems to have evolved significantly since my last encounter with it near Epcot Center. Alas, it is a wily prey. It's been exciting for me to read all of these stories and learn how we're still just beginning to grasp some of the giant creatures in the world. But does this mean I'll be going on the 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea ride anytime soon? No, definitely not.
Okay, it's almost 7 PM and I still don't have a good idea for the post. Most days, I pick a topic and let it stew while I'm at work, then I spit it out real quick like. I call it the ol' stew and spit. Today, however, I forget to stew. I attribute this to the fact that I suck.
Rather than force the magic today (yes, I just used the phrase force the magic), here are two vaguely interesting points.
First, I have found a way to exercise that doesn't suck. Well, it doesn't suck completely. If it were up to me, I'd exercise so infrequently that instead of buying pants at the store, I'd have to commission industrial sail makers to make me something that's kinda diaper-esque. (That's because I'd be so fat. And I mean the people who make sails for big yachts, not just people who make really strong sails. The sails would probably have to be strong, though.) The secret: I dragged my X Box next to the treadmill. Now, not only do I have a convenient excuse for not running (it'd cause the controller to jiggle), but it also lends an air of fantasy to the whole affair. I'm no longer some dork walking in place in his spare bedroom; I'm a stormtrooper walking away briskly from Chewbacca (of course, there are other scenarios for other games). It's much less boring this way, although it's really hard to bring my A game to the X Box in that situation (again, due to controller jiggling).
Second, what's it like to stink tremendously at fantasy football? I wouldn't know anymore! Many thanks to those who freed Dante Culpepper from his jungle warlords, and then slayed his doppelganger before he could make another start.
Like I said, these points were vaguely interesting.
I don't even know where to begin. I have thought up a bunch of witty beginnings for the post today, but any wittiness will only obscure my main point. I simply must get straight to it: God hates Goulash.
I have secretly been entertaining this thought for a couple of years now, but it was blazingly confirmed this weekend at the Austin City Limits Festival. Last week, I posted a whole bunch about how there was a hurricane headed towards Austin and the effects this would have on the festival. Not only did the hurricane miss this part of Texas completely, it caused some sort of vortex of hell out in Zilker Park yesterday. What's a vortex of hell, you wonder? Try a temperature of 108F, along with a giant dust storm.
This was bad for two reasons. First, I had to stand outside all day in the 108 degree heat in the middle of a giant damn dust storm. I have asthma and I'm a sweater; I don't really think I have to dissect that situation. Second, and more importantly, my posts from last week about hurricane preparations will make absolutely no sense a few years from now. Decades hence, let's say some scholars want to crosscheck the weather mentions on Goulash with established meteorological records. When they get to last week's posts, my credibility will be totally shot with that group. Who will write my legacy then? Just forget about any giant bronze Cody Powell heads adorning the halls of your favorite space ship library. Let us hope they read in reverse chronological order, and accept my apologies in advance (or reverse... I'm confusing myself).
In conclusion, Texas is an awful place to live sometimes. What is it with this 108 in September business? Why the head-fake with the hurricane scare? And most importantly, why did all of that have to happen when I'd paid $60 to be outside that day? Alas, these things happen. With the sunburn and the mud-balls I'm coughing up every half hour, I have souveneirs far earthier than I ever could've purchased. For that, I thank ACL. For everything else, it's on thin ice with me.delight.
I am full of surprises, like a leprechaun, imp, or magical elf. An example of a surprise? Ohh, I don't know; how about buying tickets to that boffo musical, Chicago? Sadly, it is less boffo than I originally thought, since it's not just two straight hours about Harry Carey and the Super Bowl Shuffle. Anyway, I bought these tickets, one each for myself and my little lady. As it was a surprise, I didn't tell her. The show is tonight actually, and I still haven't told her. I started to, by giving away little hints, but then she guessed it outright. Out of spite, I told her she was wrong and she had to keep guessing. Here's how the conversation went.
C: There's a surprise later this week. We're going to see a certain form of entertainment, live.
L: Is it a musical?
C: It might be.
L: Is it Chicago? I saw it was in town this week.
C: No, you're completely wrong.
I had to think on my feet. I began to search the darkest spots of my brain for something really, really weird that could be considered a musical. After a minute or two, I came up with a great idea: erotic burlesque show. All of my hints from then on would center around the fact we were going to see an erotic burlesque show. I'm not exactly sure what an erotic burlesque show entails, but it sounds bizarre enough that it'd terrify her if she actually got it. No one guesses my surprise from two hints and gets away with it.
C: Okay, I'll give you the initials: E, B, S.
L: Electronic... beehive.... shower?
C: Close. I'll tell you some more: it's something you've always wanted to see.
(That went on for a while.)
C: I'll give you some extra letters. The E word contains an I and a T. The B word contains an S and an E.
L: Etymological Bayonets Show?
C: Here's another hint: nearly every big city has one of these.
(It went on, until somehow, she got the word burlesque.)
L: So it's an E-? Burlesque Show?
L: Is the e word.... (whispered) erotic?
C: Oh yes. Yes, it is.
That was this Monday, and since then, I've told her nothing more. As a result, every time I enter a room, she eyes my warily, as if to say, "This guy is escorting me to an erotic burlesque show?" Now that the day of the show is upon us, I just don't have the heart to tell her what we're actually going to see. She's already steeled herself for the erotic burlesque; she's talked herself into seeing it, and even displaying a small amount of excitement about the show. How do I spring Chicago on her after that? Even if it does star one of the guys from the Dukes of Hazzard tv show, she's not going to be happy.
We're going to the show in just a few moments, and I am still developing my approach. Right now, it involves her going up to the box office to ask for tickets to the erotic burlesque show. Where it goes from there, I don't know. I can only hope that 1) there's not an actual erotic burlesque show going on in that theater, since we'd then be dragged into that and 2) that I am not punched in the face when she figures out what's going on. We will see. At this point, it surely doesn't need to be said, but I'll do it anyway: each day with me is a delight.
Rita. I always knew that my nemesis would be named Rita. In my fantasies, I thought Rita would be a Haitian woman who refused to give me a refund after I bought a spoiled peach. In reality, Rita is a hurricane headed for Texas. Is it just me, or is this hurricane stuff getting a little old? It's a lot like a reality tv show; somebody shows it, people get interested, and suddenly it's on every night of the week. You turn on the TV and there's the hurricane on Regis and Kelly, trying to sell you its exercise tapes. The hurricane briefly dates Jennifer Aniston. And then, several months later, you open the paper to read, "Hurricane Rita Arrested for Smuggling Prescription Ear Drops Across Canadian Border". We're quite a while away from that and I'm already tired of your antics already, hurricane! The weather system just needs to get over itself.
This weekend would be a particularly bad one for a tropical storm to hit Austin. As I said yesterday, it's the Austin City Limits Festival. This weekend, not only could you get struck by lightning, but you could be hit before you've even opened your $8 beer. Even worse, the EMTs could pull your stretcher right next to Coldplay at the start of their set. Will this stop me? Of course not. I'm just going to pin a note to my shirt that reads, "Should the sky attempt to kill me, please station my dying body near the Heineken tent. I must go out on my own terms."
I just had an idea; Rita, I encourage you to do your worst. Not to the rest of the state of Texas or the city of Austin, just to my house. I pay for neither the mortgage nor the insurance, and you certainly won't catch me crying about lots of fancy, new stuff. I would recommend you start with the air conditioning or that toilet in the second bathroom, but really, it's up to you. Just sweep in, do your thing, and get lost. Some of us have more important affairs to attend to, such as smuggling prescription ear drops across the Canadian border.
The Austin City Limits Festival occurs this weekend. Unlike last year, I will not be attending every day. That's not just me being a wuss; I have a good reason. Last year, it was so hot and crowded, I'm pretty sure I went into labor that Saturday. Wait, I'm getting confused. It was so hot and crowded, I WISHED I had gone into labor. Childbirth would've been a relief because then, people would've cleared some space for me and given me a cup of ice. Also, who's going to keep a guy with a newborn from going backstage? It would've been a good idea, that's all I'm saying. Alas, I get away from my main point: 100 degree heat + tens of thousands of people + $5 beer = all kinds of discomfort, and I'm pretty sure I explored each one thoroughly that weekend.
Instead of the three day thang, I'll be rocking out the Sunday lineup. I have no idea who's playing then. For all I know, I may've actually bought the ticket to help them clean-up. In that case, I'll be spending most of my time hosing vomit off of the side of Widespread Panic's tour bus. That doesn't matter; I'd still fork over my money. ACL is ACL. It's a lot like a vitamin. If you go without your vitamins, you become weak and your teeth start falling out. Contrary, if you do nothing but eat vitamins, you'll be puking all day long. You need just enough vitamins, much like I need just enough ACL. For me, one day, no matter what it holds, is just enough.
If I know you and you're going on Sunday (I'm looking at you, Danza) then let me know who you'll be going to see. If I know you and you're not going on Sunday, consider giving me a ride. The first year of ACL, I didn't know you were supposed to ride the shuttles out to the venue, so I parked in a nearby neighborhood. That beautiful idea turned into the world's biggest weinerbiscuit real quick-like when the show ended. The show ended late at night, at which point I realized that I wasn't sure where I parked AND that the streets of the residential area weren't lit. Thank God I had a car alarm clicker that made a noise along with the ability to run like an Ethiopian marathoner, since I had to spend the next 75 minutes hauling through the streets, clicking like a madman, looking for a familiar sound. Let's not that happen. It's bad for me, bad for the batteries in my car alarm clicker, and bad for property values.
No posting over the past couple of days because I was having hosting problems. It's a good thing that my webhost hasn't branched out into producing pacemakers or air traffic control, because they would then reduce the population of the earth by 80%. I'm not saying that's particularly bad; if you managed to survive, you could have your own zoo. I'm just saying I should think twice the next time I go with a webhost who only accepts payment in the form of Lean Cuisine coupons. Anyway, if you tried to send me an email during the past few days, I didn't get it so please resend. To expedite the process, you may need to tape a $5 bill to your monitor.
Is there anything worse than reading someone's lame website about their lame fantasy football team? I think so; consider a tickle fight with a naked, enraged Wilford Brimley. However, reading about fantasy football is pretty close to the top. Nevertheless, I can't help myself. This weekend was the first week of competition in my league, and my team, Cheech Marin's Mustache, put up a performance of truly Powellian prowess. Just how Powellian? Well, my quarterback threw five interceptions, and my starting running back ran for 9 yards. I may as well have gone to the stadium myself to earn my points the old-fashioned way. That may've even been a better plan, since I'd probably have to leave the game for emergency surgery after the defense knocked my eyes, teeth, and tongue out on the third play of the game. To all my players: if you don't feel a good day coming, please adopt this strategy. As soon as you enter the game, just let them beat you up until it becomes too grotesque for the other players to stomach. That way, you earn yourself some vacation time while saving your reputation and my place in the standings. For the love of God, Dante Culpepper better read this site.
Okay, what else do I have to share? Season 3 of Arrested Development starts tonight. I've got to be honest: I really don't care if you watch my favorite tv shows. However, the producers of the show may stumble upon this site sometime, with their pockets full of cash and lollipops. In that event, they need to know I'm a fan. They also need to know that I don't work for scale. I actually have no idea what scale is or how much it pays, but when dealing with these show business jerks, you have to speak the lingo.
After an all-day conference at work MODERATED BY YOURS TRULY (why, God, why?), I don't have the energy to go to the bathroom, let alone post something. So I'll just be sitting here, going to the bathroom on the couch. If you want the content of the post, just put your ear to the front door. In short order, I'll probably moan something like, "Who's growing these baby carrots? Bring me their head on a spike!" I'll probably just roll from there.
Conclusion: no post today. My bads, homies.
I'll be honest: Hurricane Katrina frightened me. Part of it was that I realized that under no circumstances did I ever want to live in the Superdome. The other part was that I realized I didn't have any of the necessities for living through a natural disaster. Now that I've had a few days to consider, I present my list of must-haves for living through a catastrophe (ranked in order of priority).
1. Guns. Notice that's not singular, as you must have many, many guns. I say this for three reasons. First, what are you supposed to eat when you grow tired of Nutrigrain bars and pretzels? With a bunch of guns, your diet could include rat, raccoon, swamp rat, prarie dog, musk rat, and dump rat; tell me that wouldn't make a nice little buffet. Second, living through this ordeal would frustrate you; if you had guns, you could shoot up pumpkins and such to relieve the stress. Third, and most importantly, how else are you supposed to signal the rescuers without a bunch of very loud guns?
(If possible, your house should be like one of those old timey mansions where you pull on a candlestick and a wall spins around to show a safe. Except in this case, it'd be an enormous armory that's shown instead of a safe. Also, there'd be a ton of these secret candlesticks, as many as ten per room. (Make sure your kids don't know about these candlesticks.))
2. Water, obviously.
3. First aid kit. Nothing would be worse than going than a catastrophe than doing so with a sprained ankle or a head cold. Also, if you run out of food, eat the neosporin.
4. Mad libs. I don't care what you think, electricity will not be an option. With all of that time to kill, what will you do? Mad libs are not only fun, but they will keep your verbal skills sharp while awaiting your rescuers.
5. A blowtorch, obviously.
Are there any more? Probably so, but I wouldn't consider them necessities. No, only those five are the necessities; I stake my reputation as a survivalist on that.
I have bad news for anyone who wanted some peace and quiet in Austin this week: we're having a developers conference at work! Yeeeeow! The streets will be flooded with programmers doing shots off of their graphing calculators and asking girls to flash in exchange for a gmail invite. If you don't want your kids hearing any salty jokes about object oriented programming or viewing lascivious ASCII art, then for the love of God, keep them at home. Turn off the lights, lock the door, and refuse to answer if someone comes knocking about using your wifi.
What is a developers conference, you weinerbiscuits may be asking. Well, it's where a group of developers meet for a couple of days to talk about programming. "That sounds boring," you may think. Well, allow me to counter: "that sounds awesome." And it IS, if only for the discussions. The discussions usually start off in a friendly, cordial manner with an interesting topic like Coding Standards. If these discussions go long enough, though, things get woolly. Very woolly. In a matter of minutes, you can go from enjoying the company of your coworkers to holding the point of a ballpoint pen to someone's throat and screaming, "What kind of idiot indents four spaces instead of five?! Incompetent! Incompetent!"
Much like Global Thermonuclear War in "War Games", the only way to win is not to play. Whenever someone tries to start riling me up, I stand up and with all of the dignity I can muster, I say, "Excuse me, good sirrah, for our opinions differ. I respect the validity of your views, but sadly, I cannot concur. Let us come back to the issue where our tempers are less flared, lest we lose our gentlemanly demeanor. Also, you smell like a pig. I don't agree with no pig man, ya heard?"
So, if my entries here contain less vim and vigor than usual for the next few days, let us all blame the developers conference. Also, if there is a blue puncture wound in my neck that's roughly the diameter of a Bic, just assume I learned my lesson.
A quick programming note and then I get back to wasting my weekend. If you have HBO, you absolutely must watch this show called One Night Stand, featuring Flight of the Conchords. It's on this Tuesday evening at 10PM on HBO. I don't exactly know how I'd describe them, but think Tenacious D meets the Office. Or Tenacious Office meets the D. Or Tenacious Meats d's the Office. Here's an MP3 of a song of theirs called Business Time. Very, very funny stuff.
The US Open just completed. As it is my favorite sporting event, I always think about attending. If I were to attend, I know just what I'd do. I'd dress up in my active wear, put on a head band, and take a bag full of racquets with me out to the complex. Once there, I'd walk up to some random individual and hand them a card that read, "I am Luxembourg's #2 player. Please take me to my locker." Then I would spout gibberish that approximates Luxembourgish as closely as possible until they led me into the room where the players get ready. At this point, I would steal Andy Roddick's wallet and run away. I would also steal a lock of his hair for Ebay-related transactions.
In the movies, a story like that would end with me and Andy putting my petty crime aside and teaming together to win the men's doubles. In real life, Andy Roddick would find me (the very rich can communicate with their wallets via satellites) and force me to work in his coal mine until I paid him back (the very rich also keep most of their money invested in coal mines). Is it still worth doing? I'll let you know next year.
I have just one thing to say today, and that is:
What is up, people of Luxembourg? How's the weather out in Grevenmacher? The citizens of the only Grand Duchy in the world are always welcome here and everywhere else I happen to go, including the bathroom. I would love to enjoy some of your popular exports, such as barley, steel, and tires.
(On the stats of this site, I can't see all the countries of the visitors for this site, only the 30 most popular countries. Today, for the first time, Luxembourg is on it. It's holding strong at #26, right between Switzerland and Israel. As soon as I see Antarctica on that list, I officially retire.)
(All of this means there'll be no good entry tonight. I am devoting my evening to fried chicken, the US Open, and Monday Night Football, which for some reason is airing on Thursday. If they're going to bend the rules like that, why not just call it Week Night Football? Or how about Sometime During the Week Football? I could do this for hours.)
(Anyway, enjoy your weekend.)
Hey, if you're looking to get into a fantasy football league at the last minute, please shoot me an email. Due to all kinds of crazy crap, our league isn't drafting until this Friday at 3 AM. The good folks at MSN must want to watch the sun rise in Sri Lanka before processing our picks; good for them. Any newcomers are nearly guaranteed a spot in the championship game, as neither I nor the rest of the participants have any idea what the hell we're doing.
I have one more announcement: to the last group of people who sent in requests for the Goulash Mix CD Challenge, I'll send out your CDs tomorrow. If I sent one to you and you haven't sent one back yet, I will find you. No disguise or silly accent will help on that late night when I bust your door down with my battering ram and yell, "MIX CD!" And really, at that point, do you think I'm leaving with only the CD? No way. I'm also taking with me your fancy silverware and any cheese products in your refrigerator. Would you really want to explain that ordeal to your roommates/neighbors? I don't think so; send in your CDs. (Clearly this doesn't apply to those who want to give me the CD in person or those who haven't actually received anything from me yet.)
If today's entry is brusque, you'll have to excuse me. Last night, something terrible happened and ever since, I've been unable to get my thoughts straight. You see, my cat went #2 on me. I'm not proud of it, but Octopussy was ill and it happened. It wasn't a long, drawn-out, massive affair, but a little bit of that stuff on my person goes a long way. I've washed and sanitized the area several times since, so my goal now is to move on. The one good thing is that it's really put sanitation in perspective. If I drop a granola bar on the floor or something, I now have no problem eating it; after all, it's not like I just got crapped on or anything.
Yesterday, I mentioned that multiple individuals at the Tori Amos concert disturbed me. I could only describe one of them due to time constraints. I cannot imagine how this must've irked you, the people of Goulash. I dangle something precious like that, only to withhold it for another 24 hours; sometimes, I even make myself sick with such behavior. I'm going to make it alright today, though, with part II of the scary people at Tori Amos.
Allow me to transport you somewhere mystical: the parking lot of the Backyard, 6:30 PM, Friday night. The smell of amphitheater hot dogs lingers in the air. Laura and I are walking the path up to the ticket takers, when this real weinerbiscuit, sitting on the hood of a Volvo, brayed at us, "Do you have any spare tickets?" Do I look like the kind of person who'd have spare tickets to a Tori Amos show? If there were going to be a spare ticket, it'd be the one I'm currently using. Since that obviously didn't work out, please leave the issue be. That was my thought process, but I didn't get to verbalize it. That's because, before I could form any words, Laura whispered to me, "Those people go to every show, they're really weird."
Over the course of the next several minutes, I really dove into this topic.
Q: How do they afford these travels?
A: They sell pictures of Tori, they beg, or they buy crappy tickets and sneak up to the front. I have no idea how they finance their travels from state to state, except that maybe they sleep in and eat garbage.
Q: How many of them are there?
A: Plenty, like ten. There's a head lame-ass who coordinates where everyone sites and everything.
Q: Do the other fans get along with them?
A: No. They're fond of driving you to a far-away Tori show, then ditching you as soon as the show starts. Also, they like to rule up the Tori message boards.
Q: Do they realize they've devoted their lives to following around a piano player?
A: Probably not.
Once I got the basics, I kept my eyes peeled for the rest of the evening. In my mind, I was daring them to make a rush for the seat next to me so I could inform the security guards. Of course, the security guard would then inform me that it's illegal to watch the show from inside the hot dog cart. That's neither here nor there. Luckily for them, the crowd was full enough that I didn't get to bust them. Do I have a conclusion here? Certainly not. But the next time you go to a Tori Amos concert, consider buying all of the seats in the joint.
Let's get right to business: you want to know about the Tori Amos show I saw on Friday with Laura. Right, right, as you should. It was, in a word, magical. Not magical as in the quality of performance, because really, the only performances I'm qualified to judge are those done in an erotic kabuki theater. It was magical simply because sometimes, it's hard to believe how many weird things are going on at once. The only way to rationalize is to think there's some sort of magical wizard pulling the strings, arranging all of the absurdities. If so, the wizard brought his A game on Friday.
Strange thing the first: a crazy lady in the row in front of us. I know what you're thinking: at a Tori Amos concert, a weird occurence would be to discover you're surrounded by anything but crazy ladies. But this crazy lady was special. The night before, I'd been driving downtown. As what happens anytime I'm allowed near wheels, I quickly got lost. I struggled to locate any landmark until I came to a stoplight. Directly to my right, there was a convenience store; the police had pulled someone over in the parking lot. Quite a few cop cars had stopped, so I knew something was shaking. Well, after a lot of peering, I saw the criminal: it was an older lady, maybe 55, dressed in crazy witch robes with long gray hair that billowed out of her scalp. I could garner no clue what she'd done wrong, only that the police had swarmed her. For good reason, as she scared me. I won't lie; I'm more or less an adult and that lady terrified the crap out of me. When I saw her, I locked my door, lest she throw a magical tortoise shell at me that'd turn me into a goblin (I'm talking too much about witches and wizards, I realize that). The entire scene dismayed me.
Had you asked me then to name that lady's two favorite musical acts, without hesitation, I would've asserted, "1. Stevie Nicks. 2. Tori Amos." Well, I really nailed numero dos since the very next night, who sat directly in front of us at the Tori Amos show? Yes, the crazy criminal witch lady. She really had it going for the show, too. She had her crazy witch robes, crazy witch hair, along with a (crazy witch?) seat cushion. Right when I saw her, I grabbed Laura's arm and whispered, "I feel... so... cold," and then I fainted. I simply could not believe it, nor could the people sitting next to her. They took every opportunity to look back at us and give one of those "I'm going to die tonight, aren't I?" smile/frowns. To make the situation even weirder, the lady got up right after the opening acts. I spent the rest of the night clutching my keys, ready to wheel around and do some stabbing if I noticed any incantations directed at me from her, in a hidden spot amongst the crowd. My educated guess? She turned into a bat, and is haunting the oak tree in my yard as we speak, waiting to unleash her satanic spells on my soul of gossamer.
Wow, I'm winded and I only got to half the material I planned to cover. For a description of every other person at the concert, you shall wait until tomorrow.
Before I get started with several hundred words on my love for Worf from the Next Generation, here's a link for a bunch of different hurricane relief charities. For me, it's hard to fathom the effects of the destruction from that hurricane and how bad it must be for all of the victims. I knew that if I were in that situation, I'd appreciate whatever help I could get. If you have some money, don't be stingy; your mother would be proud.
Okay, back to the idiocy. Last night, I saw the 40 Year Old Virgin. The concept made me a little apprehensive, in that the joke seemed like it would get stale very quickly. Also, it made me uncomfortable to see a grown man ridiculed for his love of action figures. Thankfully, before I discarded it entirely, I checked the credits on imdb and saw two delightful names: Steve Carrell and Judd Apatow. Each of these men is responsible for an unappreciated classic. Steve Carrell currently heads the cast for the much-unloved US version of the Office. The hipsters hate this tv show; they think it doesn't compare to the British version. The hipsters are incorrect, and I vouch that what's shown on NBC is just as funny as what was shown on the BBC. Case in point: the basketball episode. Judd Apatow was the head dude behind Freaks and Geeks, one of my five favorite shows of all time. There's not enough space here to go into my love for that show, but you can safely assume that if I were to ever build a life-sized statue of a tv character from potato salad, it'd be Lindsey Weir. (I'd make it in potato salad because I refuse to eat potato salad, thus giving me weeks and weeks to admire my work until a coyote breaks into my house and eats the thing.)
Final verdict? I give it 4.5 shakes of a rubber chicken. (In case you're wondering what that means, I've decided that my movie-rating gimmick (much like Shawn's heads of Sergei Eisenstein) will be a scale of one to five shakes of a rubber chicken. Don't think of it as the chicken shaking itself, think of it as you finding a rubber chicken and shaking it enthusiastically to celebrate your new acquisition.) I found it incredibly funny, and I cannot wait for it to come out on DVD so I can sit in my living room, in my underwear, and watch it while drinking and sending emails with my favorite quotes. In case you're wondering, only 60% of the movies I watch qualify for that treatment, so it is high praise indeed.