Okay, an initial report on London.
1. Wow, our room is tiny.
2. I saw two Powells buried in Westminster Abbey. Go us!
3. That huge ferris wheel that costs $30 to ride? It's actually worth the money.
4. Egyptians mummified eels, and I have seen the results. Those people just didn't know how to stop rocking.
5. Just because I'm in England doesn't mean I've forgotten how fantasy baseball works, you-know-who.
6. Brendan Adkins may look like a street tough, but he's got a heart of gold, baby.
7. This keyboard is insane! Instead of a shift key, there's an up button. What the hell does the up button do? Many punchings don't produce anything. Also, give me a double quote key!
Tomorrow, we take this party to Wales.
Alright folks, last entry before my international boogaloo over to the United Kingdom. I am excited. This is partly due to the trip tomorrow, and partly due to this tremendous rain coat that I bought today. This thing has it all: two regular pockets, a hidden third pocket on the arm, and a HOOD! If I am mistakenly dropped onto the beaches of the North Sea on the way over, my upper body will stay very dry. My pants will be wet, which will be partly ocean spray and partly my biological instincts taking over when I get dropped from a plane.
In other news, I am now on Facebook. What can I say; I loves me a good API. I started off just looking around, thinking maybe I'd write some code against the platform due to all of the good stuff I've seen on that front, but eventually I just went on a friend adding craze. The result is that I now have way more Facebook friends than I have real life friends. This might be because on Facebook, no one can smell me.
If you're on there and you want a slice of the Powell Pie, just search for my real name (hint: it's the same as my domain name!).
I'm going to try to check email and whatnot while across the pond, but I expect trouble, as I hear they have metric Internet over there. Regardless, I shall live it up and be back in a week and a half. Wait for me, people of the Internet!
A few people have asked about the state of my noggin, since my last terse entry. Good news: my head is fine. Bad news: I barely dented the other guy's bat. (I count that as bad news since I pride myself on head strength.) After a day-long headache, I was back in business. Unfortunately, there's not a good story here; I wasn't hit very hard and I wasn't doing anything strange.
As I have mentioned once or twice, I'm going international on Wednesday evening. Thursday morning, I'm waking up in jolly olde (that's how they spell it) London. When we land, we're headed to our jolly olde hotel room, which I believe is around 8 to 9 square meters and costs only $85 a night. You say, "Heavens to Betsy, that sounds awful!" I say, "This is a deal that cannot possibly go wrong!"
We'll be in London for a few days, then we're going to Wales for a few days (the ancestral home of the Powells, which explains why the Welsh aren't really known for anything), then we're going to Scotland for a few days. It's an ambitious itinerary, and I'm pretty excited. The United Kingdom may not share the same excitement, as the dollar has cratered even more as compared to the pound. I suspect this is a concentrated effort to keep me out of the country. Luckily for me, I keep all liquid assets in Putt Putt tokens, which I call the new gold standard.
I'll be back on August 5th. I'll be poor, I'll be pale, and I'll probably be throwing around lots of phrases like toodlepip. I will also probably try to order haggis from Taco Cabana on my return, and get beat up in the process. These are the inevitable consequences of crossing the Atlantic; I'm man enough to face them all. I am also man enough to post one last time tomorrow, before I go hopelessly Anglo and sell my laptop for Mini Cooper decals.
No post tonight because I accidentally got hit in the head with a baseball bat at the softball game. Luckily, my head is hard and covered in bone and hair. Unluckily, it still hurts a good deal.
Also, you know how I was talking about temporary amnesia yesterday? Man, the dentist really called that one. The hours from 2 PM - 7 PM were a little blurry, and I'm slightly terrified to see what I might've ordered from Amazon during that time. Bring it on, Golden Girls Season 6.
I apologize for the extended silence here, but life has been active lately. Since January, I've been working with my dentist to get all of my teeth fixed up. He had to break out the jackhammer because I hadn't been to the dentist roughly one time in the previous 8 years. Well, after many drillings and fillings and tooth lengthenings, today was supposed to be the day that the final crown went on, meaning that I could spend another eight years avoiding the dentist.
Since the tooth was way in the back, they gave me a muscle relaxant. After a couple of hours, I'd regain consciousness and everything would be fine. Well, maybe 30 minutes after I take the muscle relaxant, they shake me awake to say that it's actually too tricky of a procedure for me to do; I need to see a specialist for this. As I had just been loaded up with elephant tranquilizers, my response was, "Fflllllllllbrrrrrrrrrreeeeeoooo?" They explained again. I said, "Okay... Flllllllllauuuuuuuuuuuuuubbbbbbbbbsssss?"
A coworker drove me home where I promptly slept for 5 hours. One thing that they told me that actually piqued my interest a bit was that the drug they administered might give me temporary amnesia. Temporary amnesia! If that happens, and perhaps I won't even remember it if it does, it'd probably be the coolest thing to happen to me all week. Just to prepare for any further amnesia tonight, I've hidden my wallet and car keys, and I turned off the power to all of the major appliances. (Note to self: reread this entry when I wonder why I can't turn the oven on.) Back in tip top shape tomorrow, chums.
Perhaps you've already heard the news. Allow me to state authoritatively that it's no rumor: this evening, I am responsible for managing the company softball team. That's right; it's our last game of the season against our bitter rival, Crapstastic, and I'll be at the helm for the Gas House Gang. This does not bode well for our side.
How have I prepared? Let me list the ways.
1. I came up with a rousing jeer that our team may scream at our opponents. It goes like this, "Craptastic? More like REALLY Craptastic!"
2. Placed a very large bet on our team. Must I explain this? I'm feeling lucky.
3. Penciled myself in as Pitcher, Shortstop, and Centerfield, rotating a position every out.
4. Scouted the other team very thoroughly. What can I tell you about Craptastic? Well, for starters, they all drive cars. I'm not totally sure what I should do with this information.
5. Corked every bat with which I've come in contact. This even includes the little, flying mammals.
The smart money says I will lead us to defeat, and the stupid money says the same thing. Expect a report at some point in the future, unless I botch a squeeze play so badly that my teammates murder me from righteous softball rage.
First of all, I got some good help on the dryer issue. Thanks everybody! Unfortunately, I've decided to do my laundry the hard way, with a washboard and a line for hanging. Perhaps my clothes will not be clean. Perhaps I'll rip half of my shirts in half. Perhaps hobos will raid my backyard and steal my pants. All I know is, I'm knocking a clean $15 a month off of my electricity bill!
(Actually, the dryer worked fine immediately after I posted that entry. Leave it to Goulash to get the wheels a-rollin'.)
Remember how some friends and I tried out for the World Series of Pop Culture earlier this year? Well, the finals are finally on TV and it's made for some painful watching. How would our team have done? I believe that we would've mopped the floor with 50% of the teams on there. I watched an episode last night where the host stated a few lines from Billie Jeans, including "I am the one", and asked the contestants to name the song. Nobody got it. Repeat: not one person got it, and certainly no one did a spontaneous, yet alluring dance to the song, as our team would've. Then (or perhaps earlier), both contestants completely flubbed a Caddyshack quote. We should've been on!
There is one tidbit that makes all of this hurt a little bit less: the Austin team has already been on, and they were good. We couldn't have beat them. Well, maybe we could've won with some cherry-picked topics (Andy Richter Controls the Universe, early Elvis Costello lyrics, and Things In Cody's Pocket). If someone had to take our spot, I'm glad it was Team Motherboy (killer name, btw).
Before I go, I'd like to say that, while the mainstream media is completely ignoring it, our Texas Rangers are on one heck of a tear. Before, I was thinking we should trade everybody, including the hot dog vendors. Now, I'm thinking we keep everybody and Eric Gagne moves into my spare bedroom in the offseason. Such is the life of a baseball fan.
One of the perks of having an extremely, extremely popular website such as this is that I can occasionally hijack posts to talk about my dryer.
Alright folks, we're having major dryer issues. Consistently, my dryer shuts itself off after a few minutes of running. For those few minutes, it is pumping out hot air and everything is fine. It does this no matter what setting it's on. I checked the exhaust line and verified that, when the dryer's running, all of the bad crap is getting sucked out through the exhaust. So, what do I do now? Anybody have any ideas?
In the extremely likely event that I can't make this thing work again, I have two options. The first is to buy a new dryer. As the street people say, this ain't happenin'; I'm not made out of GE gift cards. The second, almost charming option is to erect a clothesline in the backyard. While my clothes would be stiff as a board and stink of alley cats, I could dry as many shirts as I want for free. I'd also get some valuable life lessons, such as "Never buy a dryer from a crazy dude off of Craigslist."
(Unspoken option number three: buy ANOTHER dryer from the same crazy dude off of Craigslist! Statistical analysis tells me that there is no way that a dude with a garage full of dryers has more than one bad dryer in there. There's just no way.)
(Another bad option, that happens to be number four: just wear wet clothes. That sounds weird and abrasive.)
I'll go back to watching the All Star Game now, and hoping that some magical clothes-drying fairy sneaks into my house and hooks me up in my sleep.
Vegas got a little wild. I don't even know where to begin here, except to say that it was expensive and it was awesome. To recap briefly, I sat in an airport for hours, landed at 10 PM to 110 degree heat, hit the tables, proceeded to throw cash around like a drunk lottery winner, lost it all like a drunk lottery winner, got up the next day, resolved to stop betting and enjoy myself in a suitably drunken lunatic fashion, did just that, formulated a killer business plan that revolved around confused fisherman, bought beer on the sidewalk from a guy with a cart who hated Canadians, had a tremendous dinner, met some interesting new female friends, and got besieged by roughly a billion prostitutes on the walk back to the hotel. Then I went airport and tried not to die in my sleep on the plane.
In the recap, I left out one mildly entertaining part. Sunday morning at around 6:30 AM, I'm sleeping like a wee babe on the couch. I wake up hear a loud bang on the door. I sit there for just a second, wondering what's up, then I hear the bang again. I'm in my underwear but I open the door up without looking; I figure it's one of the other guys from the bachelor party. Some dude about my age stumbles into the room and heads right for the couch. He is hammered. I don't have my glasses on, it's dark, and I just assume that this guy is someone I'm supposed to know. I want to make sure, though. I get up real close and take a good look, and I really don't think this is one of our guys.
I shake him awake and say, "Hey, are you supposed to be here?"
He says, "Where am I?"
I tell him, "Room 5901."
"Awwww crap!" He shambles his way to the door and then stops to say, "Can I use your bathroom before I go?"
I let him, and as he's leaving the room, he tries to give me a high five. He misses completely, thus making it more of a man hug (yes, I am still in my underwear). At this, he laughs like a maniac and then leaves the room.
The thing is, after what had occurred that weekend, it wasn't even that surprising. Thank God I'm home.
Also, I did a big batch update to my Flickr site so take a looksie, if so inclined.
I took a little break due to the 4th of July but now I'm back, baby. I'm here just in time to leave for Vegas tomorrow, for what will surely be an outrageous bachelor party. Vegas is one of those towns where it's impossible to have a mediocre time. For me, it's either completely terrible or absolutely wonderful. If you find yourself in that city having a mediocre time, here are a few tips.
1. Drink more.
2. If you don't drink, smoke more.
3. If you don't drink or smoke, take more peyote.
4. Go find the novelty slot machines. These don't pay out well, but it's a lot more fun to lose money to a Rodney Dangerfield slot machine than it is to lose it to a surly Filipino blackjack dealer.
5. Walk the strip and locate the people distributing pornography. See how many obscene pamphlets you can collect in one day.
6. It goes without saying that one must visit Fat Elvis.
7. I hear there are museums and such there. Investigate these and see if they offer free drinks.
8. Go to the Hard Rock casino, rock the pool, and while doing so, point all of your friends and family to the Hard Rock's Pink Taco cam. (Watch for me on Saturday afternoon.)
9. Get drunk, rob Wayne Newton's house.
Am I missing some activities? No, probably not. I should also note that the temperature is slated to hit 116 while I'm there. So, I'll lose all of my money, drink too much, AND get heat stroke... usually all of that takes like two weekends. That's the magic of the bachelor party.