Eek, the crucial part of yesterday's entry got somewhat garbled! The new address labels didn't just say Cody, which apparently is what the entry said; they said Mr. Cody [Laura's Last Name]. I'd be just fine having with having Ziggified address labels with just my first name; it's slightly creepier if the address labels have my lady fiancee's last name on them.
Goulash historians will be pleased to know that I made the necessary corrections. Please reread yesterday's entry several times and enjoy it many times over with this new information in mind.
Since we bought our house, we get a lot more junk mail. These junk mail devils must be getting our names for the mail off of the house deed because the mail is addressed to someone very similar to us, but not quite us. For example, Laura gets a lot of stuff addressed to Laura Powell; the issue there is that she's not Laura Powell yet (and may not ever be if she agrees to join me in adopting a wholly new last name of Trollslayer).
Similarly, I get mail addressed to Cody [Laura's Last Name]. I'm a sophisticated man and I handle this subtle emasculation with a giggle.
Recently, I received something addressed to that name and I could tell just by looking at the envelope that it was from a charity and the letter contained free address labels. I hate to write and I think that, generally, the world hates it when I write, so I hoard address labels. This was an unpleasant discovery then; finally I get some address labels for my new address, only to discover they had the wrong name on them.
I opened the envelope to make sure. I realized something when I saw the labels in question: I am willing to use address labels with a clearly wrong name IF AND ONLY IF the greatness of the label artwork outweighs the whole wrong name aspect.
What are the odds of that happening, though? Your typical address label, if it has artwork at all, features a flower or maybe a smiley face. Rarely do I see anything on an address label that makes me want to stand up and celebrate. In fact, has it ever happened? Before today, I would've said no. Today, I scream yes!
Inside of the envelope, I found address label after address label featuring... Ziggy. What was he doing? Rollerblading.
It didn't just stop at Ziggy rollerblading, either; I have Ziggy dancing in a rainbow jumpsuit, Ziggy going camping, Ziggy with his raincoat on, and Ziggy leaping into the air in a moment of high spirits.
Leukemia Society of Central Texas, you don't know my name, but you definitely know my tastes. I will now begin to mail many more letters.
Right now, our next door neighbors are moving. This means two things. First, I am virtually guaranteed that these nice, decent neighbors will be replaced with a bunch of recreational nudists/crystal meth enthusiasts. Second, a lot of free stuff is flying around the neighborhood just because these neighbors have reached the pinnacle of moving frustration and would rather give their belongings away than move them. We didn't take any furniture or art from them, but we did take a cat. His name is Orson, he's a stray that the neighbors claimed a few years back, and he is awesome.
I think you get points for originality when it comes to pets. Yeah sure, golden retrievers named Ginger are sweet and wonderful and will provide several happy moments. The world's full of pets like that, though, and thus they do not impress me. There's only one fat, one-eyed, awesome cat named Octopussy, which is why I'm glad to have her. I think Orson will fit into this scheme pretty well too. First, his name is excellent. Second, he's a little crazy looking from his alley cat days. Third and most important, he likes me and Laura so much that I'm pretty sure he'd marry us, if it were an option.
Unfortunately, we can't let him inside the house just yet because he doesn't have all of his vaccinations. As much as I like him, I cannot expose Octo to an exploding cat butt virus. Wait for us, Orson!
In other news, enjoyed the crap out of the Dark Knight. I know everybody's saying this, but how sad is it that Heath Ledger is dead? It's been years since a movie villain actually scared me but the Joker... yowza. It's got to be really tough as an actor to get a role like that, where your portrayal is competing with Jack Nicholson in goofy make-up, prancing around to Prince song. Excellent, excellent stuff. I still think that Christian Bale's Batman voice is kind of laughable, though. He sounds kinda like tough Harvey Fierstein.
Good news, all; I'm officially allowed to get excited about The Dark Knight.
Sure I want to see it and Christian Bale and Heath Ledger and blah blah blah, but I had another movie on my must-see list with a little more seniority. What was it? Uhh, it was only a little flick about an adorable robot's intergalactic romp!! Finally saw it tonight, and WALL-E is excellent. Is there an dismissive term like Trekkie for people who really like Pixar movies? Pixarinas, maybe? I'm one of those guys.
Now that I'm thinking about it, wouldn't it be cool if every little subculture had a term for it, much like Trekkie? For example, I like the Lord of the Rings books, Pixar movies, and Otis Redding. I'm sure there are at least 100 other similar people, so maybe we could all call ourselves HobbiToon Soulbrothers. What do you think? (Please note that this is our term for ourselves, and you may not use it.)
(Secret note to fellow HTSBs: the domain name is hobbittoonsoulbrothers.com is NOT yet taken. Shall we organize a funddrive to pay for this? I call dibs on email address email@example.com.)
Tomorrow night, the lady and I are hitting the Dark Knight. And when I say hitting the Dark Knight, I don't mean seeing the movie; I mean we'll blindside Christian Bale in an alley and sock him in the nose. Maybe I'll shout something along the lines of, "This is what happens, Christian Bale, when you steal all of Michael Caine's lines!" I don't know, I probably need to see the movie before I plan the attack.
Had a grand old time this weekend at the housewarming party. We had a great turn-out, we got a Hello Kitty toaster (thanks, gents) plus loads of other stuff, and neither the cops nor the National Guard were called. Well, perhaps they were called, but they didn't show up. Wait, maybe they did show up and they were just waiting for one more outburst from me before the snipers on the neighbor's roof took me out. I knew we should've had that party in my bunker!
I think I'm old enough to have adult parties, and that's pretty much what this was. In case you're wondering, adult parties start earlier, they have veggie trays, and the beer is better. The nudity is more infrequent, thankfully, and more disturbing.
Now that's out of the way, I need to start tearing this place to pieces with idiotic home improvement projects. Paddy did buy me some books of this nature over the weekend, but someone forgot to tell him that the only instructions I need are what the power tools tell me to do.
The two big projects are speaker wiring and installing some fans. I know a fair amount about wiring, and I'm just going to arrogantly declare success before the work even starts here. I'm not so sure about installing fans. Pretty much every room in the known world has a ceiling fan in it, and that would indicate, to me, that I stand a fair shot of pulling this off. At the same time, fan blades are sharp, and could very well chop my toes off.
Sorry for the lack of posts, friends, but I got called off due to a death in the family. Things are back on the right track and I'm ready to get down to business.
When I say get down to business, I mean the actual business that feeds the crocodiles of Castle Powellskull's moat. As some of you may know, I work for a startup called GotVMail. We just unveiled a big marketing campaign that revolves around one of the leading business minds of this century, and, probably, of all time. I'm speaking, of course, about Mr. Gary Freaking Busey.
We're doing a company challenge to see who can get the most traffic on a particular clip. I'm handling the following little nugget of fried gold:
If you like it, I don't know, send it around or something. Confused Chinese ladies who make up the readers of Goulash, do your thing!
Pssssssst: there are a whole lot more of these at GaryBuseyOnBusiness.com.
Things are a little chaotic tonight, if only because the Texas Rangers just had the most improbable and awesome win of the season. After that, I could definitely see myself going as Josh Hamilton for Halloween. The only problem with this is that I don't know where I'd get the machinery to shoot lightning bolts from my hands.
Actually, the Halloween costume is a topic of some importance. Laura and I are getting married on November 1, and we're having our rehearsal dinner the day before, which happens to be Halloween. It's going to be a costume rehearsal dinner. As the groom and, I suppose, person of importance at this shindig, I need a killer costume.
I've actually already come up with the greatest costume in the world, I just can't pull it off. I'm going to go ahead and share it here, simply because I could die happy if I actually saw someone dressed as this.
Here it is: the greatest costume in the world is Zombie Michael Jackson from the Thriller music video.
Unfortunately, I don't even know where to start here. I'd have to get made up to look like Michael Jackson, and then apply zombie make up on top of that. I'm not sure I could do either one of those steps on their own, much less combine the two while keeping this under a $10,000 budget. I just know that I'd look like some sort of smudgefaced lunatic, and that all of that makeup would sink into my skin overnight. Who wants to get married to the bargain-bin Zombie Michael Jackson? That's a hard sell.
I have come up with a good alternative, which, for better or worse, doesn't relate to Michael Jackson at all. And no, it's not Zombie Rod Stewart.
What a ridiculously crappy Fourth of July I had! Well, my weekend wasn't as bad as my relatives had, but it wasn't exactly a hootenanny supreme. In short, I spent a lot of time in hospitals. My mom was in the ICU with something very scary, as was my aunt. The good news is that my mom is okay; my aunt isn't yet, but maybe that will change sometime soon.
In case you're wondering, ICU waiting rooms are really, really depressing. We were at my mom's hospital on Sunday and I noticed that some people had made up some beds in the corner. "Wow, something bad must've happened last night," I thought.
While making polite conversation with these folks, they mentioned they'd actually been sleeping in the waiting room for three weeks now. Three weeks! I wouldn't even want to go on vacation for three weeks; I'd miss the Q-tips and sock selection I have at home. Prison might even be better, since you get a real bed. There are lots of white supremacists in prison though, so that comparison may be a wash.
Anyway, what's even worse is that the relative they were waiting on had been in a coma all of that time. What can you say to something like that? Equally impressive is how friendly they were to us and everyone else in there. If anyone deserves some good karma, it's those folks. I'm rooting for you, ICU buddies.
Since I've been thinking about it, let me just make this clear: if I'm in a coma, I don't expect any of you to wait for three weeks in the waiting room. In fact, don't even wait three days, just pop by a couple of times a week. First of all, I'd have no idea how to repay that kind of devotion. Imagine you wait for three weeks, I wake up, and then a week later, you need a ride to the airport. However, I have a doctor's appointment. I really don't think I could allow myself not to take you to the airport, but at the same time, a man who just awakened from a coma shouldn't be skipping doctor's appointments.
Second, there's a good chance I'd be faking my coma just to get a nice vacation. No point in sticking around for that.
When I was up in Boston over the weekend, we had this company bbq and, after all of the eating and drinking and such, a bunch of us menfolk played a touch football game. (The next time someone accuses me of being a terrorist, I'm going to point them to the sentence above.)
Sports at a company outing are always a little dangerous for me. Do I want to try hard and win, thus proving my dominance and, in the process, establishing my reputation as the office violent lunatic? Or do I want to take it easy out there and lose, thus displaying my carefree attitude while also showing everyone that I don't care about anything in the world, even something as pure and true as team touch football?
Luckily for me, some of the other guys set the tone for this game right away. We were lining up to get started and I looked over at the guy next to me; he had a beer in his hand and a cigar in his mouth. Maybe you could get away with that on defense, but we were on offense and this guy was running pass routes. Maybe it was a little tricky to catch with all of that, but at the same time, who wants to tackle the glass-wielding dude with fire in his mouth?
My point here is that I had a good time, and I found work-related sporting to be much more relaxed when I'm playing with very diverse competitors. Maybe I'm advocating for some football affirmative action here. (Clarence Thomas just unsubscribed from my RSS feed in disgust.)
Alright, the Fourth of July is on Friday and I'm now having a hard time remembering back when I used to enjoy four day weeks. I know this happened at some point, probably just a few years ago. I'd go in to work, shout, "Four day work week!", and high five the janitor. Now, I'm a fully-fledged adult and whenever I'm deprived of a work day, I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming, "AGHGHHGHGG WHERE ARE THE REPORTS??!!!"
Nevertheless, I'm going to eat some hot dogs and light some fireworks. This is still America, damn it.