Sorry for the lack of posting lately, I've been busy. My grandmother passed away after a painful bout with cancer, which was difficult to deal with, and then there's been wedding business and all of this other stuff. Know this: I'm here, you're here, and we're both staring at a big old bowl of Goulash.
I like to get out and stretch my legs a little bit at lunch every day. Today, I decided to walk down the street to Quizno's for lunch, which is maybe a 20 minute round trip. I make it about halfway there today, when I see this little green Civic that had, crammed into it, an enormous buffalo of a man with a shaved head and a crazy long goatee. I'm walking right past this car and I peek in to see this man going absolutely insane. You know how sometimes they do a close-up of an athlete's mouth and you can just tell he's dropping f-bombs all over this place? That's what this dude was doing and, as an slightly bystander, I was enjoying the hell out of it.
Right as I'm maybe six feet away from the driver side door, he bursts out of his car. Did he, in any way, censor the incredible series of f words, mf's, and effing mf effer butts coming out of his mouth? Oh no; it was an incredible committment to loud profanity.
Even more interesting is that, during this torrent of swear words, he starts slamming his car door, opening it back up, and slamming it again, as hard as possible. His pants are covered in rips and about to fall off. Let me tell you this: it was pretty tough to ignore the giganic, nearly nude dude having the violent mental collapse in the parking lot. At the same time, I was the only other person in the parking lot and I really did not want to draw his ire. I was fully in my "keep head down, make notes for later" mode.
I thought I was going to make it safely through all of this as an observer when I hear his footsteps quicken. For just a second, I imagined him running up to me with a brick or a Wiimote and chunking it at my head. I was scared enough to actually take a running start across the parking lot. Thankfully, he was screaming and sprinting towards the drycleaners in the strip mall.
If anybody has that security camera footage, I would absolutely love to see him. Assuming he really did go into the drycleaners, I am just going to guess that I missed the most terrifying argument ever over somebody accidentally putting a crease into a pair of jeans.
Frankly, I webbed myself out over the weekend creating the wedding website. Wedding attendees, feast your eyes on bestweddingintheuniverse.com. Non-wedding attendees, use this time to consider something important, like justice or equality or some such bullcrap.
Michael Phelps, it appears that you will stop at nothing when it comes to showing me up in front of the entire world. I get it; you're better at swimming than I am. I strongly suspect that I'm a better speller than you, but you're not going to see me going to Beijing and organizing a bunch of phoney spelling bees. (Loan me the gold medals for a weekend and I will drop these complaints.)
Asafa Powell, it's been a while, friend. Remember how, a few years back, I wrote that entry about my favorite Jamaican track and field athlete, ie you, and I started getting all of this email from people who thought I knew you? You and I share last names, I write about you on the internet, and I loudly claim to be your bodyguard/chef/masseuse on several message boards, and then people start coming up with these strange ideas!
Asafa, I saw the article on you in Sports Illustrated. Apparently you, like all Powells, have prodigious physical talents but are slightly cuckoo in the head. Dude, I completely sympathize; ever heard of a little something called the Powell curse? Nevertheless, at some point in the history of the universe, a Powell is going to win a medal for something. I don't see why it can't be you.
Chinese gymnast girls, you ladies are seriously old enough to compete in the Olympics? I'd send you to bed without your Hannah Montana fix for this little stunt.
Awww yeah, did a little public speaking tonight at the Austin .NET Users Group meeting and it went quite well. I don't mean to share confidential company secrets, but when I showed my slides to my boss, he did mention that I really needed a picture of the Incredible Hulk in there. You think I defy direct orders? Especially when they make so much sense?
Here's the deal with public speaking. Yes, it is scary to speak in front of large groups of strangers. Think of something reasonably bad that could happen: you could forget what you're talking about, skip a slide or two, and accidentally curse. That actually qualifies as a total success in public speaking! People are so terrified that anything besides mind-numbing, pants-wetting fear is an incredible success.
I think that philosophy actually works well whenever you're trying anything new. Nervous about asking a girl out? Just do it; there's no way your slightly inept approach will compare to the time some random dude grabbed her chest and then started doing pelvic thrusts. Same thing with writing a story. Your story's not about a plucky Klansman, right? Then it's not even that bad a story, so just write it anyway.
In closing, Olympics anyone? The past few days are almost enough to make me want to give up the doggy paddle and learn some real strokes.
I have this love/hate relationship with mornings. I hate them, in that my own research has shown that early mornings suck and consistently steal my soul. I love them in that, by being awake in the morning and going to work, I don't find myself penniless, homeless, and engaging in hobo warfare down at the bus station for spending money.
I'm kind of an adult though, and adults have to wake up and do stuff in the mornings; I've watched enough sitcoms to understand this. Occasionally, I consistently get this idea that I'm just not trying hard enough to wake up early. I think that if I could just wake up at 6:30 every day, even on weekends, I'd unlock this huge chunk of time in which I could exercise, pen my memoirs, and perhaps dabble in meteorology.
I put this plan in action and then I have to stop. It's not because it's too hard to get up early; once I commit to my plan, I can live with the pain. I stop because, after a day or two, everyone else thinks I've suddenly turned into Stalin. Engage me in argument? You will get screamed at. Drink the last Coke in the fridge? You will be threatened. Dispute the supremacy of Die Hard II over Die Hard with a Vengeance? You will get sentenced to my own personal gulag.
In my own defense, it is hard to adequately scheme for the coming day and sublimate all potential weirdness without ample beauty sleep.
Tomorrow, I go back on this plan and I am determined to try it for a week this time, no matter what my friends and family think. I'd like to think by that point, I'll be settled in and living the productive life. In the meantime, prepare for several lengthy, ultra-serious, misinformed screeds about the postal service, Kabbalah lore, and offshore drilling.