Friday, August 16, 2002

I could swear that my loft is simply a big swank nuclear fallout shelter. My cellphone reception is truly awful, so I am forced to make a dash for the outdoors if I want to talk to anyone. This is all my own fault, as I decided to save money and use my cell phone for long distance. While I stayed in Texas, my reception was at full strength in the middle of my house. The difference is in Texas we use wood studs, no insulation, and the signal is boosted by all the big hair in the area, like satellite dishes.

Now that I'm back in Brooklyn, I simply dread all phone calls, as I pathetically crowd up against a window to futilely try to improve the reception. Everyone else with a cell phone on the street looks so important and suave, using those damned headpieces. I look some some heroin junkie trying to break out of detox, or some puppy with parvo in the pet store window. I could just use my home phone, but dammit, I paid for 4000 minutes of air time for the next two years, and I'M GOING TO USE THEM.

I have to go to bed early, so I can make the blasted Math CST test tomorrow at 7:45, necessitating a buzzing alarm at 6:30. The blessed Teaching Fellows office has screwed me to their own collective orgasm multiple times, leaving me slightly sticky and unsatisfied. IF their office hadn't screwed up once by canceling me for the math test in the first place, then twice not receiving my test results, then thrice (I love saying 'thrice') by not sending me the tickets for this accursed test, I could be sitting on a beach with good friends drinking beer tomorrow. It is very possible that I passed the first test, but their numerous goofs guarantee I won't know for a few more weeks.The worst screw was the bitchy attitude they gave me yesterday when I requested the location for the test that I shouldn't have to take, that I don't have tickets for, and that they mistakenly told me I didn't need to attend, possibly. Welcome to the Board of Ed, we don't use condoms.

Thursday, August 15, 2002

I am such a wuss when it comes to the heat. It could be worse, I could be broiling in one of those fry-daddy thingies. I was all aches and pains from working out, especially my knee, when I woke up this morning. Working out is funny, the way a man being kicked in the crotch is funny. I woke up sweaty, took a shower, was still sweaty. The day was a monument to slackerdom.

Did I go to the math review? No.
Did I write my paper? No.
Did I wash my dog? No.

Did I do ANYTHING productive? Well, I did go to the grocery store, but I was hungry, so I didn't pick things well. I always do hunger shopping, buy tremendously impractical things, and forget basic foodstuffs. This time, I came home with five boxes of chocolate cookies, yet no tortillas or vegetables.

I also forced my brilliant and geeky roommate to fix my blog commenting system, then did a flurry of modifications and repairs. Somehow this justifies the entire wasted day. I'm going to put another icepack on my knee and go to bed.
I began working out again yesterday. I was doing great, feeling the burn, sweating, exhaling on the push, all the things you should do when working out. I figure I burned about 200 calories, or the equivalent of two packets of sugar. Afterwards, Roberto and I rewarded ourselves by each drinking TWO PINTS of beer and then eating wildly fattening pork mexican food. I should be one of those goobers who eats a tub of lard and drinks a diet coke. I am so sore today, but I will definitely work out tomorrow. That way I can drink FIVE PINTS or something.

Tuesday, August 13, 2002

It came to me in a dream. It would have been the best blog in the world. Wil Wheaton would have been swept away, the crowds would have swooned, and millions of monkeys at typewriters would have taken a million years to repeat that single entry. Due to my increasing enjoyment of blogging, I was tempted to jump out of bed and write it down. Unfortunately, I turned over, took a look at Chris sleeping blissfully next to me, woke him up, and got freaky. Now I’m just tearing myself up, because I haven’t the slightest idea what I wanted to write. Hot beautiful guys/blogging. This blogging is going to get me in trouble.
After a week in Lubbock, I can safely say that gravy is a good/bad thing. Three times in the space of a week, I had chicken fried steak. Once I had it for breakfast, along with biscuits, bacon, eggs, and coffee. I can actually feel in chugging around in my arteries, gumming up the walls. I also tried a tongue burrito for the first time, and also barbacoa. Vegetarians most certainly wouldn’t like barbacoa, as it is the meat hacked off of the cheeks of cows. Not to play up yet another pun, but it was certainly tongue n’ cheek.

I really had a wonderful week of work in Lubbock. I had to repair some rotted roof sections, paint all the trim, fix the spa-cover, replace some damaged boards on the deck, clean stuff out of the garage, rewire the blower for the spa, that kind of thing. Every night I went to bed physically exhausted, which is a great thing. I have blisters on my hands, which rather embarrassed me, as it shows that my callouses have faded. I used to be able to handle boiling water with a grin or use saws with no worries, and six months in New York softened me up.

Things in Lubbock that are good:
Aromas Coffee Shop
Giant grocery stores
Really good Tex-Mex food
Industrial strength air conditioning
Thrift stores
Cowboy hats
Giant Hair
Flights from hell, Part Duh

Directions on the seat in front of me:


To me, it seems a bit on the same level as “Caution: Hot!” warnings. I’m a bit worried about people who would fasten their seat belts while standing. Also, anyone with any familiarity with the panhandle of Texas knows the likelihood of needing a cushion for flotation is about the same as my hair ever growing back. The deepest water I know of in Lubbock is Lake Olive Garden at the mall. It’s been flooded for as long as I can remember, and it would amuse me highly if we crashed there amidst the ducks and needed to use our seats as flotation devices. I can imagine this planeload of Texans all wading towards the pasta chain restaurant, people throwing us breadsticks in case we get hungry. A new twist in the standard flight attendant warnings is a new caveat about the oxygen masks. Apparently, if the cabin suddenly depressurizes, we shouldn’t touch the metal pipe in the ceiling above the masks, as it will become hot.

We’re thousands of feet in the sky, going about five hundred miles per hour. We’re plunging towards the hard packed dirt of Texas, all engines out, holes in the wings, fires everywhere. I bet the pilot is trying to find some water so we can use our cushions. Everyone is screaming, the topless girl from that classic film Airplane bounces about, the masks drop down so we can enjoy some pure, sparkling oxygen. Damn! I burned my hand on that pipe! Boy, I sure look silly.