Don't Get Optimistic Quite Yet

This will probably come as a surprise to most readers, but one of my dirty little secrets is that I occasionally enjoy a frosty cold beer. Of course, I also enjoy the 90 degree Schlitz that I occasionally discover in my golf bag from two years ago, but that’s not really germane to this particular discussion. But “occasionally” in this case means last night.

I went out to watch the much-touted Tennessee Titans/Houston Whatever-Their-Team-Is-Called-Now football game (for my European friends, I mean American football, of course … there is a single game played on Monday nights that is responsible for a considerable lack of productivity Tuesday mornings). Anyway, the local pub was abuzz with talk of power tools and other such more-beer-prompting topics, and I ended up having thousands more than I should have.

I, of course, did the responsible thing and didn’t show up to work hammered, instead opting to sleep in for an extra hour or so, so that my head would be clear, my wits sharp, and my unbridled lust for my career … umm, unbridled, I guess. I happen to work for a government agency (I won’t say for what government, or for what agency, as my blog-psuedonymity is of the utmost importance to me, and, dare I say, the security of the nation). Unfortunately, the fact that today was our quarterly all-staff meeting had slipped my mind, so when I rolled in 10 minutes late, a bit concerned that my coworkers might become somewhat inebriated by simple proximity to me, I secured a wall in the back of the room to lean against, away from prying eyes and oversensitive noses.

That's where things went south.

One of the segments of the meeting is announcing various awards, such as 5, 10, and 15 year employees, Employee of the Quarter, things like that.

“… and I’m pleased to announce that the Employee of the Quarter is …” says the Director …

At that point, I was debating whether to have more coffee, pop some more Everlasting Gobstoppers, or go to the bathroom and throw up.

“… The Dead Acorn!”

I’ve never said a more disheartened “Aww, crap …” to myself in my life.

I had to go up and get some certificate thingy and a gift card, so I took a deep breath and held it the entire time, determined to not breathe on anyone. I still have a job, so I guess it worked. For now.

This country, as we all know, is suffering through some difficult times. Some recent events, however, might lead some to believe that we’re in a process of recovery, and that we’ve seen the worst and put it behind us. I guess my purpose in relating this little story is to let you know that if we're still in a time in which I can be a governmental Employee of the Quarter, we are still fucked.

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.

My Hero, Zero

Life seems to be pretty much a zero-sum game. Obviously, in the grand scheme, you’re born, and you die. That’s about as zero-summy as you can get. But even on a smaller scale, there often seems to be a “good thing happening/bad thing happening” coupling that occurs outside the likelihood predicted by chance (referred to within the scientific community as the “2-GL phenomenon” for the oft-encountered “get-laid-get-lice” co-occurrence).

Lest my karmaphilic readers become all up in arms about how bad things happen because of bad deeds perpetrated, let me state that I’m referring to NKEs (Non Karmic Events). I don’t really have a stance on karma, though I sort of hope it’s a myth, as I’ve done far more bad than good in this world, particularly as of late, and I’m due for a karmic ass-whoopin’ any time now if it’s not. If you deny the existence of NKEs, well, you can just head back over to horoscope.com.

As an example, I recently bought a new sled, and had to get the proper Q-Clips for the roof racks. (For those of you who own box vans, and therefore transport bikes/skis/rotting corpses of dead hookers inside your vehicles, Q-Clips are a car-specific attachment for the Yakima Q-Tower rack system.) The Yakima rack system is not cheap, and a set of 4 Q-Clips is generally about $70. As it turns out, the Q-Clips for a 1992 Suzuki Sidekick are no longer made (this may or may not be a karmic event). Without them, I would be looking at the Yakima “Landing Pad” system, which would be upwards of $300. (I don’t know the cost of a Thule system, as Thule racks are for squares … the only other acceptable rack system is a set of 40-year-old Barrecrafters.)

Though it's clearly a bit late to make a long story short, I fortuitously found what must be the last 4 appropriate Q-Clips in existence on eBay, and was able to purchase them for a mere $30. At least that was the financial cost … as anyone even remotely familiar with 2-GL would predict, something bad was bound to happen. Sure enough, with days of receiving the goods, the People Of Walmart website was blocked at work. A high price to pay, to be sure ... go take a look, if you don't work for some oppressive government agency. I think if I had a chance to change things, I’d even buy a set of Thules.

A zero-sum game indeed. As the Beatles so eloquently put it in an early draft of their final verse:

And in the end,
The racks with which you carry the boards on which you ski …
Are equal* to
The number of white-trash fat people in tiger striped lycra pants you see …

* It has long been theorized that by "equal," Lennon meant "perfectly and inversely correlated." George Harrison's influence is responsible for the far more karmic and infinitely more gag-inducing version that made the album.

Out With The Old, In With The New Less Old

Jane F’Honda is dead, and I’m glad.

It’s clear to me now what she was, but as in all relationships, one’s viewpoint is not always as objective as one might think. In retrospect, it seems so clear … I mean, I had such a long and beautiful relationship with the Grey Ghost. We spent upwards of 10 glorious years together, through frigid winters and brutally hot summers, across mountains and desert, with only the occasional lover’s quarrel. Even then, the drives after we’d gotten her fixed back up were always extra special. She saw me through a number of girlfriends, with nary a sign of jealousy (save that mysterious “leak” on Veronica McAllister’s driveway, and she turned out to be something of a bitch, anyway).

All things must come to an end, though, and eventually she up and left me. I drank a toast purchased with the $50 check from the junkyard, and I’d be hard-pressed to recall a more bittersweet moment than that last Bud Light we shared together (even though she was miles away, and presumably a 2'x2'x2' block of crushed steel by that time).

I handled our parting the way many do … I went out on the internet and found a cheap whore. “$500 OBO,” the ad read. My god, I don’t know what I was thinking. It hadn’t even been a week, and I was looking lustily at anything that moved. And there was Jane F’Honda, all old ‘n’ smokin’, with her come-hither valve tapping and her half-exposed timing belt. I know now that I was subconsciously longing for the Ghost – I mean, really … another mid 80s wagon from Japan? Gosh, what a coincidence!

Friend of Dead Acorn: Hey, Dead Acorn – your new girlfriend seems nice.

Dead Acorn: Thanks!

FODA: You, uh, don’t think she looks a bit like Darla, do you?

DA: Darla’s gone, okay? I don’t know what you’re talking about. This one has slightly greener eyes, and her name’s Marla, and she’s like two months younger, so they’re not even close to the same.

FODA: Whatever, dude. I’m happy you’re happy.

(3 months later)

DA: Hey … how come you never said anything about Marla being just a cheap substitute for Darla?

FODA: Dude, you were in love. Or drunk. Or something. You needed to figure it out by yourself.

DA: You’re a good friend, FODA.

Anyway, it’s over, she’s dead, and I’m glad. For some sick reason, she’s still hanging out in my driveway, where I look at her with alternating scorn and pity, but as soon as I pull that stereo, she’s gone.

So I had my rebound fling, which I guess was necessary as part of the healing process, but now I’m really in love again. A 1992 Suzuki Sidekick* JX … what a sweet-ass ride. Not really like the Ghost at all – she’s boxier and higher off the ground, like an SUV (but with good gas mileage), and there’s not as much room behind the seats as a station wagon. Still, though, I’ll be able put the Yakimas up top to carry stuff.

Taller, smaller rear end, same spectacular rack. Oh HELLZ yeah.

Not everything’s perfect, of course. The Zukester (you didn’t think I was going to call her Suzy, did you?) is the first car I’ve owned made after the 1980s, so I feel as though I’ve lost a bit of my youth. Plus, my long-time dream of dating someone younger than my car has just gone from “laughably improbable” to “felonious.” But all in all, I know these cars are good, because an ex-girlfriend of mine had one just like it. Same year, same color, same …

Aw, crap ...

* I've always wanted a Sidekick. Now I kind of feel like a superhero:
"Gee, Bob, we've got all this beer to drink! I don't think we can do it!" "Don't worry, Fred, here comes The Dead Acorn, and his trusty sidekick, Zukester!"

The Razor's Edge

I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about growing old. I don’t mean that in the “wow, it’s gonna suck getting old” sense, because I AM old (given my familial history, I should be having a ¾ life crisis right now). It could be that worrying about growing old is based on some sort of unfavorable internal comparison between your distant past and your present (or perceived future). I don’t think that’s the reason why I don’t worry too much, though, as my memory has long been shot to hell - I really have no past on which to base judgments. Maybe it’s just that I’m having a pretty good time right now and don’t have time to think about it.

That said, however, there are certain things associated with being younger that happen less and less as the years go by, and I must admit to appreciating them more and more when they do as time marches on. Getting carded for beer at 45 years of age should bring a smile to anyone’s face. Imagine my delight, then, when I was reprimanded at work today for my shoddy personal appearance!

That hasn’t happened in at least 10 years. I’m not counting the ever-present comment on my reviews that lists stores that sell combs (subtle!) … I’m talking about a “come in, close the door” discussion. The last time it happened had something to do with red Chuck Taylors not “projecting professionalism” to customers. (Yeah, whatever, boss … neither does your FAT ASS!) The current concern seemed to be spurred by facial hair and my lack of attention to its growth (I’m pretty sure I have a gender-based discrimination case here, if any lawyer types are looking for a project). In any case, I had coincidentally decided to shave this morning (and it was only about 3 or 4 days’ growth, fergawdsake), so at least I’m spared the appearance of having buckled under to the demands of The Man. (I do, however, now have an internal conflict between my work life (boss telling me to use a razor) and my personal life (friends and family not allowing me to have sharp objects). Maybe I’ll call EAP with that.)

You can bet your sweet bippy, though, that my next pair of Chucks will be red.

Above: Also persecuted for wearing facial hair, or something like that.

Another Seedy Post

As I was traipsing through the grocery store the other day (I was shopping without a list, as I am wont to do, so I made a conscious effort to traipse, rather than meander, as that would be shopping listlessly, rather than merely shopping without a list), I came upon a stand in the produce aisle that made my heart soar and my mouth water. At last, at long, long last, the pomegranates were here.

While others spend late summer in anticipation of the turning of the leaves, I spend most of my waking hours yearning for the arrival of my beloved pomegranates. I cannot relate the happenings of my sleeping hours, as more sensitive readers would surely turn as red as the sweet, sweet fruit around which my dreams revolve. Such was my joy at my discovery in the store that I couldn’t help but cry out “O Pomegranates! At long last, you are finally here, even as I felt I could survive no longer without you!” and embrace the startled woman standing nearby. Fortunately, her initial shock turned rather quickly to amusement (unlike the burly guy on whom I planted a kiss, and who apparently does not share my passion for pomegranates).

Pomegranates are not for the lazy. They require a bit of work before they'll surrender their succulent seeds, but the reward is well worth it (much like, after pestering Cyndy Lou Wannamaker for a year and a half in high school, finally getting to hear her siren voice utter the words “Jesus Christ … if I go out with you once, will you promise to leave me the fuck alone FOREVER?”). Further, it is of great import that one not wear white during pomegranatercourse, for though god’s forgiveness may cleanse your blood-stained hands, he’s pretty much useless when it comes to pomegranate stains. If you’re wearing white after Labor Day, however, you are not of the social standing to be eating pomegranates, anyway. It’s sort of like eating guacamole after Arbor Day.

Speaking of days, I have no problem with certain things having celebratory days designated for them. Things like "Talking Like A Pirate" and Being A Veteran are, of course, in this category. For other things, however, a day just won’t do, and I’ll take this opportunity to remind my readers that November is National Pomegranate Month.

I must admit to some apprehension concerning pomegranates. They are native to Iran, with whom our relationship is currently tenuous at best; the Spanish word for them is Grenada, who we invaded (sure, it was during finals so all their soldiers were taking tests, but still … U-S-A! U-S-A! WOOOOO!); and the French word for them is, ironically, grenade. It sure seems that anywhere there are pomegranates, there’s blood. I don’t think that was an apple, Eve.

I dunno … I guess if biting into a pomegranate means losing my innocence and being banished from paradise, well, so be it. Losing my innocence after getting Cyndy Lou Wannamaker hammered on vodka pomegranatinis wasn’t such a bad deal, in retrospect.

Above: What better way to get drunk and seedy?

[Update:] Faithful Reader HRC recalls that, after the Waco debacle, President Clinton tried to lift the spirits of Attorney General Reno by playfully singing "Don't go cry to your mama, Janet ... just have yourself a pomegranate!"

Sure, It's Awful Poetry, But At Least It's Short ...

Ascend the ladder! Our lifelong task
though far more oft, I cede the rungs

For with the dawn I join the flask
and ‘fore the noon I speak in tongues.

Words rhyme?

Check.

About drinking?

Check.

Suck it, Keats!

Boise Is Not A State ... That Makes No Sense

I don’t usually post too much about sports, what with my lack of knowledge rivaling the vacuum of deep space and all. Boise being a “college” “football” “town”, however, it’s difficult to escape the senseless rantings of the fans of the local eleven. Yesterday’s game against the University of Tulsa (home of supergroup Hanson) was really a win for everybody … the local worshippers get to maintain their hopes of an undefeated season and possible BCS Bowl bid, and for the rest of us, the certifiable loons who insist that BSU should have a shot at Florida (or the Insane Clown Posse, as I like to refer to those poor deluded souls) might actually shut the hell up after the somewhat pedestrian performance.

Also looming on the horizon is the matchup between Boise State (fan motto: “No, this jersey isn’t brand new. I’ve had it for like, you know, five years or so. You know, ever since they started winning …”) and the University of Idaho (fan motto: “we produce lawyers to move to Boise and run the state from a distance so fuck you hahahaha …”), who are a somewhat surprising 5-1. Should be a good game.

Having said that, we need to address the Tyrannosaurus Rex in the room, which is the issue of Strength Of Schedule (SOS). It goes without saying that any college team could beat, oh, say, The Helen Keller Institute For Sensory Deprived Quadriplegics. Having established that SOS is the only real measure of a football team’s greatness, let’s now take a look at the state’s three big football programs, as measured by winning percentage of opponents:

Boise State University: 44% (Opponent's record: 15-19)
University of Idaho: 45% (Opponent's record: 15-18)
Idaho State University: 65% (Opponent's record: 22-12)

I think we can all see who the real team in this state is. Now shut your pie holes.

[UPDATE:] In another bold scheduling move, Idaho State has lined up the University of Georgia Bulldogs for the 2010 season. Based on the 2009 schedule, which had ISU playing Oklahoma and BSU playing Tulsa Toddler’s Preschool University of Tulsa, I fully expect the Broncos to announce their big matchup with Atlanta's Le Cordon Bleu College of Culinary Arts any time now.