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.

What Is This, Some Kind Of Emo Blog?

I have a bad habit of looking at a beautiful sky every once in a while and … I don’t know … noticing a cloud that doesn’t exist. It never lasts too long, and I kind of kick myself for forgetting that I’m about the luckiest man on the planet.

So as I sit here and type this in my red and yellow Sugar Daddy jammies, waiting for my pizza to cool and listening to Tom Waits sing “Young At Heart,” my wish is that everyone could be as lucky as me, and that everyone takes a minute to acknowledge the beautiful things in their lives.


Above: Good side of the sexiest guy whose name is on the water bill for this particular address. Now THOSE are some damn jammies. Shakira who now?

I don't know if there's writer's block for people who aren't writers. Maybe I'll try to find out some day.

I'm Being Stalked By A Stripper, But Not That Kind ...

I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve the ire of Stephan Pastis, but his attacks seem to be continuing. If you’ll recall, he belittled me personally in his comic strip Pearls Before Swine*, alleging that those who choose to exercise their first amendment rights via bumper stickers are “whack jobs.” I don’t know why he hates America.

Well, as my legions of readers know, the Grey Ghost is no more, so yeah, Pastis, I’m sure you’re happy that this constitution-loving whack-job’s vehicle is off the road. But apparently that’s not enough for you, is it? Hmm?

It’s quite obvious that he’s an on-line stalker … how else would he know about Jane F’Honda and my legendary ineptitude in matters of amore? In any case, today’s strip leaves no doubt whatsoever that I am the object of some sort of sick obsession:

Above: Introduction of an acorn character would be only slightly less subtle.

Even more disturbing is his knowledge of my fondness for sudoku. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned it here, which can only mean that he’s tracked me down at the local pub, where I’ll occasionally screw one up within minutes ponder over one, or even scarier, that he knows where I live and that I enjoy spending my weekend mornings with mimosas and the Statesman puzzles. Creepy.

Get help, Pastis. Seriously.

* As always, I would ask that you contact your local paper if they don’t run Pearls Before Swine, and ask them to start. The Statesman runs it through the week, but not on Sundays, so give some thought to an email requesting it. Best strip going … if you doubt it, check out the brilliance here.

A Little Trip To Heaven

Well, I've had another successful jaunt across the state to Pocatello. By “successful,” of course, when referring to jaunts to Pocatello, I mean “non-lethal.” There was very little law enforcement involved, which is somewhat surprising, but welcome nevertheless. The person with whom I went had never done spent time there, and the fact that it was Idaho State’s Homecoming was a bit frightening. I feel somewhat bad, because taking someone to Pocatello is like introducing them to meth … it might be fun while it’s happening, but ultimately, no good can come of it. But I did get to visit with a few people I hadn’t seen in a long time, and got to partake of the Office Bar's delightful breakfast fare, so no regrets. Quote of the trip: “The first puke in the morning wasn’t too bad … it was just water and Twizzlers. The second one was worse … that Bloody Mary was pretty spicy.”

I did discover on the way back that I had left the oil cap off when I checked it before leaving Boise. I’m pretty sure ole Jane F’Honda ran dry for a bit. It started up this morning, though, and I’ve got a new PN 710 on there, so maybe it’s just already as damaged as it’s ever going to get.

In other news, the regular season wrapped up yesterday, with Cleveland finishing tied with Kansas City:


Above: Middle of the pack is for CHUMPS.

I haven’t read of when the tie-breaker is scheduled yet. This is a little odd, because there’s no scheduling conflict with a football game, as there is in Minnesota, where the other tie-breaker is being played. Odd indeed.