Friday, June 02, 2006


I went shopping recently – for clothes. Clothes shopping can be as traumatic for men as it is therapeutic for women. First of all, we don’t like it. Second of all, we don’t know what the hell we’re doing. And third, we don’t like it. I don’t know why exactly, but I suspect it has something to do with the fact that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.

I have a hard enough time understanding the menu at Starbucks – dressing myself presents an even more confusing set of options. Not only do things need to fit, but they need to “go.” Matching. So many colors. So many styles. So many sizes. So many stores! It’s so much easier to have someone tell me what to wear than to trust the random combination of garments I select won’t make me look like Mrs. Roper on Three’s Company. That only happened once, by the way, and the paisley table cloth I was wearing didn't last the night.

Anyhow, I knew I needed some new clothes and wanted to prove to Geri that I could do it on my own. So I headed over to Banana Republic, a fashionable clothing retailer with a reasonable return policy and a staff of overeager beavers. Don’t read too much into that expression unless you really want to.

Shopping alone, I knew there were only two ways the mission would be a success. I could buy whatever the mannequins were wearing, as they’re always decked out in the latest and greatest stuff. But that would be costly, I knew, as those trendy mannequins tend to have expensive taste. My other option was to find the gayest employee in the store, whose name happened to be Adam, and have him walk me through some options. Two hours later I left with several matching “outfits” and still had money left in the bank for a Starbucks on the ride over to Geri's place for final approval.

Upon showing my spread of new threads to Geri, she said, “They all look nice – I like them. Did your sister go with you?”

They looked too good. She was onto me.

I wanted to tell her how I’d picked them all out myself. How I’d spent hours and hours mixing and matching tops and bottoms until I’d found the perfect fit. How I’d examined patterns and colors and fabrics and textures. And how insulted I was that she would assume I’d had any help at all.

Instead, I told her the truth.

“No…my sister did NOT help. But close. A girl named Adam did.”

“Good!” she exclaimed. “I like it all…everything looks very nice.”

“Yeah, I knew I could do it.” I said.

This story really has no point. But if you're looking for one, then here it is: There’s really no shame in asking for help.


Did you know that Broccoli has C coli in it? Yeah. I don't even know what C coli is but it sounds harmful. Kind of like E coli, but earlier. I wonder if I can get sick from eating Bro C coli. Geri, my resident dietitian, is out of town for the weekend, so I'm struggling. To eat or not to eat.


Just had another brilliant idea, which I suppose is redundant in my case.

Tuna sausage. Yeah, baby! Bring me a bluefin bratwurst. Chicken of the Sea packed like pepperoni in a sheer casing so we can enjoy it on a bun, or sliced and ground up like the crumbled sweet sausage on a gourmet pizza. That's what I'm talking about. I'm through talking turkey sausage - I want something a little easier on the arteries - something with a little Fatty O for the effort. Some walleye weiners or a salamahi stick. Salmon sausage patties. Crumbled catfish.

Let's face it - the only thing that prevents sausage from being the most perfect food on the planet (besides cheese, of course), is the fact that those in the dietary know have little praise for its nutritional virtues.

So I'm saying, if we packed sausage with pike in stead of pork, maybe we could kill two birds with one stone instead of one stone with two birds. I don't know what that means, either, but I really really really wanted to see what it looked like in print.

So there you go. You want to eat healthier? Sprinkle some Bass Bits on your salad instead of bacon.

Who wants to help me write a business plan? Is American Inventor still on?


So – you dug on my recommendation to try a Quizno’s toasted Prime Rib sub? I TOLD you that shit was good. Well, I also recommend the Double Stack Pastrami sub. It’s every bit as dee-lish. I recommend it on wheat with a little lettuce on top. And to go with it? Check this out.

Sweet Hawaiian Style Onion Krunchers are the shizznit, yo.

Da-amn, they’re good. You know what they taste like? Funyuns. I remember eating Funyuns as a kid – that zesty onion crunch in every crispy ring. Well, Krunchers has brought back the same great flavor in this new spin-off of their popular line of kettle-cooked potato chips. It’s in a mauve bag, and I highly recommend you grab one today.

(Did I just use the word "mauve" in a sentence?)


Check this shit out. If you enjoyed the Kitten Cannon, swing over and check out this bad boy. It’s a little more complicated than point and shoot, but after a few practice clicks you’ll get the hang of it. Hours of mindless fun. See if you can beat 488, Sally!

I’m sure you can if you give it more than 10 minutes. Actually, I’m not so sure you’ll be able to handle it for more than 10 minutes. It’s INTENSE.

Okay, that was a lie. But it’s still a fun time waster. So quit wasting time here and click on the damn link!

[There is a little music in the background, so if you're at work you may want to turn the speakers up so everyone can hear how much fun you're having.]


So, I asked for some stupid people tricks and received this fine submission. It's a firsthand account of blood plasma donation, which despite its well-intended purpose is still a business. As your broke ass probably already knows, there are clinics all across the country where you can earn a few bucks helping supply blood banks with your vital life juice. One reader's experience was not worth the meager compensation. I would recommend switching to sperm donation except that A.) thanks to the internet, every year I get more and more anonymous father's day cards and B.) the reader is not equipped with the factory-installed equipment for such an undertaking.

Anyhow, here is her account for your files.

************THE PEOPLE WRITE*************


I did one of the dumbest things ever yesterday. It, at first, doesn't sound stupid but you can make your own opinion. This is also on my blog.

(I was inspired by you, btw)

Ever heard of Biolife Plasma Services? They buy your plasma. They have a cheery little jingle on the radio ad about how you are a lifesaver and all that.

One of my former co-workers donates regularly and reports that it is easy money. She goes two-three times a week. I *thought* she said she made $45 a pop.

Bored, unemployed, and soon to be broke, I figured "What the hell. I'll give it a try." Easy money baby!

You know how you judge an apartment complex by the kinds of cars you see in the parking spaces? This should have been my first clue.

The second clue was the fact that the two "gentlemen" waiting looked like meth-heads and made me wonder how they got past the "illicit substances" questions.

Third clue is the person that checked me in was a puppy. He was 20, at most, and I feel that was being generous.
So, they took a bunch of information and someone else gave me a "physical" which meant listening to my heart, flashing a light in my eyes and mouth and testing my reflexes. This was clue number 4.

Then it was my turn. You sit in these recliner like things and there are pinball looking machines next to each chair.
First, they have you sign another form. Then they give you the money in this furtive little flourish. A whopping $15. Okay, at this point, I am ready to bail. I have already wasted $15 worth of time. But I am kinda committed at this point.

They hook me up, but not without issues. Let me preface this with the fact that I have freakishly low blood pressure, usually 112/65, which they assured me would not be an issue.

After fiddling with the darning needle in my arm, and not before I told the guy to stop fiddling with said needle, they started the machine. They remind you to repeatedly squeeze your hand when the machine beeps. Well, it is always freaking beeping...and so are the twelve others that are in the same room. So, I should have Popeye forearm muscles in my left arm.

On the time ticks, I am sitting, squeezing, and trying to read, one handed. There is sign that says that wireless internet is available. It took me a minute to realize that a laptop usually takes two hands, thus wireless internet is just a clever distraction technique. Nice try though.

They advised me that they take your blood, then inject saline so that you don't pass out & dehydrate, then inject your plasma-less blood back into you. The saline, they said, will make you cold. As time passes, the guy asks me if I taste metal. What? Apparently, when the saline is injected a person usually tastes metal. Reminiscence of having braces, lucky me. One more reason for me NOT to do this ever again.

Oh, and your lips tingle. Tingle, hypothermia tingle. "But it's common." GREAT.

So, nearly an hour has passed, I am supposed to be done soon and I am getting fidgety. I have already decided that this is SO NOT FOR ME, especially for 15 f&#$ing dollars!

I happen to begin feeling a little, shall I say, disconnected. I looked down at my arm and I noticed blood begin to seep. Now, I am not a doctor, don't even play one on TV, but I know that's not supposed to happen. I tried to get the "nurses" attention and finally did right before I had the "Go toward the light" feeling.

They pulled out the needle and put a cold compress on my arm...but not before disagreeing on whether or not to poke my OTHER arm and inject me with more saline. Now, I am nearly unconscious at this point but I could feel my backbone stiffen. They sure as HELL wasn't going to poke me again!

A cup of water and two ice packs and TLC from a cutie named TJ was the final solution. (Other than the whole vampire thing, I'm crushing a little on TJ.)
Forty-five minutes later, my blood pressure is - no word of a lie - 88/59. Much to my surprise, they let me go home...driving myself, by the way. (because I'm sure the officer will understand)

Needless to say, I felt like poo the rest of the day and frankly, don't feel all that special today. Oh, and I am sporting a nice junkie bruise on my arm.


This is definitely in the Top 10 of the Dumbest Things I have EVER Done. Ever.

Thursday, June 01, 2006


You've undoubtedly seen this photo of the three-armed baby born in China. Doctors have been steeped in debate over whether or not they should remove the infant boy's third arm so he might live a "normal" life. That had some friends of mine thinking - maybe he'd prefer a life less normal. Maybe a third arm wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Let's consider some of the many great things this gifted child might go on to become:

- A bad ass drummer, and three times better than that dude in Def Leppard

- A proud lifetime sponsor for Speedstick

- A very dangerous professional boxer

- An expert juggler

- The most gifted pianist the world has ever known

- A one-man baseball pitching staff - starter, middleman, and reliever. When one arm gets tired, go on to the next one.

- An extremely effective massage therapist

- A super handy handyman

And these occupational considerations don't take into account the many other ways a person might benefit from an extra arm:

Safer driver: Enjoying a hot Starbucks beverage with both hands on the wheel.

Better lover: Whoa! Where'd that extra hand come from. Do that again!

Heavy lifter: Imagine the groceries this guy could lug up two flights of stairs with an extra limb!

Party favor: Don't look now, but that guy over in the corner is triple fisting it.

Sports and music fan: Can actually clap and hold a beer at the same time.

Healthier: How nice to have a designated hand for coughing, sneezing, and wiping only.

And do you know how dangerous this guy would be in a snowball fight?

This third arm "defect" could be an evolutionary gift, the next step in natural selection's plan. Unless, of course, it has no motor function. Then it probably ought to go the way of the tail.


Apparently the Prince of Monaco gets around. Prince Albert II has formally acknowledged he is the father of a SECOND illegitimate child, a 14-year-old girl living in California. More shocking to me was the fact that this man is the Prince of Monaco. I've always called him Uncle Frank. In addition to his apparent popularity with the ladies, he's also an accomplished dentist and a terror on the bocce court.

Sounds like I need to send another "Welcome to the Family" card off to my new distant cousin in California. Hallmark doesn't make those, by the way. I have to order them special online.


Figured you guys might want to see a couple pics of Geri and I, but since I couldn't find any I pulled a couple images from the web that are pretty close.

Geri would be the one on the left.

I am the dashing gent jamming on a six string. I don't play guitar as often as I used to, but I can still rock the block, y'all.

The photo of Geri is from a couple weeks ago. Her new condo unit is a duplex with a runway in it, which is a lot of fun for parties. Sometimes I dress up and pretend I'm Constantine from last year's American Idol. We make our friends vote for us with text messages. Then we all play Scattergories together and laugh until dawn.

I am really too busy to making posts like this.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006


I have just been very busy. Enormously busy. Lots going on at work. Lots going on at home. Lots going on everywhere.

Anyhow, I haven't forgot about you. In fact, I think about you often. I will have something mindblowing for you to read soon. I just haven't figured out what exactly. But it's coming. I can feel it deep in my duodenum. Moves kind of like a golf ball when I shift my weight. Was that out loud? Disregard that.

Okay - it's back to work I go. Do something stupid and tell me about it...or send me a fun link I can post. That way I won't feel like such a bad blogger.