My unbaked thoughts and self righteous commentary on politics, pop culture or whatever else might slip out of my fingers onto the keyboard. For tech stuff, visit my technology-related blog and for bad poetry and stories, my poetry/story blog. Actually, both of these other blogs are updated much more frequently these days.
Meanwhile, in other important television doings, Five-0's Steve McGarrett was on the witness stand on WFMZ 69 this afternoon. Steve was testifying against some super villain loan shark and talking turkey about the exorbitant interest rates in the leg-breaking business, or "the juice, as it's called in the underworld parlance." Classic McGarrett-speak. Shuffling between that and a Twilight Zone marathon on the SciFi Channel brings to an end my last week on the dole, topped off with a rousing snow storm to boot.
And down the snow tumbles. I can hear all the fuckers up and down my block cackling with glee at the chance to rock and roll tomorrow with their machines of destruction. You know, I can't believe, we're on the eve of destruction. They're probably already hunkered down in their garages, greasing up their Sno-Blower 10000s for the big day tomorrow, anxious to gun the engines and shoot that snow a mile high in the sky before crashing it back down to earth all over my freshly hand-shoveled walk, erasing the fruits of my manual labor.
The idiot across the street from me was revving up his monstrous contraption this afternoon before a flake had even hit the ground. It was like qualifying day at the Indy 500. Better find my headphones so I can drown out the screams of 20 Blowers doing their synchronized dance tomorrow while I'm breaking my back with the ol' faithful $5 plastic shovel. I think a little Never Mind the Bollocks on the iPod will serve as a gentle alternative soundtrack to my back breaking efforts. My body is already aching just thinking about it. Of course I covered this neighbor problem in a December post, where I swore I'd break into my each of their garages at the dawn of the next big snowfall and fill the gas tanks of their blowers with nitroglycerin. Better set my alarm early tomorrow. :-)
But who am I kidding? I'm a dyslexic misanthrope: whenever I get especially angry at someone or something, I tend to take it out on myself, no matter how much I may want to lay into the true target of my fury. It's perhaps just something ingrained into my DNA? Nah. Odds are, it was tattooed onto my psyche by off-brand byzantine parenting since recalled.
I'm going to be signing off from this blog for the most part while I get back down to the business of business. That means more postings on my technology blog at the expense of this one. I'll still be checking in from time to time but probably not at the near daily clip I'd been posting to date, tossing globs of drivel-laden keystrokes at the web and watching precious little of it stick. Which is not to say that the quality will improve just because I have a go at it less. But I'll feel more guilty if it isn't. So I'll try.
I'm taken aback by the public's surprise over the recent Tiger Woods revelations. It doesn't turn my head, even if all the allegations are true. The guy's a super type-A personality (type AAA?) and I've known enough of them that I'm wise to their tendencies. Like the others I'd fit into this category, Woods has never come off as a "good guy" to me; in fact, I always thought he at least occasionally shops at the Jerk Store and might well be a regular customer. Personally, I'll take John Daly any day - he at least keeps his skeletons out on parade for all to see (even takes them on tour). John doesn't lock them up in a closet - they can develop a particularly concentrated rare trapped in there, as Tiger is discovering now.
On top of - and I'm sure enhancing - the driving type-A+ dickdom, Woods is one of the most famous and praised people on the planet, always the center of attention where ever he goes. Mix those ingredients all together in a (fish) bowl and bake it in the oven of the 24/7 media circus for a dozen or so years, you shouldn't be surprised if you don't end up with at least a couple of cookies on the tray fucking around on their partners. Sure, he gives back some healthy coin to charitable causes and donates time in that regard every now and then. That's just good business. The business of nurturing the Tiger Brand. And he'd been pretty savvy at that or so it seemed.
If some of the more outlandish behavior does turn out to be true (and we may never know), I am a bit surprised that he went about it so seemingly carelessly. Especially given all he has to lose. You may have noticed that he doesn't like to lose. It just seems very out-of-character for a guy who takes calculation and strategy to a level very few people reach. But it's not all that uncommon for those who are grappling in the depths of addiction to forgo the disciplines that come second nature in all other aspects of their lives, especially when they are in the midst of feeding their compulsion. Believe me, I know from where I speak. I'm not suggesting that's what's at work here with Tiger, but it's possible.
Okay, that's about three paragraphs more than I promised myself I'd devote to this particular fallen idol. After all, it's not the typical hard news I like to cover on these pages. You know me - always and only important topics like ...
Dead Jacko. Is he still entombed? Or did they pull him out of the mausoleum for the holidays? As a sort of Christmas Tree replacement.
The War in Afghanietnam.Apocalypse Now II - Colonel Kurtz Jr. Conquers Tora Bora. "I love the smell of Heroin Poppies in the morning." I'm sure our Prez Barack O'Johnson .. er, I mean Obama wouldn't miss the premiere of this one. Just kidding, Mr. Prez. I hope. What's that I hear? "One two three, what are we fighting for? I don't know, I don't give a damn, next stop's Afghanistan ..." Country Joe, time for a second act?
The Endless Healthcare Roundabout. It appears our intrepid lawmakers are determined to debate the already-compromised-beyond-use legislation into literal nothingness - in fact, approaching anti-matter - perhaps agreeing simply to mail two aspirin out to every citizen and be done with it. I only wish Mr. Smith goes to Washington was real. And by that, I mean the remake envisioned by Homer Simpson and realized by Mel Gibson, Lethal Weapon-style:
Or something to that effect. Perhaps Maureen put it best here so I'll leave her with the last word on the Tiger and his Tail, at least from my corner of the world. Unless Woods goes bonkers and decides the best way to redeem his public image is an appearance on Dancing with the Stars with his new dance partner, Boy George. Should that happen I'm sure I'll have something to say, if only "I told you so." Because I did. Here.
It's the first real day of my vacation this week and I've thus far resisted logging into work email. I can tell my inbox is filling to burst, though. I can feel it. Cries from the great unwashed. Well, they'll just have to learn to clean themselves or stay dirty until Monday 'cause I've got more important things to do. Hawaii Five-0 is on, after all. The best ham and cheese to ever grace the small screen. Jack "The" Lord doesn't just chew the scenery, he lays out the silverware, slaps on the ketchup and wolfs it down with gusto. A great one today. Some disgraced ex-cop McGarrett had thrown off the force way back when for rampant corruption is now exacting his revenge, tormenting Steve-O, leaving anonymous threats and crazy non-clues and ultimately pinning a death sentence on the Governor (the Gov's assassination would ruin McGarrett's career apparently "because I'm responsible for his safety").
I toil in the murky world of software development and architecture for my supper, a frustrated writer who fell into the technology game quite by chance.
My humor is usually parched and pitch black (if you don't squirm, it's not funny), aimed often at the brilliance and sublime idiocy in politics and pop culture.
Finally, at the end of the day I'm really just a devoted student of life with failing grades who keeps registering for new classes with the fervent hope that he doesn't get expelled this semester.
The opinions expressed here are my own (and they usually don't qualify as that for very long). They are not to be construed as opinions of my employer, my dead dog, the Pope, Richard Nixon's ghost, or Paris Hilton. (Well, maybe on occasion, Paris. I think that - like me - she's student of life at heart.)
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