Karma Sutra -or- Boobknocks & Boxsprings

Soon, I’ll be done with the awful process of house-buying and house-selling. Friday, to be exact, will conclude the act of house-selling. Without shedding a tear, I will have my attorney attend the closing, keys in hand. Good-bye, current home. And from what I’ve learned about you (and your previous owners) over the past 2 months; good riddance, too! But thinking about the end of this week makes me consider last weekend’s events. First, I went up to examine the new crib (see right), and was pleased to note that it was coming along. And then I decided to head to a certain furniture store in Nashua, NH, since I needed a new bed. Or, a crib for the new crib.
	I’ve had this thing for sleigh beds for awhile. Since they didn’t make a NASCAR-shaped bed in my size, I decided that having a sleigh bed was the next best thing. How else could I get away with wearing a cape, ringing tiny bells and cracking a whip in the bedroom? Exactly. So, when I arrived at the store, I made a quick bunch of rounds to get a good view of the stock, and a salesperson greeted me shortly thereafter. She was pretty helpful, and found me a sleigh bed that allowed me to put my large body between the head and foot boards. I was pleased. And after we rang up the sale, she mentioned something about checking out the sleep lab. Sleep lab? What could that be? So, I’m buying a bed and you’re going to cure my apnea? Cool!
But it wasn’t quite like that, as the salesperson pointed out. “Not quite,” she said, “as she dialed the phone. I’m paging a sleep lab consultant now.” I kept wondering what she meant. All of a sudden my mind conjured the image of Michael Douglas in “Coma”. Was Jordan’s going to sell me a sleigh bed and mattress, then slip me into a coma so that they could suspend my comatose body from the ceiling of their warehouse? Not quite. As it turns out, I was to meet Chris in the “sleep lab” so that I could try out mattresses. Sleep lab, eh? Well, everyone was wearing lab coats. Maybe the coma thing wasn’t so far-fetched. And then I met Chris. And, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t intentional, I nearly lapsed into a coma.
Chris, you see, was incredibly hot. My guess is that she was in her late 20’s or early 30’s, and about 5′7″. Now, as I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m not one to gawk. I’ll usually catch attractive women in my peripheral vision. And I’m not trying to make a woman feel bad by eye-fucking her. But this time? I was caught off guard. Why? First of all, I was shopping for furniture of all things. The erotic setup just had no context there. And second, because each and every time Chris would bend over to show me something about the mattress that I was laying on, her breasts would nearly spill right out of her blouse. I kept picturing Niagara Falls being dammed up and the dam waiting to burst. That is, I kept picturing Niagara Falls being dammed up, so the tourists wouldn’t be rapped over the head with nipples. To put it mildly, I was beet-red. And I was trying to look away from the delicious breasts. Mind you, Chris’s demeanor didn’t help, either. She kept saying “lay on your back”, and, “okay, how’s that? Now lay on your side.”, and, “you’re so easy! This is great!” Between the near spillage, and the rolling around on the bed, I was beside myself. I’m sure that she thought that I was going to have a heart attack or something.	Exhibit A: Boobies. Only a s[t]imulation, but they’re close to what was burning my eyes.
“What is that you say, Chris? That this is a soft mattress? What? Oh, it’s a firm mattress. Okay. Yes, actually, I’m looking for a soft mattress.”
	“Oh, uhhh, a firm mattress. Right, that’s what I meant. Oh, it costs a million dollars? Okay. What? Oh, lay on my side, again? Sure.”

Just when you thought that your standards were low.

I was thinking that, with regards to building a house, and the crap that goes along with it, how much my standards have lowered. I mean, I was more than willing to spend a few days “in limbo” as long as my current home sale went smoothly, which would be used for the purchase of the new home. I was willing to sleep on people’s couches, sleep in the truck with my dog and other things like that. I was willing to forrage, etc.

I was pretty convinced that I was a low-maintenance, low-standards type of guy. I was proud of myself.

And then I remembered my college days.

All of a sudden memories came flooding back about sitting in dirty basement “parties” in my torn jeans, feeling very hip, and not noticing that this was not a place where my parents would enjoy themselves. And why did I bother? I think that they had beer. That is, when I used to drink, beer seemed to be the only requirement for my attendance at a given event.

So, then I came to realize that I’m becoming picky and complex after all. While I’m willing to sleep on someone’s couch, I’m no longer willing to sit on the floor without any pants, while doing nothing but staring into space and eating a gigantic bowl of pasta.

I’m Andy Capp’ed, bloke!

I don’t understand why they make handicapped stalls so big, in comparison to the “regular-sized” stalls. Today was one such day that I needed to do major work in the men’s bathroom, but the handicapped stall was taken [1], so I was forced to squish myself into the “regular-sized” stall [2].

Funny thing about the “regular-sized” stall? It’s not a regular-sized stall at all, unless you’re Japanese, in which case it’s a luxury suite at the Marriott! In fact, when I sit on the toilet with my pants around my ankles, my thighs are smushed together, to the extent that my testicles are squished together in a fashion not unlike what happens when you buy grapes and a 5-pound bag of sugar from the supermarket (and everything ends up in the same grocery bag, with the grapes on the bottom). My right leg isn’t able to move since it’s lodged against the wall, and my left leg is stuck to the toilet paper dispenser. It’s a horrible thing, and it’s almost impossible not to pee on yourself since you can’t get good control.

So, today was no exception. After feeling uncomfortable in the stall, but not so uncomfortable to interrupt my will, ability, or propensity to excrete, I started having evil thoughts. No, correction. I started having jealous thoughts.

“The handicapped are so lucky“, I said to myself, “to have a big stall like that.” And then I realized the irony of it. What have I become? An able-bodied miscreant? An unhappy shitter. I hope not!

[1] NOTE: I have not seen any handicapped people in my part of the building (not a one!), so yeah, I use the handicapped stall all the time.
[2] NOTE B: If you have not seen me in real life, I’m 6′6″/250, so any small space is a really small space for me.

The Tedsicle and Why Baseball is Dying

Now, if you follow the news at all, you’ve probably heard of the death of Ted Williams. If you aren’t familiar with Ted Williams, he’s the last baseball player to hit over .400 in a given season. If you don’t know how lofty of a task it is to hit .400, oh, it’s lofty alright. Of course, there’s much more to Ted than that one feat, but I’ll leave it up to you to research Ted Williams, if you haven’t already. This entry is to really address a couple weird parts of human behavior and baseball culture.

First, two days after Ted’s death, news began to surface that he wasn’t going to be buried. Not unusual, since Ted was going to be cremated. Oh wait, no, that wasn’t it. His son, John Henry Williams, decided to have Ted’s head cryogenically “preserved” at a facility in Arizona so that, well, who knows.

If you’re unfamiliar with the medical community’s take on cryogenics, most worth their salt think that it’s a crock. I mean, it’s grossly expensive, and who’s to know how to deal with a body once it’s been unfrozen. It certainly didn’t work for those dinosaurs who were encrusted in ice. When thawed, how many T-Rex’s did you see prancing around? Oh, and the teradactyl? Flying around? No. Why would someone think that it could help Ted Williams? And worse yet, only Ted’s head has been frozen.

The only conclusion that I could come to is that John Henry Williams was planning to do something awful like selling Ted’s head on Ebay. Oh, you think that someone wouldn’t buy it? Think again. This is the same country where someone spent $2000 (on Ebay) for already-been-chewed gum from major-leaguer Juan Gonzalez. Think that they wouldn’t spend $100K for the head of Ted Williams?

(No, I’m not making jokes. I’m simply pointing out the absurdity of it all.)

Next, baseball culture is so weird. It’s antique, and for whatever reason, it’s not charming. The economics don’t make sense. The people who play the game (when they talk about their roles, and the economics of the game) don’t make sense. The management doesn’t make sense.

I used to think that the airline industry was like major league baseball; that is, even under hardships, the industry would survive, and would defy the principles of economics. But in the end, no, the airline industry needed a bail out, thousands of jobs were lost, and the industry is still bleeding. Why? Because people aren’t flying like they used to. Maybe it’s widespread customer dissatisfaction, or maybe it’s something else, but the numbers are down (and had been in a steady decline for the last 10 years).

Baseball, on the other hand, doesn’t follow the same model. Since the 1994 strike, attendance numbers are down by over 10%, and yet salaries have gone up by over 200%, and with the exception of contracting (removing) two teams — no jobs have been lost in major league baseball. How on earth is this possible?

So, with this 200% increase in salary, and another increase on the slate for next year (in all likelihood), I’m having a hard time believing the players when they try to provide reasons for why a strike (labor stoppage) is possible. “Well, if we don’t take more, we’ll get less!”, they’ll say, but is that really true?

Finally, about baseball. Calling any major sporting event a “tie”, after charging $175 per ticket is a fucking sham. Sure, it was an All-Star game and all, and sure nobody wanted to get injured, but isn’t part of the collective bargaining agreement (between baseball players and ownership/management) intended to compensate players (i.e. – through high salaries) such that if injuries occur, they players won’t be screwed? Not to say that I want anybody to get injured, but let’s call a spade a spade. Players get paid high salaries to entertain, and the end-product of this entertainment is to deliver the public a win or a loss. Without a win or a loss, the product is flawed, and there should be a recall.

One meow (in the name of love).

Something happened to Bono (from U2). That, or I’m beginning to tire of rock music (no), have grown a sense of taste (seen my blog? no), or maybe it’s something else (yeah, probably).

Now, I used to think that U2 totally rocked. Their first 3 or 4 albums were tremendous. And then came “Pop”, which isn’t worth talking about.

But, what happened to Bono, you ask?

Jesus H, man. Have you heard the man sing? I mean, in that “Corrs” video? Is it me, or when you hear that song, don’t all of the neighborhood cats turn up on the fence outside of your window? Has his singing always been that bad? His singing is almost as inexcuseably bad as Anthony Kiedis’s singing on a few of the songs on “Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magick” like “Under the Bridge”.

Or have I been distracted by The Edge all this time? Must be the skull cap.

( Earl )

I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s time to start dressing better for work. Last fall, I’d turned the corner and had been dressing better, but now — I’m always looking wrinkled, and my clothes faded. Oh, and I need to part company with my traitorous washer and dryer set, as they keep munging the cuffs of my shirts and pants. But soon.

Now, nobody at work has really commented on my lack of stylee. In fact, I’ve been getting away with wearing sneakers at least once a week. (Yes, Nat X will fight the power, etc.) But circumstances of last week really made me think about the way that I’m dressing for work.

On Wednesday of last week, it was fucking hot out. Now, when I mean hot, it was nearly 100 degrees in the city of Boston where I work. Of course, I’d neglected to stop for gas on the evening before, so I needed to make the stop on the way home from work. So, I pulled into the self-service island of a Citgo, and began to fill ‘er up.

One person stopped to ask me for directions. I offered directions, and they thanked me and drove off.

I continued to fill my tank.

Another person stopped to ask me directions, but this time they were speaking slowly, as if they’d asked for directions from a passenger on a short bus. I offered directions (without incident, might I add), and they thanked me and drove off.

I continued to fill my tank. Truck. Big tank.

A third person stopped to ask me directions. Now Jesus FC people, I know that driving in Boston rear ends you like shower time at Attica, but how can that many people from Massachusetts not know how to drive in the city?

So, unfortunately for the third person, I didn’t know how to get to where they wanted to go from where I was currently standing. And then they floored me by asking me to go inside and see if I had a map.

I was like, “WHAT?!“

At first, they seemed put off by my refusal. And then, my filling stopped, so I screwed on the gas cap, got in my truck and drove off.

And then it dawned on me.

They thought that I was a gas station attendant! “Oh fuck“, I thought. Have my navy blue cotton dockers faded and frayed so badly (at the cuffs) that they looked like something that a gas station attendant would wear? And does the fact that it’s 100 degrees out, and that I’ve rolled up the sleeves of my blue long-sleeved shirt “seal the deal”? Have I made myself out to be a de facto “fuel transfer engineer”?

[Not to say that there's anything wrong with it, but it's super to heckle people who jump to conclusions: i.e. - don't yell "fire", unless you seem flames shooting out of my ass, as sometimes there's just smoke.]

I’m going to kill you, washer and dryer. Oh, and damn you to hell, too. Failing that, I will buy myself an oval-shaped name patch that reads “Earl”. I will wear this shirt whenever I fill up my tank at a self-service place. I will be rude to patrons while filling my fuel tank, and then I will get in my vehicle and drive off. I will give wrong directions so that everybody ends up at strip clubs, XXX book shops, and off-track betting facilities.

I’ve never known an Earl like you before. Never, never, never, never. Never known an Earl like you before. Yeah, it’s alright.

You’re Practically Young Enough to be my … math student?!

I’ve decided to limit my blog to five subject areas: UNIX/tech-related, work, pornography, dating and muscle cars. Okay, no; just kidding. It sometimes seems that my subject matter is limited to these topics, even though I’m interested in so many more things than those 5 subject areas. I was thinking about this the other day, and came to the conclusion that maybe I’m unable to vocalize or write about some things. Or maybe other things are just too boring to discuss here.

In any case.

I had another weird dating-related experience a few days ago. Actually, I never got as far as going on a date with this woman. And, after reading this, you’ll agree that — thank goodness — it didn’t get that far.

Dating when one is in their 30’s is such a weird experience. For starters, I have no freaking clue how old women are anymore. 20? 25? 40? Who knows! Whether I’m really delusional, or my eyes have been crusted over with Oil of Olay, I’m never sure how to guage the age of my prospective dates. Last week, I met this interesting specimen when I was out and about. We had a nice rapport (as we always do before everything turns itself upside down), and it was fun to be chatty and flirty. So, I asked for her phone number, and that’s when I could liken the moment to watching molasses flow through an hourglass.

Me: “So, anyways, I’ve got to run, but I was wondering if I could call you sometime?”
She: “I dunno. I’m 42. That’s practically old enough to be your mother!”

[Fucking gross, dude. 12 year olds having babies?!]

Me: “Seriously?!”
She: “Yes, I mean a 15-year age difference is pretty significant!”

[Geez, I had no idea that she was 42. I took her for being -- maybe -- 35. So, I threw caution to the wind.]

Me: “Umm, but I’m only 30.”
She: “Still… that’s practically 15 years!”

[While plausible, it's hard to fathom 15 year olds having babies as well.]

Me: “Ummm.”
She: “Think about it! It’s simple math!”

[Considered making off-colored remarks about Florida votes and math, but decided against it. Actually, now that I think about it, I have no idea why I bothered pushing the simple math point. But it was really irritating, like reading a lengthy poison pen letter by someone who confuses they're/there/their.]

Me: “Heh, okay. I’m not very good at math or computing.”
She: “That’s okay. But there are good books out there.”
Me: “And maybe I’ll buy a dozen of them from Amazon.com. Or, should I say, ‘15′?”

Oh, the Things that I Hear III

Remember those griping ladies who I’d overheard spewing venom whilst on the smoking porch? Remember how I’d pidgeon-holed them as swingers and nude sunbathers? Remember how I was such a bitter and bad person, in response to their own bitterness and badness?

Yesterday afternoon, a funny thing happened on the smoking porch.

Not only did the 2 ladies re-appear. And not only after re-appearing did they begin Yet Another saucy conversation. The older of the 2 ladies began to tell her friend how she likes to do nude sunbathing on her boat, and how her “asshole” of a husband hates it, and how she does it anyways.

Now, under other circumstances, I might believe that the old cootress was baiting me, what, with (she) having a nice body and letting me overhear a conversation about her naked sunbathing. But there was something about this conversation that lead me to believe that it was true. Hell, maybe it’s just my own amusement or delusion, since I willed it to be true.

Next topic of conversation? I won’t bet the farm on it, but I’ll mutter the word “polyamory”. Or, maybe quitting smoking. If I will that to be true, and it really happens, I’ll be back to smoking in peace.