Nobody

I have been very fortunate in my life to meet and be friends with some amazing people. I have the misfortune -- whenever I see a few of these people out'n'about, in public -- of them simply acting as though they don't know me. Given, a lot of the times, I haven't been in contact with these individuals for maybe five years, so you're probably saying to yourselves, "they don't recognize you." Yes they do.

I was drinking and having a blast playing some PS3 and watching some late night programming buzzed over at a friend's apartment, and I swore a guy there, who was a friend of a friend of the person who's apartment we were intoxicated in, was the same person I had gone to high school with. It's late in the evening, getting close to midnight, and we had all been playing and finishing off a case, and someone asks the guy I recognize if he wouldn't like a ride home, since I suppose he hadn't driven to where we were at. He agreed, being nowhere near eligible to handle the road had he driven there, and the person offering him the lift home is disgruntled because they have to drive further into Hutch, yet it wasn't that big of deal to them, they would do it to see their friend arrive safely home. The guy I recognized says that getting to his house is actually a lot easier than his friend imagines because he's in South Hutch, and that there's no turn-offs, and strange back-roads, you could take the highway for forty-to-forty-five minutes and get off in South Hutch, and then it's less than a few minutes from there. The friend driving concluded that it still was a ways from where he lived, which was Lyons. He lived near Lyons if I remember correctly.

I chose to use this bit of information to ask the guy I recognized how long he had lived in South Hutch. He said around ten years, give or take, so I figured perhaps he went to school in South Hutch knowing he was a few years younger than myself. He said he went to Hutch. So I asked him what about high school, same district as Hutch, or did he choose to transfer? He said he went to Haven. Cool beans. I still believe he's the same kid I know from high school, and the more I thought of it, it made sense. Back to when I was in high school, a friend of mine and myself were asking where he had transferred from, him being a new member of the NHS concert band -- I believe I was either a junior or senior at the time -- and this individual had transferred from Haven to Nickerson, and, being as popular as I was, I knew a few people who went to Haven, and I had asked him if he knew of them as well, where he had said he did not. That was pristine and clear in my mind, after this guy I recognized in my friend's apartment said he had went to Haven.

It dawned on me what this guy's last name was, so I asked him, was his last name Blankiddiboo? Yes, it was. So I said the first name I had in my memory, and he said no, was not him. Then, did he have a relative, like a cousin perhaps or brother with that name? Nope, and from his answers now, my inquiries were starting to annoy him. I then went ahead and gave up, but still I knew it was him, I told him then that he looked an awful lot like this kid I knew. He shrugged it off, or maybe said something along the lines of, "I get that a lot," or, "I'm always being mistaken for someone else." I wanted to retort, "Maybe you should stick to going by your first name (insert guy I recognized-real name) instead of your middle name, (insert name guy I recognized is using) That might be why so many people claim they know you."

Was he in witness protection, or what the hell? Why lie to a stranger about your name? For that matter, he had my other mutual friends believing he was this other person, and a good friend of mine who was introduced to him that night believing he was Humperdink Blankiddiboo, when I knew the moment I spotted him, heard that raspy, obnoxious laugh of his, that he was Kenovassa Blankiddiboo.

I had once entered a successful national pizza chain in Minas Tirith, Middle-Earth; a fictional location obviously, so none of you fuckers can connect the dots on who I'm talking about in this ledger. A person I considered a friend unlike an acquaintance, or, a person you might run in to occasionally, was working tables and our eyes met. I smiled and waved, my friend however, ignored the gesture and continued cleaning. I ended up being sat in his section, and my hostess took my drink order, and since I already knew what I wanted without the assistance of a menu, I ordered my meal with the hostess as well. Refills should have went through my friend, or the asshole I recognized as a friend I used to know well, instead as I was watching him work, he had gone to the back and talked to a co-worker who happened to end up being my waitress who refilled my drink, brought me a plate before my pizza came, and delivered the pizza to my table once it had been prepared and removed from the oven. I waited a long time until he finally dropped by to bring me my receipt in the PRECIOUS receipt trapper-keeper. He placed it on the table quickly, with a, "pay up at the register when you're finished," acting as though he had to rush to get back to the kitchen in order to get his helmet and oxygen tank on over a heavy, flame-retardant uniform, and get to the inferno before the orphanage burned down. I stopped him. "Hold on, Gale, right? Gale Benningtonston..."
"Yeah..." You know that sounding yeah drawn out, cautious of how you know them.
"It's Austin. Smith." He knew who I was. "I worked with Fangora for like half a year. I used to party at your place..." I could've listed everything I did with this person, which was a pretty decent list, he reacted friendlier, but unlike someone who hadn't recognized you and this being the first time it clicked, he wasn't surprised. He was more concerned with ending this stop and chat to get back in the kitchen where he proceeded to bullshit around with his co-workers. He did nothing, but talk back there.

Let's talk about five years ago. I assume a lot of shit has happened in everyone else's life in those few years, but that also shows how overwhelming all the information and jargon -- two categories I'll stick with in comparing the information surge we don't necessarily notice about, oh I don't know, television programming, Internet searches, complications in every day life, to name a few -- has cluttered and replaced other memories. What am I trying to say? I feel like all the changes our lives have made just in the last half-decade or so, citing an example, how more of us carry cellphones now than we used to, we just simply forgot easier than we used to. Homeless people, surprisingly, carry around cellphones. Don't ask me why or how this is possible, I've witnessed it more than just one rare occurrence. And all that you can do with a cellphone anymore, it's no wonder people treat an electronic device like a personal assistant with all that's going on in their world. I feel like we bog our brains with shit, for what, to entertain ourselves, waste time. Maybe our priorities or what we perceive as our "priorities" contribute to a river of information entering one ear, that might be processed within our processor, or might just spill out the other ear, culminating in some people perceiving five years as more like ten, twenty years. Daily, we absorb a week's worth of information. This might be why Gale Benningtonston treated me like a stranger. Could I be that forgettable?

I can't account for other people's behavior. It seems awfully ignorant to play coy with something so commonly referred to as a courtesy to say hello to a person you recognize out in public. It's not like I'm a stock broker and he was a drum circle leader in an Occupy Wall Street protest. I like the whole "let's get out there and do something about it" attitude from these people. Having said that, I don't really buy the video of a protester getting his leg ran over by a police motorcycle-defense. Here's a guy screaming his head off, "they're running over my leg!" If you haven't seen the video, I'd search douche bag acts like he's hurt; from what I could tell, he was purposefully sticking his leg under a police motorcyclist who was trying to get through the crowd of people blocking a busy Oakland street? Was it NYC? So, he stuck his leg under the wheel of the motorcycle, started screaming and thrashing around, while someone with their cellphone camcorder recorded the whole ordeal, the police officer noted the guy's leg was gonna get smashed if he didn't move it, even stopped his motorcycle to help get the guy's leg out from under his vehicle, but persistently the guy continued to just lie there screaming bloody murder, continuing to stick his leg under the wheel of the bike. How about the morons who lock arms and chant, while a brigade of armored police officers charge them with trespassing, and try to break loose the chain-gang to hull most of the like to jail, and they're screaming, "You have no right to arrest me! Why are you cuffing me!? This iniquitous imprisonment is beyond convoluted!" You're blocking a public street. They don't want you there, and so you're trespassing, plus whatever other shit they want to slap you with for being a public nuisance. You're also, or at one time, were living in a park. Your next crib is the subway tunnels because winter is approaching, you hobos. Statistically maybe 1% of those working Wall Street embezzled. You realize you're preaching to grunts just trying to get to work, right? The real bad-guys just flip to cartoons when the news stations begin to show footage of your protest.

A.O. Baldist fuckin' Sports

Alex Ovechkin is an unintelligent, hot-headed, dirty Russian! Somebody should skate up behind him and nail him in the head with a brick oven mitt! If I ever saw Alex Ovechkin in public, I'd stomp with full force on the back of his knee, and cripple his ass -- I may even wear a skate...alright, that's about enough. So he really doesn't deserve being crippled. Maybe just target a sling shot right to the back of his neck, pull back, and let fly a metal jackstone...

Why don't I like this guy? Probably because he's a dirty-ass Russian with missing teeth. I was watching his Washington "Capitalists" take on Carolina -- I guess a combination of North and South into a super-state called the Carolina that wears, like a trucker cap, the state of Virgina as a malformed Ushanka with a popular backwards bill, and stabs Buffalo Sabres fans up the butt hole with a penis shaped sabre every time that they meet up for a hockey match.

They say the keeper of the net has a hand-sewn in pocket in his jersey for a switchblade.

Another way Alex Ovechkin could be brutalized would be to beat him unmercifully with a goalie's mask. Huh? Hhuuhhhh? Instead of a quick skate-by stabbing, we just catch him off guard with a goalie's mask broken against his head.

Why shouldn't a hockey team like Washington be high in the standings? Boudreau is a premier coach, with a hell of a team just about every year. And boy did he send the right message on Thursday by benching Ovechkin's ass in the tail end of the game. Big Russian baby didn't like it either; flew an expletive towards his coach, and really, abandoned his team that night because he felt it was unfair towards him to be pulled from the ice. We get a serving of elitism -- I can do better than you do, stick your head in doo-doo -- head-case mentality with the Russia #1, but this is fantastic I get paid this much over seas for my lousy half-talent. He's so inconsistent. A Kobe Bryant mentality on less talent.

I was always disappointed with myself when I was benched, and boy was I benched! I recorded 45 seconds I was on the court in junior high basketball, then I sat out the rest of the game. Fuck you, Mr. Wetig! He was a bald loser. So fuckin' bald as a young person, man, before that I never knew men could go bald at such a rapid perplexity, like the hair was chanting, "gone, gone, gone, gone,-gone, gone, gone, gone," as it receded back. Good thing he married young. Turtle-wax for Christmas when he was nineteen, is not your way of strutting your shit. The "my-forehead-is-as-shiny-as-a-bowling-lane" "I-can't-go-to-the-beach-my-head-reflects-sunlight-in to-the-eyes-of-parasailers" "I-didn't-shave-my-head-like-this-on-purpose-although-some-might-have-thought-I-did-(ME!)-thought-it-was-for-a-joke, or-he-lost-a-bet, swore-the-Browns-would-beat-the-Titans-this-time-and-if-not, then-you-must-shave-your-head-to-look-like-a-ronin-samurai" forehead probably makes it a lot harder for his wife to orgasm during their pathetic love-making session every seven months he can get it up.

All Ovechkin could do was bitch to the press about sitting out, while the rest of his team pulled out a win.

You see, Alex doesn't realize this, and never will because he's so fucking stubborn, that he's inconsistent. The fucker was born to skate, and with phenomenally stellar puck handling, but because of his Russian-temper and a tendency to get sloppy the moment he's up to the goal, and with 3 guys on him and maybe 6 janitors with mops, with the soaked woolen ends frozen to resemble a hockey stick, yelling obscenities and maddened by their brains slowly ate away along with their livers from copious intake of moonshine in the janitor's closet, he crashes into the boards, and so he's forced to rocket the puck with a cannon of a slap-shot. Butterfly goalies love it for the saves they get off those bullets -- he's just a dufus and fuckers like the announcers aboot fall head over heals for essentially his skating skills and swing.

So that Russian sat on his hands, and cheered them on from the side-line, without the aid of his hands, I suppose, sitting on them and all. I should retract; he was there for his Capitals, just not their captain at this moment. His third-string helmsman did just fine, kept them alive to go on to an OT win where guess who scored? Ovechkin! So keep your trap shut about being pulled. It must have been the right decision, your team did win, and you came back for a final knock-in. It shows that you're too concerned for yourself. Or, you're a cold person, predatory, a change I've seen in other players, different sports, sometimes a whole team full of them, and yet still on the subject of hockey with that one, Vancouver; a lot of over-aggressive bullying as a part of winning from the whole team -- but also individual players, that simply get carried away. Heat of the moment, eh, from the world's fastest sport.

He seems, or as I perceive things, comes off as a really warm guy off the ice. I'm sure he's charitable with his money. You'd be a moron not to be, helping propel your soft image and hey, it makes you feel good, helping others, along with it being a tax right-off so you can launder through that legality your beyond millions-salary. Consider your future, Mr. Ovechkin, creepy-vibed Doc Brown on his time-traversing locomotive cast-off to the character "Jennifer" in Back to the Future III, if you're being sat now for a squad that you've built in Washington, and have contributed leadership to, why, it reminds me of another person milked dry and tired, who was also in Washington in his career; Michael Jordan. Decide which way you're gonna go. Jordan had an excuse, a tenured veteran with the Bulls in fantastic years of basketball, whereas you should be barely out of your prime, or was your 3-hat-trick a mere glimmer of another great hall of famer, Gretzky?

Do you like it that we have a comparison for every sport, be it basketball with Jordan, or hockey with Wayne, how we seek out the top of them all-player? It casts a shadow on current players who are still scoring, still rolling, damn I'm liking the way those Oilers are playing style on rolling along, kicking ass. Fuckin' right, I want them in contention. Give it time, if Washington isn't already numero uno in the standings, they certainly will be. Boudreau cannot afford to let them slide off the tracks a second year.

We've got some hockey going on here, and praise them clearing a path through NBA's lockout. Factions or no factions, what was with them releasing bullshit like that. So a few players agree with owner's on the subject, others choosing the league, sticking with them because they just might be a chairman, or player's rights activists who are head of the player's union, snapping a loose sliver from the pie.

Mr. President, I Think You're Doin' Just Fine!

President	Vacation Days	Favorite Destinations
Barack Obama	90 in first two years	Martha's Vineyard, Mass.; Kailua, Hawaii
George W. Bush	1,020 in eight years	Crawford, Texas; Camp David, Md.
Bill Clinton	152 in eight years	Martha's Vineyard; the Hamptons, N.Y.
George H.W. Bush	543 in four years	Camp David, Md.; Kennebunkport, Maine
Ronald Reagan	335 in eight years	Santa Barbara, Calif.
Jimmy Carter	79 in four years	Plains, Ga.

Source: NPR research by Barbie Keiser

The Equivalent of a Big Dump, Like Forcing a Midget Down a Toilet!

There's a new movie coming out called Real Steel -- basically think rock'em sock'em robots with Hugh Jackman. His character sort of reminds me of Lincoln Hawk, Sylvester Stallone's character in the 80's arm-wrestling movie Over the Top, which was a perfect name for that movie because it was over-the-top. Jackman plays a promoter with a prize-fighter mentality who thinks he's got a good thing with a discarded robot he hopes he can train as a fighter in a near-future where humans make these giant, behemoth robots, programming them to fight in the ring for them why they hang back in a simulator. A lot like two kids who have just dusted off their old rock'em sock'em robots (let's face it, these aren't kids, they're more like adults reliving some old times with this discarded toy) -- one person controls the red robot, the other the blue one. Of course, that's not all this movie brings to the table. Jackman's character discovers he's got an 11-year-old kid, who's role in the film is to find out who his father is. Over the Top had a kid in it, as well, Lincoln Hawk's son, who also was looking for affection from his father.

What else is coming out at the theaters in the next few months, as if I already didn't have a plan to segue off into another tangent, oh that's right, a movie based off the seafaring strategy game Battleship, where humans are yet again fighting against an alien threat. Look it up, it's-a comin' down the pike.

Here's an idea for a movie. Four mice of differing ethnic backgrounds are forced to build an all-powerful machine (Ooooo!) whose designer is the ruler of a twisting and turning labyrinth of a world where the mice first meet each other, and are on a journey to find the missing pieces in order to finish the construction of this grand, menacing machine, and none of the talking mice-men have a clue as to what the machine will accomplish, or why it's being built in the first place, until the final cogs are in order, and the machine is functioning properly. The ruler of this world is a sinister brute, a real shit; most likely a scraggly looking older mouse who everyone fears because he's so mean and conniving (Boo! Hiss!)

The movie ends with the four mice defeating the older mouse and establishing rule over the kingdom, but not before the machine is completed by the parts they found in the labyrinth. The machine actually turns out to be a world annihilator, created to destroy their world once it has been completed, and the four mice were sent out to find the missing pieces to it, which were scattered throughout their world in nondescript locations, thus the mice thinking they were on a quest for good actually were the resulting factor in their world being destroyed, a lot like mice seeking out cheese and getting caught in...wait for it...a mouse-trap. Yes, you see this movie is also based off of a childhood board game called... (I'm so giddy) ...MOUSE TRAP! It's so fucking pathetic, can't anyone come up an original fucking thought, we've gotta make movies based off of FUCKING board games! Are you kidding me!? I know you aren't really kidding me because I've seen the FUCKING TRAILERS TO THESE GOD DAMN MOVIES, AND I DON'T FUCKING LIKE IT!!!

Young Minds

I was reading my last post -- you know, the one about reviewers with egotistical mindsets in relation to Barbies, and then my ignorance out there in full-view on topic with what's going on in Washington. Those reviewers though; I just can't get the thought of Barbies out of my head. The female reviewer there at the last comparing the other parent's raising of her child with Barbies to What About Bob? when Dr. Leo Marvin played perfectly the hypertensive persona, by character-actor for most of his career, the one-the only Richard Dreyfus tries to communicate in the film with his 17-year-old daughter with a puppet that looks exactly like him -- this thread leader on the discussion board has a daughter who is maybe 6, 7, or 8 years of age, pretty vast difference between 17 and 6, oh fuck yeah, 17 with 8, my land, still a remarkable maturity differentiation. Don't try to rush your child's comprehension of the world by talking to them like they are adults, you don't want to scare your kids.

There is something to be said about the doll-method. You still put up a barrier, a mask if-you-will in having the dolls talk for you. You are still listening and wanting to crack the mind of your 6, 7, 8 year-old, right, like they'd rationally hold back anything had you raised them well enough to not feel like they couldn't tell you the world; that is what we do as functionally adult human beings, even if some of us aren't parents yet. There is effort in the "doll-method" to effortlessly talk openly with your sibling at a young age, maybe first teaching them the importance of being honest and trustworthy. That is the way to open a kid up, to let them know, make them feel that they are trustworthy, that they can trust you and that they learn and find value in becoming able to accept trust from others.

Which leads me to another point I wanted to make now that you know I'm here to point out things. Kids these days...
I'm starting to believe that perhaps they are growing up too quickly. Oh yeah, now that you've all lined up to go down the slide! Here we go. Elaboration. I feel like kids are talked to matter-of-factly, to put it the way that last woman put it, and it sort of makes me sick. I can remember witnessing a conversation that I, as a child, had a lot of questions about which led the conversation to teeter and eventually become awkward due to the questions I asked, and feeling like the adults in the situation were stammering to correctly relate to me, in a childish-way, what was happening in the adult situation. Like explaining Columbine to first-graders. Okay, by the way, these individuals who are referred to as adults were teachers, and they're paid to respond to kids, part of their pay comes from responding to kids, and I can't say it's an easy accomplishment given that I would've faltered in explaining what it was the adults were explaining to me in my scenario, and teachers explaining why Columbine happened and who would want to shoot students, and not even mentioning that students were killing other students and faculty. Try it matter-of-factly and you risk horrifying young minds. Judge me if you will, but I'm thinking that's a pretty risky parenting decision, given that adulthood in children pretty much leads to them finding out about sex with the opposite sex, the same sex, and they'll go about that by how much you taught them about it. You really think overstimulating a mind's growth and maturity by what information is accessible to your children right off the bat is the right way to go about it?

Nest Eggs (Our Economy)

It seems cliched, but I've got good news and bad news on the economy, or at least that's how I've always imagined it feels like when something new and disastrous is in store. The bad news: no matter what the panelists say, it's only going to get worse, even if Fox News says your wrong if you think that way. The good news: as long as we run our proposals, in order to right this ship, through the parameters that money doesn't mean anything, how great the losses, we're gonna be out of this recession in 10 years. Just print all the beautiful paper with dead presidents on it you want without gold or basically any value backing it, or, how it's being done now, imagine you've already got the paper, just raise the rate of a number, and our national debt is fixed.

That's right, you see, the American government wants to raise the limit on our national debt in hopes that it will fix our financial problems. We spend too much, that's the problem. So, because we spend so much and made a "boo-boo," let's raise the national debt 1 trillion annually -- that'll cover our asses, or more so the asses of the people who led us into this mess, then we cut more departments, programs and promotions on the federal and state levels, for each state willing to cut their funding to their arts-programs or let's say education budgets, just hacking off huge chunks of money that once went to aid those departments, the more cut the more of a fraudulent write-off it becomes in hopes that the federal government will step in and possibly reward such behavior.

Now that tens of thousands of retirees have lost their social security that they were promised and collected up over the many years they labored for those in the private sector, let's do that same to the veterans who fought for this country's interests in foreign territories; those who might have been injured in the line of duty, let's take their nest eggs to fund this disturbing American greed, and then have the director of social security extend letters of apology out to those expecting a check in the mail, "Sorry, but your money is kinda on hold (not coming) and will be on hiatus (being transferred into another bank account)" Next words should be what are you going to do about it? We've elected leaders who have appointed crooks to the highest departments of the government, and they have in-turn robbed us as was the plan, so they could insure their own prosperity and leave us all holding our dicks, even the girls...with dicks.

See, they're not going to be in office for very long, so they need to assure they'll make money once they're out of office. Al Gore did it. He put his mouth to work advocating a healthy planet, which he received lobbyist kick-backs because that's what he essentially is, a big, green lobbyist -- he's got his nest egg, and it's ever-growing. Legislation enacted by the support of other advocates for a greener Earth, and boom, more money for Al. People aren't interested in bettering our planet, they're interested in bettering their nest eggs.

Egotistic Reviews, and later, Our Economy

What's the point of always making a point of things? Having YOUR say with everything? Yep, I'm really going to start things like that, fuckin' hypocrite, but I'm tellin' ya, the barging in with your own opinion, or commanding, apprehending, or directly intruding on a topic to voice your own just doesn't settle right with me. Now I'm going to do something I've done in the past, where I've copy and pasted some actual reviews on this blog that don't belong to me -- they're just out there, ready to be plucked. The reviews from others will be in italics, and then I'll comment on why these are so irksome to myself. The topic that these reviews relate towards was Barbie's -- how many is too many for my daughter, considering I buy 6 Barbies for her for Christmas and her birthday, within 10 years that's 120 Barbies. That seems like a lot.


Well, yeah, sounds like you have it all planned out, but you may be forgetting one thing...whether your daughter actually likes Barbies...hehe =D

When I was growing up I got those dreadful things all the time, and hated them. My brother played with them more then me. I really loved stuffed animals, but my parents would always say I didn't need any more, but like clockwork every b-day or christmas I got at least one dang barbie doll, if not more.

My daughter, on the other hand loved Barbies, and she had lots of them and the clothes to go with them. And a lot of Barbies is like, 40! 100 seems like a lot to me, but hey if your daughter does in fact like them and want that many, go for it.

Also, as much as my daughter loved them, she out grew them at 8. She boxed them all up and gave them to a set of kindergarten twin who squealed with delight.

I'm not sure what kind of teaching you are talking about, but I do know that after about the age of 7 or 8 children just want you to talk to them straight up. At least that's how my kids are. My kids do have a much larger vocabulary then most of their peers, and I think it's because I explain things to them all the time and never use a "dumber" way of talking to them then I do adults...But of course, I'm not familiar with what exactly it is that you want to teach with the dolls, so it may work beautifully for you. Good luck! =D


Starts off alright, complimentary, which is positive in giving your 2 cents, but notice the next time she uses YOUR is like the third paragraph; everything else is ME, I, MY. What's even more ignorant, okay the woman's daughter must love Barbies if she's consistently asking for six of them for Christmas and Birthday's. Yes, that's the daughter ASKING for six, the mother didn't start that, and bullshit to those who don't agree. When I wanted to get a friend of mine's kid started on Legos I didn't up and buy him 5 or 6 fucking sets, tear open all the bags, and pour them into a tub and say, "Have at 'em, Johnny!" "Put as many of them in your mouth as you can fit!" I bought one medium-sized set with bigger pieces because he was still only a few years old -- having the toy kill him was not the idea I had in mind, I wanted that kid building and having as much fun with the Legos as I remember having as a child, but the off-chance he despised building shit out of blocks, I didn't waste a gob of money on something he wasn't going to tinker with no mo'. Why would this reviewer even question whether the girl actually liked Barbies, did she not understand the point of the original, she was commenting on how she wasn't enthused over buying so many Barbies, for a child I perceived who LOVED Barbies...Speaking of teaching, somebody should teach this bitch to be humble, and not be so domineering to direct the subject back to yourself all the time. That's being egotistical.


I'm also with Siddova - I HATED Barbies. They just sat on my shelf. My sweet Grandma gave me 2 and made a bunch of outfits for them. She even bought a child size suitcase to put them in! My stuffed animals on the other hand, I had "sleeping spots" for each of them. Now, I have lots of real animals instead of the stuffed ones. lol

My 8 yo daughter has not played with the few Barbies she has. She has got about 5 given to her from about age 5-8 and she's only played with the animals they've come with. The Barbies just sit on the shelf.

I also agree with talking to your kids matter-of-factly and using a larger vocab to teach them. I dunno, but this reminds me of a scene from "What about Bob" when Dr. Marvin is "talking" with his 17 yo dd, Anna, about their feelings, by using puppets that look just like them. LOL!

Good luck also!


I don't know if I agree with using a larger vocab to teach them. A kid is either going to understand the words you are using, or not, and let's hope you have the patience to translate each "new" word you decide to use with them, and that you yourself are intelligent enough to know the full meaning of the word(s) and when they are appropriately used in language. Another person who didn't pay attention to the topic when they were supposed to be reading and comprehending what it is they're READING. Her daughter likes Barbies. YOU didn't, that's why you intruded with your own little piece of life shit, and fuck you for doing so! For all purposes, I don't think I've met a person yet who would care to remember your dislike for Barbies as a kid, you dumb cunt. That wasn't the reply she was looking for! Now, relating that you have 200-300 Barbies yourself is sending the message, it's okay to have 120 Barbies in 10 years, I have this many Barbies (venereal diseases) so your kid won't be the first to reach 120 by 10, I've done better. Egotistical.

Our Economy....

Injuries

My sciatica is kicking my ass again this year. The sciatic nerve being that pesky string like that of a yo-yo string that keeps my sitting position in check. Seriously, you move a leg wrong when it's acting up, and you get a sharp pain like the buzzing on the game-board for Operation! Fuck, didn't know I couldn't stretch my legs out anymore on the couch, or cross them for that matter while sitting upright. Ever get stuck hunched over drying your legs after taking a bath -- lower back, you'd much prefer to stay in this uncomfortable position than to let me straighten; I would think this would be worse (FOLD YOURSELF IN THE MIDDLE) I'll just go to work like this, bare ass naked and still partially wet.
This affliction is one I've weathered ever since I was too young to be incapacitated with a back-injury such as this; it comes and goes, either resulting in me finally biting the bullet and going to my fattist chiropractor for a treatment, or myself remaining so fucked and miserable. It occurred to me that being down in the back as I am is not necessarily the shittiest injury that pesters oneself, in fact, more than anything else in the world, this includes myself being tied and thrown over the Royal Gorge bridge, I would hate to be a basketball star whose excuse for not playing is a lousy finger, or a pitcher, let's call him Jorge De La Rosa, and let's say he plays for the Colorado Rockies, whose nagging pursuer, and rationalization for his lousy pitching that's not blamed on being left handed (Round up all these lefties and take them to concentration camps) is a blister that's bugged him. A blister.
So it's on his pitching hand, so what if it's even located on the joint of his middle finger, maybe even the tip, and arguably on the most important finger used in throwing a baseball, you remain partially on the DL because of a blister. Sorry I couldn't make it to jury duty yesterday, my earlobe was red. I had an ingrown hair on the inside of my ear.
What if Mike Tyson would've told Frank Bruno -- no question regarding Bruno as the best British fighter EVER -- but Mike had to cancel the fight at the last moment saying; "Ss'ary B'uno, but whilst I's workout 's'morning, I got'a ssscratch on my b'ssscep, and it bled for like three minutesss. I gotta bow out'f the fight." 1989 Mike Tyson in the clear peak of his game and he quits the match to Bruno giving up his Heavyweight title, and one of the best surges-to-a-knockout against a legend we'll probably ever witness all because of a fucking scratch; please! That's like finding out all along that Superman was wearing a silk teddy under his uniform.
And poor Kobe...honestly, you're a cheat if you have to wear a brace on your finger every game in order to straighten your shot -- oh, but it's a petulant finger sprain. Now I hear he's playing in game 5 after the foot injury he suffered last Sunday -- to what, make up for being a wuss, no clearly the man was faking. Jesus...

I end this quell of sports posts, two, by relating some stupidity. You can't say NO THANK YOU at the drive-thru. You can blatantly and bluntly say, "NO!" A 'no' which resides within it, "what are you, fuckin' stupid!?" Not even if you space the two phrases a great distance away from each other as in, "No... (three seconds) ...thank you." Whatever you have just declined you will get. I made the mistake of say, "No, I don't believe I will," when asked if I wanted sauce at a Taco Bueno. I should have known by a lengthy pause and the muttering of, "O-kay," from the drive-thru attendant that there was a miscommunication. I get my order, with a cup of brown sauce I've never seen or tasted in my life from a fast food chain. It was spicy and it had meat in it. They had given me a cup of grease. It was literally run-off from the pan, skillet, contraption they cooked the beef in. And I ate it.

I begin this curious story like I do all my regular posts. Just a moment ago, I received a call of inquisitiveness by a woman already enrolled in one of our computer workshops the library offers each month. She wanted to know the time, and whether the date on her calender was correct in regards to the class. The date I gave her, this Thursday, corresponded to the one circled or notated on her calender. Then she asked if the class were held still upstairs in the computer lab, or, "where exactly are we to go for this class," in which I told her the basement where we have a separate training-lab, that's the name of it, The Training Lab. She further reiterate whether it was the basement, and oh, how she had never been in the basement. It's a sub-level, not Disney World; not EPCOT. There's no free sub and soft drink with the purchase of a greater or equal sub involved here! I said yes, the basement.
"Well then, how do I get downstairs?"
"The elevator between adult fiction and the children's department, on the south wall will allow you access to the basement, and the training lab is maybe three feet and to your left, in front of you out of the elevator."
"Oh, so out a-ways from the bathrooms, and to my left; alright, well I'm glad I called and asked that."
Wait, how do you know the bathrooms are to the left from the elevator in the basement, didn't you just say you've never been in the basement?
So then I wondered, maybe she meant from her left in the elevator on the first floor, there's bathrooms located a little ways from the ones in the basement, on top of each other, but perhaps more askew. But then why out from the bathrooms and to the left, why not down away from the bathrooms, or perpendicular to the elevator. The way she said how it was from the bathrooms, the emphasis being "out", or "down" "away" from the bathrooms. There's something there. Why would she lie about being in our basement before?

Does it appear that restricted? I guess the employees do look a bit stealthy, conspicuous like spies when we flash our identity badges over the scanner-lock on the door, and slink down the steps to the break room located in the basement once cleared and given access. I'd feel uncomfortable pressing the letter B button in the elevator for basement, or at least a bit uneasy...no I wouldn't. Your just riding the elevator to the sub-level of the library for a free computer class.

More to Come Shortly

I couldn't think of anything to write, and it had been a while since I wrote anything. I figured, why not a sports-post? I've done so in the past and it seemed to work, so without further a due, my two cents on the NBA.

Checking out the scores for the games last night on the ol' ESPN, I caught an editorial piece on who benefited the MELODRAMA, the Knicks or the Nuggets. The general consensus, which matches my belief as well, is that the Nuggets are rolling where as the Knicks are also rolling, down a fucking hill and into a swamp with a bullet in their gut.

The Nuggets have streaked, and immediately after acquiring Felton, Chandler, and Gallinari, 7 games right after the fact the trade cost them more than Melo, but their leader and spiritual, inspirational center, Chauncey Billups. Well, at least their franchise and the icing to their cookie-crunch; some people might argue their coach George Karl is their center. He's the fulcrum to their wins-and-losses teeter totter, just look at the Finals last year when Karl was absent due to a third round of chemo to battle throat cancer, where they bit it in the first round of the Western Conference Playoffs -- All in the past for a team who beat the San Antonio Spurs last night by 3 for the first time all season.

What's changed? Well, for starters, the Nuggets are second in the league in defense behind Chicago. Last night, Al Harrington was playing lights-out. If you guard Felton, and Lawson is in, the two play off each other, so you sacrifice ground by planting two guys on him, and a third watching the wing, but Nene or Harrington is going to take the inside. Go ahead and foul, they'll make up the points either way.

Manu Ginobili commented that the Nuggets are a deeper team that will give you a game until the end. I don't understand, San Antonio is the same way, perhaps Gregg Popovich isn't smart enough to give some of his bench warmers a chance on the floor because I've always considered the Spurs to be one of the deepest teams. You've got Anderson, Bonner, Blair, Neal, Tony Parker when he's playing, and Splitter. Then there's Duncan who is injured. I put Parker in the back-up bracket because of his increasing limited minutes on the court.

Side bar for a split second: I think you Spurs need to speed up your game. Just a bunch of old and slow basketball All-Stars waiting for their Centrum Complete to kick in, or that Aleeve they took before the game. This coming from a guy who still says the Spurs will be holding that trophy at the end of May, but you leave yourselves open for a loss to Denver like this now, and it's gonna be a uphill battle when you meet them in the second or third round of the playoffs, I'm just sayin'. Although, the way OKC is playing like a separated Siamese-twin of the Celtics with newly acclimated center Perkins, and Westbrook taking time in the off-season to enter boot camp with the same trainer MVP candidate, and let's face it, winner Derrick Rose has, shaping Russell into a more consistent, dominating player. Look out for that fuckin' Durantula to own your game -- I'm getting really excited for these playoffs, more so in the west than east, and that's saying something Lebron, Bosh, Wade, Howard, K.G., Allen, Carmelo, Billups, Rose. But hey, perhaps they're resting up.

Frustration

I just got off the phone with a woman asking about computer classes for the month of January that my place of business offers to the public. Here's, word-for-word, the banter between myself and the caller:

Me: "Computer lab, how may I help you?"
Caller: "Are you offering any 'Basics' classes this month?"
Me: "No we are not. We usually have two sessions every month, the beginning of every month, but this month the instructor focused on classes relating to specific operating systems, and must have decided not to include a basics session or sessions for this month."
Caller: *pause* -- which, by the way, should have just been a long, drawn out sigh. Frustration should be the topic of this post, I'll add.
Caller: "Why aren't you doing the Basics class this month?"
Me: "The instructor must not have wanted to, I don't know. I don't make up what classes are offered, I only sign the people up for them. Plus, I've heard she (the instructor, for you readers) just had surgery, so that might have something to do with it."
Caller: "Oh." *another pause*
"Will you be offering a Basics class for February?"
Me: "I am not sure, but the Basics class is a staple of our workshops, whereas, we tend to hold it every month, usually around the beginning of each month."
Caller: "Can you tell me when those are?"
Me: "New schedules come out every third Wednesday. We won't know until then."
Caller: *longer pause then previous* "You don't know the days for those Basics classes?"
Me: "Nope. I won't see that schedule until you see that schedule when it is ran in the newspaper the third Wednesday in this month."
Caller: *pause* "I'll have to call back then I suppose?"
Me: "Yes, and in fact, let me tell you the exact date in which you can call back."
At this point I checked on a calender of when that schedule would be out.
"It'll be the 19th. On January 19th we will have the February schedule out."
Caller: *pause* "And I can't sign up for a Basics class for next month?"
Me: "I don't know when or if we will be holding a Basics class for next month, nor do I know the times for each session. That schedule hasn't even been made-up or printed. I would advise calling back on the 19th, when we can register you."
Caller: *pause* "O^-kay..."
Me: "You seem confused on the information I've just given you."
Caller: "I am confused. You're saying I 'can't' put my name down for a spot in next month's class?"
Me: "That class hasn't been created..."
Caller: "But you could take my name down and number, and once it's 'created' move me into the class."
Me: "So how are you supposed to know when to come in?"
Caller: *pause* "I give you my number..."
Me: "Fair enough, but that's not our policy. The sign-up policy for our classes states that you, the patron, must call us when the schedules are released to the public. Every third Wednesday of every month, a new schedule comes out. That is when you can call and schedule an appointment."
Caller: *pause* "I'll call back on the 19th. Thank you..."

What did she want me to say!? Christ, I fucking told you, Jan-UARY nine-teenth, the February classes are released to the public. I don't have that schedule in front of me, and I'm not aware of what is being offered February or the coming months in the future. If I could predict the future, I'd probably join President Obama and his strong-breath abilities, and we would go fight crime together. Call back January 19th, or after that date for the February classes. A lot like next month, if you were to show further interest in what we offer to the public, you'd call in around the middle of the month of February (just my assumption) j.m.a.
People like to hear yes, get their way, or walk all over whoever they are dealing with, most often because the chaos they create in their own lives embitters them or has pushed them over that brink between a sane person and a bat-shit crazy person.

Another load of crap! Are you the type of person who prints out an important document which lists your bank account number and social security number, along with other extremely viable personal information, then you wait to pick it up at the printer at a public place where anyone can print their documents retaining to some importance? Well, you're a moron.

Patron: "I just printed some statements from my bank, and it said it would be three pages, but looking at what's left at the printer, I only got two sheets, and I'm missing the first sheet...which has my social security number and bank account number on it."

Previous to her coming up to my desk, I watched her click her mouse on the print screen, and the printer ran off her copies, as it did copies for other patrons printing the same time as she did. Two patrons came up to the printer to retrieve their shit; I was answering a patron's question while also taking money for other people's prints. There was a fifteen minute delay wherein she could have picked up her papers. COULD + HAVE. I would have printed off such an important thing as a bank statement at home, but in a public place, let's say I didn't have a printer at home, I would have timed it where, once I hit print on the print screen at the public place, I'd get my ass out of my chair and over to the printer to avoid the dilemma she just put herself in.

Me: "Scheisse...is there any way you could print off the first page again?"
Remember, I was in the middle of doing shit, busy work, and her complaining was falling on deaf ears -- ears that were dead to the world around them on a head with a brain in it that was fed up at this point by other people's chaos.

Patron: "It has my personal information on it...and I don't know where that sheet went..."
Me: "I see your point...check the recycle just in case it was stuffed in there by someone else; matter of fact, check the trash cans as well. If whoever picked it up on accident realizes that wasn't one of their prints, they could have trashed it."
She checks. It doesn't seem to be in those two locations.

Patron: "You know, the guy on computer N picked up the sheets at the printer right before I went up there to get mine. I'll check with him."
Me: "Good idea. I was in the middle of something and couldn't tell who picked up what."
She checks with him, and he's oblivious to her request. She bugs me a third time.

Patron: "He says he doesn't have it, but I know he has to have it, he picked up the sheets that wore up at the printer."
Me: "Well, you did exactly what I would have done, which was ask him if he may have taken the page. I can't really do anything else. I can't search him -- that's not appropriate."
Oh course, by now she's pissed at me because I wouldn't do anything. I couldn't. I can't lay a finger on these people, or reach in their pockets, and really, what's the point of asking him to empty his pockets. It's a privacy issue nonetheless, he doesn't have to cooperate.

Again, to reiterate, what should she have done? After pressing print, and hearing the printer warm up and gather the essential materials, ink, strength to poop out said ink on the page, whip the gremlins to stir them around to work the moving parts, to feed the paper through the machine and get you your print, this brod should've gotten off her ass, and strolled on over to the printer. I mean, a bank statement -- important fucking shit!

What adds to my definition of frustration is that this person was not the only person who had a problem with retrieving their printouts after printing them. It's not my job to sit at my desk and monitor whether the correct person picks up their printouts, or simply walks out of here with someone else's. Be fucking responsible for your own things. Didn't Sesame Street do a segment on that vary topic? Not frustration because I'd bet Oscar the Grouch would have a thing or two to do with that, considering he lives in a dumpster, but responsibility for your property. Be responsible. Act like you have a brain. Use common sense...wait, THAT is what's missing, huh?