Unlisted Numbers

And now, I present to the masses a list of unrelated thoughts to compensate for my week of debloggification:

1. Sometimes I forget to turn the knob before walking through doors. I understand that without such a crucial action, the whole process is doomed; I just have other things on my mind when walking through doors. I can only assume it’s because I like to think about what I will do when I get to the other side of the door and force the inner monologue of actually getting out to the back burner of my mind.

2. Frozen pizza is better than hot pizza. I think that when I’m old and living in a Miamian condominium, I’ll just order an extra large pie and refrigerate it for lunch every day of the ensuing week. Then I can save my money for more important things, like my senior’s coffee at McDonald’s for 65 cents.

3. I should probably start my Higher Level History paper comparing and contrasting the Mexican Independence Movement and the Haitian Revolution. Or perhaps I could hire a Mexican to write it for me. Either that or a Haitian. If they cooperated, I’d have an outstandingly accurate paper – what better primary source than an immigrant who’s Great Grandpappy Randolfo actually participated in the bloodshed? Either way, it has to be in Burton’s hand in a little over two weeks.

4. Whoever decided to paint the school while classes are in session should be severely punished. I’ve seen many a damsel in distress with paint on her because of unmarked wet paint. It’s like a severely misapplied case of the Scarlet Letter. Except it’s paint, not scarlet. And more of a blob of blue than a letter. And to receive this letter, you don’t have to be as kinky. On second thought, it’s nothing like the Scarlet Letter.

5. I met these two girls in the courtyard during lunch the other day. From afar, I spotted one of them accidentally drop some spare change. So I sprung into action and dashed the forty feet to their midst and dove to pick up the coins for them, as they had their hands full and were wearing garb that would not be flattering to bend over in. I retrieved the three coins and gave them to one of the young ladies saying, “Here’s your sixty cents,” and ran away again, out of sight. That’s the last I’ve seen of them.

6. Potato turbate would be more appetizing if they changed the name. No one wants to eat turbate.

Radio Rant

For the past three years, I have been a loyal listener to 107.3 FM, casting aside all the talk radio and low quality Mexican fiesta hour on AM radio along with the newer styles of the 9X.X stations and the deep, philosophical reasoning on the 8X.X waves. It used to be 107.3: The Bay. Back when The Bay was in business, they promised to name every song and artist of the greatest hits of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, never mind the fact that their repetitive playlists sometimes gave me a desire to switch it on over to WDUV, The Dove, if only for a mere change of tune. But I stuck with my good friends at 107.3 because on rare occasions, I would hear something totally new to me that I really, truly liked.

But the first of this year, as I woke up from a night of blissful slumber following my annual revelry with Dick Clark, I turned on the radio to something I did not recognize: 107.3 The Eagle.

The Eagle!? How? Why? 107.3 has had many names in the past, from the Coast to the Bay. But never something so influenced by the trendy patriotism that has enveloped our country in the past few years. But it’s okay – different name, same music. I can deal with that. Alas, I was mistaken.

There are now only two radio personalities, Nick Van Cleve, who works the morning shift, and John Moore, who takes care of the ride home from 3:00-7:00. This leaves sixteen hours of abandoned radio, time when there is not a soul around to tell me what song I just heard and who sang it to me; time when not a soul is around to play disc jockey, leaving all the grease work to a computer that randomly selects the song.

I’m sorry, HAL, but you are a sucky DJ. Within a 24 hour time frame, it is quite possible that you hear the same song at least twice, if not three times. And for some reason, the AI in the studio has an Elton John fetish. Don’t get me wrong, I like Elton John’s music as much as the next guy. But when I’m driving to the store and I’m pelted with the same old wails of “Tiny Dancer,” the broken-record sounding “Bennie and the Jets,” and Elton’s homoerotic recollections of the “Crocodile Rock,” I become utterly disappointed in the musical variety down on the end of the radio dial.

So, after three years of loyal listening, The Bay and I have gone our separate ways. We were just too incompatible, one of us wanting to pursue his professional career, and the other wanting to live in the past, when four vinyl albums and plenty of drugs would keep the crowd unaware of the fact that the same music is filling their ears and draining their souls. So to you, 107.3, I say, “Adieu, adieu; parting is such sweet sorrow.”

Free food

An actual banner ad I found while surfing today:

Charley in Charge

After a day of everyone inwardly hoping that it is for real, that indeed the storm surge would be 10-14 feet in Tampa Bay, and that indeed they wouldn’t have to go to school tomorrow, their wish came true.

Now it’s amusing to see the same people who were hoping for Charley’s landfall having to evacuate. Right click, info, and viola! Complaints about the mandatory evacuation of 650,000 people in Pinellas and Hillsborough County alone litter the away messages of many of my low-lying friends in evacuation zones A, B, and C.

All I have to say is:
Ha ha!

Oh, and don’t die and all that jazz. I’ll see you all Monday, barring another treat from the tropics.

That's a spicy meat-a-ball!

I know that many folks are finicky about what they eat. You could classify me like this too, but I try to keep an open mind about what goes into my mouth; I’ll try anything once.

Way back when we were wee tots, most of our parents fed us things like Spaghettios. And now I’m giving the well-earned props to Mr. Chef Boyardee.

Today I discovered that euphoria can be achieved with a microwave. Today I discovered that heaven really is on earth. Today I discovered Mini Bites Mini Ravioli with Mini Meatballs.

So here’s to you, Mr. Messiah of the Microwave, and thank you for the delicious distraction from my mundane life.

Why me?

School started Tuesday. And this is my formal apology to those who I laughed last year at as they were toiling away at loads of Spanish homework for Señora Gleason.

I am truly sorry. I was so insensitive.

As of now, I need only attend the Hell that is 6th period 178 more times. God help me.

Bad George

A few weeks ago, Ian put the capital into an investment of 100 Polo shirts from a supplier. They’ve never been opened, are in original packaging, and have a retail price of $52.50. We decided to resell them to try and turn a profit. And, regrettably, we went to the flea market. Charging $20.00 a piece, we sold $100.00 worth in shirts. Not too successful, given the surplus inventory we have. But what made the venture worth it was George.

George is a regular. 89 years young, he knows everyone by name as they do him, and he greets everyone with a smile. He admits that he moves at the speed of a 98 year-old, but mentally, he’s quick as a fox and twice as sly. He sells things you would normally find in a drugstore, you know – toothpaste and Mach 3 razors and the like. Until about 12:30 he sat at the booth next to ours, imparting immeasurable wisdom upon us.

First, it was about the flea market. After over 20 years he knows what’s too expensive, what will and won’t last, and the types of items that sell best. But then our conversations turned broader. We touched upon subjects of race, sex, religion, and age.

My favorite George-ism was when he explained interracial relationships. He thinks that every white young lady who becomes involved with a brother is bound to be beat. When asked why they stay with the abuser he answers, “They like that black oak.”

I will miss George. From now on, no more flea markets for us.

Cruel and Unusual

This being the last week of summer, I thought I’d go out with a bang.

But then I realized that I have homework due in less than a week. So, for lack of more exciting activities, I’m stuck reading the notes for All The King’s Men by Robert Penn Warren.

And you know what? I’m quitting after only seven chapters. The Sparknotes even make me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a used spork. When does summer ’05 start?

When Hairy Met Sally

I’m looking for a female volunteer to shave (or wax) my lower back. I was going to have my good friends Sharf and Trizis do it, but my idealistically masculine family poo-pooed that idea. My pop stipulated that it wouldn’t be gay if I got a girl to do it.

That being said, any takers?

Banana Phone

I met some folks at the beach today and, even though I took my cell phone out of my pants before getting wet, it still got waterlogged. Now I know where my next paycheck is going.

——

Update Sunday, July 25, 2004 – 3:44PM:
Turns out it wasn’t as bad as I expected. I think it was because I was a cute kid, but no matter. My service representative Jessica hooked me up with a new phone and battery for a mere $40.00. Much better than the hundreds I was expecting to have to pay.