Redesign

I spent last week redesigning the Web site because, honestly, who uses phpBB for a blog?

Now made spiffy with Textpattern.

Plus, I got tired of the boxy blue background of the old site. It was like the Volvo of the World Wide Web.

Ugh, it’s running slow, though. I’ll work on that.

My Haircut

I broke down last night and got a hair cut. All of them.

Back in the day, when my parents would tell the barber (or, to be politically correct, hairstylist) how to cut my hair, they’d demand a #2 buzz on the side and hair relatively short on the top.

But since this past school year, longer hair has sort of been my thing. So, I told the young lady cutting my hair exactly what I wanted.

“I have grown on the thought of long hair as it has grown on me, so I propose a hair cutting as long as can be without curling. You see, my hair curls at one constant length on each strand. This creates sort of a wave effect, you see. I would like you to find this point, we’ll call it the apex of curlation, and cut roughly 1.5 centimeters below it.”

The young lady looked at me. I looked at her. She had no clue what I was saying.

“Oh, and a #4 on the sides.”

That did it. She didn’t want to play my childish, though thoroughly entertaining games. She started clipping away in an effort to speedily move me out of the local Supercuts.

That’s when it all began.

It started as mere molecules of water nestled within its safe spray bottle. But then the problem built itself up.

She sprayed to the upper left of my head, attempting to wet my hair. And that she did, although a rogue droplet distanced itself from the others that were meant to dampen my follicles. Harmless at first, it crept down my cheek inch by agonizing inch, coming to rest in the middle of my left cheek. And there it stood like an indignant child refusing mother gravity’s demanding grasp. It was there to stay.

Normally, an immobile water droplet wouldn’t be so bad. But in this situation, nothing could save me. Having already irked the hairstylist, I dared not move my arms to my face. She may have cut them off. Then what?

Minute by minute passed, each second becoming longer with the anxiousness built up within. Just then I realized. The young lady was Asian!

“Chinese water torture,” I said to myself. “What a gruesome practice for Supercuts!”

After I surmised this, my hairstylist caught on to the fact that I knew. She had to get me out as soon as possible, before a ruckus came about. She told me I was done, and I paid and left. She must have thought she got off scot-free. Wrong she was, ladies and gentlemen.

Right here, right now, I am proclaiming to the masses on the World Wide Web – Supercuts endorses torture within their properties in these United States!

Let it be known.

Smarter than the average bear

I remember one day during this last school year, as I was walking through the courtyard at school I overheard these kids and they said I looked like a bear.

Roar.

He's always around

I work now so I can generously give a mandated portion to him.

I can’t take right hand turns into the left lane because he says so.

I can’t become a hairdresser without a license because he doesn’t want to trust me enough to snip his curly locks.

Crossing at places other than intersections? Not on his watch.

I have some freedoms, but I’m not going to receive them if I don’t have the necessary paperwork.

What’s worse, my voice means nothing to him; I can’t even vote for him.

He is The Man.

And from this point forward, it has been stuck to the aforementioned man.

The Hot Game

Hot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by traversing long distances by automobile with windows rolled up and heater on its highest setting. Normally played in summer. Players win when the other gives up or dies, depending on the order in which such events transpire.
2 archaic : Title of cheap pornography from the 1970s.

Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game, The.
noun
1 : Game played by abandoning all footwear and running through paved areas in the hot sun. Normally played in summer. Players win when their opponent’s feet burn off and walking can only be achieved on the left over nubs of melted flesh at the bottoms of the shin.

Ian and I played both of these games today, the Hot Game on our way to and from the beach and the Walking Across Hot Places Barefoot Game (WAHPBG) when we got there. Now we’re predicting that blisters are to form on the bottoms of our feet. Oh well, life goes on.

Taco Bell

Today, myself being the healthy young lad I am, I walked up to the local Taco Bell for lunch. It’s not a long walk, three blocks and across Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard.

I started off at about 3:10, and made it there at about 3:20, maybe later. Anyway, I walked into the store and there wasn’t anyone at the register. No problem, I just stood there and waited. And waited. And waited.

I’m not a very vocal fellow, so I didn’t pipe up so that Maria in the back could notice me. This didn’t stop another customer who had already sat down with his food.

“Service to front!”

I thought this cry to be funny, so I chuckled. I wouldn’t be chuckling for long.

I made my order: A combo number 7, containing a chicken or steak quesadilla and a taco. I put some parameters on my meal, demanding the quesadilla be of the chicken variety and my taco be soft and lacking lettuce. Lettuce is gross.

No problem – I stated my case, had a $5.00 bill in my hand, and the transaction was going smoothly. That is, of course, until she did the unthinkable.

After I hand her my money, she dispenses 83 cents change, I say, “Thank you much,” and she says, “Sure, hun.”

I’ve never been particularly fond of pet names, but I’ve put up with them. Until now. The superfluous “hun” that little Maria entered into our business transaction wasn’t the sort of “hun” that a female says to a male. The way she presented it, she used the “hun” that one uses when talking to a six year old. A condescending, patronizing pet name. Granted, I’m short. Granted, I was walking up to the Bell in 90 degree heat. Granted, I may have looked helpless. I was not, however, helpless enough to warrant a name such as this.

And another thing. You do not introduce personal conversation into the transaction. Your job is to sell me tacos. My job is to eat them. Any other discussion or odd names takes from the professionalism of the two-bit operation you call Taco Bell.

Dimples

Sarah sent me this:

And what’s this?! I have DIMPLES!

This, if nothing, must make me cute.

I need some mental floss

It’s super annoying when you get songs stuck in your head. It could happen because of any influence; I find it to occur when I hear a song right before I go to sleep or as I get off of the bus going to school. And all day (or until another nestles itself within the friendly confines of your memory), you’re whistling and singing that bloody song over and over again. Even when you have to be quiet, respectful, or the like – there you are, gently humming it until someone hits you on the back of your head. It is as if your head is a broken jukebox hit too hard by the Fonz that unceasingly permeates that one song.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you knew the song, either. But you just have a general idea of the chorus and a vague recollection of the tune. So you hum the tune and think the lyrics until you get to the point of the song that you don’t know; then you start again, as if you were given the holy power to alter, nay, completely slaughter the song in question. This process goes on for hours, in some cases days, until one of two things happens: you die, or another stupid song stages a coup and throws the currently domineering ditty from power within the realm of your consciousness.

And so I leave you now, wishing to purge Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son from my mind.

I suck.

Taryn yelled at me the other day and said I was neglecting those of you with no lives, so after a week, here’s the token entry.

Actually, I haven’t been slaying you with my unceasing wit because I’m a very busy man. I started driving school on Tuesday. I get up early in the morning so I can go stand outside (not in a car, the school can only afford nine) for 4 hours until 12. Having so much time to converse with the good folks there, I have come to many conclusions:

If I were a circus animal, I would want to be a tiger.
If I could kill someone with any garden tool, it would be a rake. Not those hard, pitchfork types, but the kind made of flimsy aluminum as to perpetuate the dying process.
Cones are retarded.

Wow, that’s not many conclusions at all. I’m really, really not in the mood to write. I think I’m gonna go now. Sorry to disappoint.

Life is just a beach so far out of reach

Last night I went to Egle’s party at the Den. Nice place (especially because we had the Hockey game on). I gave her a nice present wrapped in pretty rose wrapping paper with a potato and twenty bucks inside. Also included was this note:

All my life, I’ve envied girls who go to birthday parties and get their friends intricate, complicated, and personal gifts that just suit their style. I’ve always been the typical guy, throwing 20 bucks at the birthday girl and eating cake. But not this year. This year, I made it a point to try to get a gift for you; something thoughtful that you would really enjoy. In efforts of giving you the perfect present, I asked myself, “What do I know about Egle?” It was then that I realized I don’t know all that much about you, except that you’re Lithuanian. I had a great idea: I’d give you the country’s main agricultural product as sort of a memento, a reminder of the great motherland. So, after a quick trip to Google, I found that the main agricultural export of Lithuania is grain. After searching high and low, near and far, I couldn’t find any to give to you. Apparently they don’t sell raw wheat here in the U.S., one of the largest wheat economies of the known world. I did the next best thing and included the second most populous agricultural export of Lithuania, the potato. But then I realized and said to myself, “Self, you’re giving the girl a potato.” So here’s 20 bucks.

Today I took advantage of the environment I take for granted and, like a real Floridian, I went to the beach. This experience has only reaffirmed my opinion that the beach is an inefficient, silly place to go.

First, you have to wait in gobs of traffic, which wasn’t so bad today, because we took a detour down Drew Street, behind Coachman Park and bypassed downtown traffic. After averting the roundabout, we traveled up to North Beach and set up camp.

Now, think about this logically with me.

Every year, millions of tourists come to bask in the light of the single brightest object in our solar system, which has been proven to cause skin cancer. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to swim in our sea. Well, technically it’s a gulf, filled with bacteria and harmful animals. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to lay down in our sand. Sand, which I might add, that the city of Clearwater spends millions on each year to be trucked in and spread due to our deteriorating coastline. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to buy our outrageously overpriced merchandise. I’m not saying that this is necessarily bad, but when I have to pay $2.25 for a coke at Pier 60, I’m gonna start complaining. But no big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

It’s an odd concept, this “beach.” People go to sit on a field of dirt and to swim in the world’s toilet. I’d much rather be sitting home, in the air conditioning, with a cold drink by my side.

Now, I’m not bashing the beach, don’t get me wrong. Tourism is this city’s main income and because of Joe from Chicago wanting to give me all of his money, the roads are paved where I live and my life is generally more pleasant. I merely cannot comprehend what would make the beach an attractive place to go. Perhaps if I lived in Topeka, Kansas, I would feel differently and I would despise my city’s… corn.