Where the hell have I been? Good question. Wrapping up an old, crappy job, starting a new job at which finding my desk made for a successful second day, getting ready to go to Alabama to be in a wedding this weekend.... More to follow, I promise, including the Big B.I.G. News, heretofore unannounced on this blog, which shall change Life As We Know It.
Have a lovely holiday weekend, may you not have to hock your jewelry for gas money.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
First Saturday in May
Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby, and here I was, stuck in Indianapolis. Sure, I had great friends visiting and had a wonderful time, but still, it hurt knowing I was missing the party.
My sister sent me an e-mail Friday morning saying she was leaving work at 1:30 to get started. She was probably 1 of about 5 people working in Louisville that day (Oaks Day) anyway. Friday night I got a joyous message from a friend who was standing outside in the rain watching the B52's and having a great time anyway.
Because no one can prove who I am when I write this, I will say it loud and proud--the Kentucky Derby is the only race in May that matters. That's right, the Indianapolis 500 sucks. This year's Derby wasn't the best--Big Brown's trainer is an ass and the euthanasia of Eight Belles is downright tragic, but the overriding fact remains: Compared to the Derby, the 500 is little more than a souped-up demolition derby. And here are the Top 10 reasons why:
10) The Derby Festival customarily kicks off 2 weeks before the race with a all-day air show and fireworks extravaganza on the riverfront. Beer flows freely and the Chow Wagon opens in all its deep-fried meat-on-sticks glory.
By contrast, the 500 Festival kicks off--on Derby Day, no less--with a freaking 13-mile foot race. What the fuck? How is anybody supposed to celebrate anything while or after running 13 miles? What part of "Festival" do these people not understand?
9) In general, the Derby Festival includes far more events that not only encourage, but really revolve around, sitting in a lawn chair drinking beer. Take the Great Steamboat Race, for instance. Nevermind that the "race" is clearly fixed judging by the near-even win-loss record when one of the boats is about 50 times larger than the other. Have you ever seen steamboats move? "Lightning-fast" is not an adjective one would use to describe steamboat motion. The purpose is really to provide an excuse to sit on the riverbank for a couple of hours and yes, drink some beer.
The closest the Indy folks can come up with is the tortoise race at the Zoo. Not only does the big tortoise always win, but you have to pay zoo admission to watch it. And they don't serve beer.
8) Efficiency. According to a recent article in IBJ, the 500 Festival comes in just behind the Derby Festival in terms of size as measured by staff and budget. My question is, what in the sam hell are you people here in Indy doing with all that manpower and money if you're not coming up with events that people actually want to go to?
7) The Derby Festival parade doesn't charge people to sit in the bleacher seats, unlike the 500 Festival. Charging anyone to see a freaking parade--ever--is just wrong, wrong, wrong. And the Derby parade is on Thursday, meaning that if you work in downtown Louisville, it's not only recommended, but almost mandatory, to leave work early. Even if you don't watch the parade, you have no hope of getting out of downtown before nightfall otherwise.
6) The Spring Meet at Churchill Downs. In the weeks leading up to the Derby, it is customary to host "meetings" and entertain clients at the track. Sure, people do that in Indy, too, but in Louisville, they have real races going on, not just practice. And you can bet! AND, you don't have to freaking wear earplugs or risk permanent hearing loss.
6) The Spring Meet at Churchill Downs. In the weeks leading up to the Derby, it is customary to host "meetings" and entertain clients at the track. Sure, people do that in Indy, too, but in Louisville, they have real races going on, not just practice. And you can bet! AND, you don't have to freaking wear earplugs or risk permanent hearing loss.
5) For the entire week leading up to the Derby, the kind folks at the Festival there open up several Chow Wagons around town for those who want some company while they sit around and drink beer. Chow Wagons are nothing more than a fenced-off area of a parking lot, furnished with picnic tables and a fine assortment of fair food and American swill beer. Classic rock and country cover bands play at night. It's a scheme that keeps all the rednecks contained in a few small areas, which really benefits everyone.
4) The Kentucky Derby inspires people. To wit, the following excerpt from a column by Red Smith, the legendary sportswriter:
This is the week when dear little old ladies in Shawano, Wis., get to know about sports figures named Spectacular Bid and Flying Paster. Spectacular Bid and Flying Paster are thoroughbred race horses, and there are vast and sinless areas in this country where they and their like are regarded as instruments of Satan 51 weeks a year. Then comes the week of the Kentucky Derby, and sinless newspapers that wouldn’t mention a horse any other time unless he kicked the mayor to death are suddenly full of information about steeds that will run and the people they will run for at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May. In cities all over the land stenographers invest their silver in office pools, in cities and towns and on farms the sinless old ladies study the entries and on Saturday almost everyone tunes in on television.
I defy anyone to present anything as well-written about the Indianapolis 500. Go ahead, I dare you!
3) Race day. First of all, while races are run all day at Churchill Downs, the Run for the Roses is held at a hangover-friendly late-afternoon hour. More than once, personally, I've had to have someone wake me up so I wouldn't miss it. It's televised, and it lasts just over two minutes--the perfect length of time for an attention-deficit drunk. When the race comes on, everyone at the party gathers around a television, screams, yells and shouts, then quickly goes back to their lawn chair and resumes drinking.
The Indy 500, on the other hand, requires one to drag one's ass to the track at an ungodly early morning hour if one hopes to catch a glimpse of it live, since the penny-pinching bastards refuse to televise it. And then there's the earplugs factor again. And it lasts, what, like 10 hours or something? Honestly, who can give a crap about anything for that long?
2) Betting on the Derby is not only legal, it's its raison d'etre.
1) Aesthetics. The Kentucky Derby is an explosion of tradition, color and beauty. Jockeys attired in artistic silks sit atop gleaming thoroughbreds that prance through a sea of tulips, all hoping to wear the blanket of roses in the winner's circle. The stands are filled with smiling people dressed in the finest haberdashery--dresses, hats, colorful silk ties--sipping a cool refreshing bourbon drink.
The Indy 500: Oy vey. An explosion of sunburnt flab, misshapen tattoos, underwear as outwear, and crushed Bud Light cans. Maybe it's just me, but I know which crowd I'd rather spend a day with.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Family outing
Today the boys and I made our annual trek to the track for this fund-raiser, which is always fun not only because it completely wears out Big Head Dog and the Monster, but also because dogs of every size, shape, color and behavioral level show up for it. In short, I am guaranteed to NOT have the worst dogs in attendance.
This year was no exception, not that the Monster didn't try for the top Bad Dog spot. His attempts to hump every dog in sight were thwarted by the short leash. I forgot to tighten his collar beforehand though, to account for his skinnier neck now that he's lost his thick winter undercoat of fur. Twice he wiggled out of his collar and became a fugitive, but fortunately was caught both times before wreaking serious havoc or escaping to the nearby golf course.
On second thought, I kind of wish he would've stirred up a couple of foursomes.
As usual, the Monster was a big hit at every water stop for his pool antics. I guess it's time to bring out his own baby pool from winter storage in the garage.
This year was no exception, not that the Monster didn't try for the top Bad Dog spot. His attempts to hump every dog in sight were thwarted by the short leash. I forgot to tighten his collar beforehand though, to account for his skinnier neck now that he's lost his thick winter undercoat of fur. Twice he wiggled out of his collar and became a fugitive, but fortunately was caught both times before wreaking serious havoc or escaping to the nearby golf course.
On second thought, I kind of wish he would've stirred up a couple of foursomes.
As usual, the Monster was a big hit at every water stop for his pool antics. I guess it's time to bring out his own baby pool from winter storage in the garage.
Here are the boys nearing the finish line, with the famous pagoda at IMS in the background. Big Head Dog is just happy to be there, having been forced to skip last year because of his butt surgery. If you look closely, though, you'll see that the Monster has apparently just spotted a potential humpee, judging by his obvious excitement and the lecherous look on his face. If he could speak, I'm pretty sure he'd be saying, "That is a fine-looking ass on that bitch. Sure wish I could get me some of that...heh heh heh."
And this was going to be my Christmas card photo this year. How embarrassing.
Oh, and some freak didn't get the memo and brought some sort of miniature equine. The damn thing is wearing shoes AND a hat, for dog's sake! Here Big Head Dog is moving in to give the horse his condolences for being made to look a fool. Or maybe just to sniff its butt.
Crazy Cat Lady, Lizzie and I finished off the afternoon by consuming far more calories at Mug N Bun than we burned off walking 2.5 miles, then the boys and I came home and slept it off. The boys and I are happy, sleepy, and in dire need of baths and some grooming.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Suck it monkeys, I'm going corporate!
That headline will make no sense to anyone who didn't watch 30 Rock last night, but I don't care. Tina Fey is a genius, btw.
I got a job offer today! No, not as a result of this clusterfuck of an interview. The result of another interview that obviously went much, much better. One in which I wore clothes that fit, sucked up, successfully evaded questions I didn't want to answer, and stuck to my "key messages," none of which involved sarcasm, cursing, or my love of booze and men.
Today, I think of when I was a young journalism student, full of spirit and idealism. I was going to expose wrongdoing, motivate people to care about things they should care about--change the world, in short. No matter if I would never get rich, the satisfaction would be its own reward.
Fuck that. I'm officially selling out. I can feel the corners of my soul curling up and turning black. It doesn't feel so bad, actually.
Today the HR dude called with the offer. He told me the salary, which exceeds my "wow, wouldn't it be great to make this much" hopes by several thousand dollars. "Of course you'll want to think about this, it is a big decision," he said.
"Yes, of course, I need to think about it," I replied. "In the meantime, may I come to your office and kiss your feet? Or anything else that might need attention?"
Life is looking good right now. I hope I don't get hit by a truck this weekend.
I got a job offer today! No, not as a result of this clusterfuck of an interview. The result of another interview that obviously went much, much better. One in which I wore clothes that fit, sucked up, successfully evaded questions I didn't want to answer, and stuck to my "key messages," none of which involved sarcasm, cursing, or my love of booze and men.
Today, I think of when I was a young journalism student, full of spirit and idealism. I was going to expose wrongdoing, motivate people to care about things they should care about--change the world, in short. No matter if I would never get rich, the satisfaction would be its own reward.
Fuck that. I'm officially selling out. I can feel the corners of my soul curling up and turning black. It doesn't feel so bad, actually.
Today the HR dude called with the offer. He told me the salary, which exceeds my "wow, wouldn't it be great to make this much" hopes by several thousand dollars. "Of course you'll want to think about this, it is a big decision," he said.
"Yes, of course, I need to think about it," I replied. "In the meantime, may I come to your office and kiss your feet? Or anything else that might need attention?"
Life is looking good right now. I hope I don't get hit by a truck this weekend.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Was there ever any question?
What Beer Are You? | |
 | You are Guinness. You are brooding, bitter, and often in a dark, pensive mood. You are an intellectual and a dreamer, but your passion and emotions can sometimes get the better of you. |
| Find Your Character @ BrainFall.com | |
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Home sweet %&$#! home
This weekend I went to southern Indiana to open the farmhouse for the summer. My oldest brother was in town, so all 5 of us siblings were getting together at the ol' homestead for a cookout Sunday.
I got into town late Friday night and stayed at my sister's. The plan Saturday was to turn on the water at the house, make my semi-annual trip to Wal-mart to stock up on supplies, clean the house, take a nice hot shower and spend a cozy Saturday night next to the wood stove, listening to jazz on WFPK and writing, the dogs at my feet.
Saturday dawned, and I use that word loosely, December-gray and windy. I finally mustered the energy to head to the farmhouse around 12:30. I couldn't find my keys. Finally, I found them in the ignition, which I'd left turned on the ACC position all night, so my battery was dead.
This, as it turns out, was an omen of things to come.
After my brother-in-law jumped my car, I went to the farmhouse and unloaded my stuff. I headed down to the cellar to shut the valve on the water heater before turning on the water at the meter.
Here's where I start wishing my camera had made it out of my bag. I opened the cellar door (one of those that sits on top of the ground, next to the house, looking like it might just lead to the gates of hell when you open it) and saw water up to the second step from the bottom.
Fuck.
I walked down the steps as far as I could and pushed open the wooden door at the bottom. Wood and miscellaneous debris floated around in 10 inches of water covered with an oil slick from the (long inoperable) oil furnace. The water heater, which normally sits about a foot off the dirt cellar floor, was resting at a precarious angle, its back edge sitting in water.
Double fuck.
I tried to call my sister. No network coverage. AT&T is officially my sworn enemy. I loaded up the dogs and drove to the top of a hill a mile up the road. Her neighbor, she thought, had a pump. She'd try to call him.
I headed to town to get rubber boots. Tall ones. And some coffee. Back home, I tracked down Bubby, my brother who lives next door to the farmhouse, on his lawnmower and asked if he had a submersible pump.
"Yeah," he drawled. "But it don't work. The drain's probly clogged. Did you reach down in there and try to clean it out?"
Here's where I should mention that I have always had an irrational fear of the cellar. As a child, I'd be dispatched to the cellar to retrieve things for dinner, like potatoes or canned vegetables or, way back in the day, lard. As a teenager, when desperate times called for desperate measures, I'd siphon out some of my dad's homemade wine (rocket fuel) from the big barrels.
In all cases, I'd take a deep breath, open the door, dash in, grab what I needed to, and get the hell out before whatever scaly subterranean creature lurking in the dark corners had a chance to grab me with one of its 10 taloned arms. Although I've never actually seen anything more sinister than salamanders, spiders and an occasional mouse down there, I figure that's just the monster's food supply.
The presence of nearly a foot of water covering the floor merely served to introduce the possibility of a tentacled swamp monster living in the cellar. So when Bubby asked if I'd reached in the water to try to clean out the drain with my hand, I responded with an emphatic, "FUCK no I didn't!!"
Long story shorter, I drove to my sister's to get the pump. Brought it back, plugged it in. Nothing. I took the dogs for a walk in the woods to calm down, and for the first time ever, thought about how nice it might just be to tear down the farmhouse, with its aged roof and rotten windows and archaic electrical wiring and monster-spawning cellar, and start all over in a few years. With a farmhouse-inspired cottage, that would have the same real woodwork and big windows, but with a dry, concrete basement, draft-free windows, a real laundry room, screened-in porch....
I drove to town--again--to rent a pump from Home Depot and to buy a powerful monster-repelling flashlight. By then it was dark outside. I took the long way home to swing by a party, where I picked up my niece's house key so I could at least take a hot shower before bed. She was at a fancy new house, with lots of stone and wood, on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River, where a small group of exceedingly friendly people had gathered to watch the big fireworks show in downtown Louisville. I showed up at the front door in my muddy overalls tucked into rubber boots, with my torn flannel shirt and fur- and dirt-covered barn jacket. Her hosts insisted I come in to say hello. I proved that even in southern Indiana, I can redneck up a place.
My sister and brother-in-law ended up coming by to check on the pump and start a fire in the stove for me, but mostly I think just to make sure I didn't abandon hope and head home to Indy.
Today, the water mostly pumped out, Bubby cleaned out the drain and declared the water heater junk (based on the high-water mark halfway up its tank). I turned on the water to discover that the pipes to the washing machine had frozen anyway and were leaking a steady stream of water into the basement (where, at least, it drained).
Picking up limbs in the yard, my sister suggested we pile them on the porch and start a bonfire, then claim it was an accident when the house caught fire. It didn't sound like a bad idea.
Inside, I sat on the hearth by the stove, eating and talking to my family crowding the small living room: Two of my three brothers (Bubby had taken his drain snake and gone home), my sister, their spouses, a nephew, two nieces, a great-niece and several dogs. Almost the whole family. And I thought of all the times last summer that there'd been a similar crowd under the shade trees, and how hard it is to get us all together anywhere else, but how easy it is with the words "Cookout at the farmhouse this weekend."
By the time everybody left we'd made plans to get together there again in a few weeks. My brother-in-law would help me clean out the cellar and haul off the old fuel tanks to sell for scrap, my brother would fix my pipes, and my sister would help me paint the windows and sort stuff to put in a yard sale she's having. They all knew how frustrated I was with the place today and probably guessed I was wondering if it's worth the trouble. Their answer, of course, is that it is.
I got into town late Friday night and stayed at my sister's. The plan Saturday was to turn on the water at the house, make my semi-annual trip to Wal-mart to stock up on supplies, clean the house, take a nice hot shower and spend a cozy Saturday night next to the wood stove, listening to jazz on WFPK and writing, the dogs at my feet.
Saturday dawned, and I use that word loosely, December-gray and windy. I finally mustered the energy to head to the farmhouse around 12:30. I couldn't find my keys. Finally, I found them in the ignition, which I'd left turned on the ACC position all night, so my battery was dead.
This, as it turns out, was an omen of things to come.
After my brother-in-law jumped my car, I went to the farmhouse and unloaded my stuff. I headed down to the cellar to shut the valve on the water heater before turning on the water at the meter.
Here's where I start wishing my camera had made it out of my bag. I opened the cellar door (one of those that sits on top of the ground, next to the house, looking like it might just lead to the gates of hell when you open it) and saw water up to the second step from the bottom.
Fuck.
I walked down the steps as far as I could and pushed open the wooden door at the bottom. Wood and miscellaneous debris floated around in 10 inches of water covered with an oil slick from the (long inoperable) oil furnace. The water heater, which normally sits about a foot off the dirt cellar floor, was resting at a precarious angle, its back edge sitting in water.
Double fuck.
I tried to call my sister. No network coverage. AT&T is officially my sworn enemy. I loaded up the dogs and drove to the top of a hill a mile up the road. Her neighbor, she thought, had a pump. She'd try to call him.
I headed to town to get rubber boots. Tall ones. And some coffee. Back home, I tracked down Bubby, my brother who lives next door to the farmhouse, on his lawnmower and asked if he had a submersible pump.
"Yeah," he drawled. "But it don't work. The drain's probly clogged. Did you reach down in there and try to clean it out?"
Here's where I should mention that I have always had an irrational fear of the cellar. As a child, I'd be dispatched to the cellar to retrieve things for dinner, like potatoes or canned vegetables or, way back in the day, lard. As a teenager, when desperate times called for desperate measures, I'd siphon out some of my dad's homemade wine (rocket fuel) from the big barrels.
In all cases, I'd take a deep breath, open the door, dash in, grab what I needed to, and get the hell out before whatever scaly subterranean creature lurking in the dark corners had a chance to grab me with one of its 10 taloned arms. Although I've never actually seen anything more sinister than salamanders, spiders and an occasional mouse down there, I figure that's just the monster's food supply.
The presence of nearly a foot of water covering the floor merely served to introduce the possibility of a tentacled swamp monster living in the cellar. So when Bubby asked if I'd reached in the water to try to clean out the drain with my hand, I responded with an emphatic, "FUCK no I didn't!!"
Long story shorter, I drove to my sister's to get the pump. Brought it back, plugged it in. Nothing. I took the dogs for a walk in the woods to calm down, and for the first time ever, thought about how nice it might just be to tear down the farmhouse, with its aged roof and rotten windows and archaic electrical wiring and monster-spawning cellar, and start all over in a few years. With a farmhouse-inspired cottage, that would have the same real woodwork and big windows, but with a dry, concrete basement, draft-free windows, a real laundry room, screened-in porch....
I drove to town--again--to rent a pump from Home Depot and to buy a powerful monster-repelling flashlight. By then it was dark outside. I took the long way home to swing by a party, where I picked up my niece's house key so I could at least take a hot shower before bed. She was at a fancy new house, with lots of stone and wood, on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River, where a small group of exceedingly friendly people had gathered to watch the big fireworks show in downtown Louisville. I showed up at the front door in my muddy overalls tucked into rubber boots, with my torn flannel shirt and fur- and dirt-covered barn jacket. Her hosts insisted I come in to say hello. I proved that even in southern Indiana, I can redneck up a place.
My sister and brother-in-law ended up coming by to check on the pump and start a fire in the stove for me, but mostly I think just to make sure I didn't abandon hope and head home to Indy.
Today, the water mostly pumped out, Bubby cleaned out the drain and declared the water heater junk (based on the high-water mark halfway up its tank). I turned on the water to discover that the pipes to the washing machine had frozen anyway and were leaking a steady stream of water into the basement (where, at least, it drained).
Picking up limbs in the yard, my sister suggested we pile them on the porch and start a bonfire, then claim it was an accident when the house caught fire. It didn't sound like a bad idea.
Inside, I sat on the hearth by the stove, eating and talking to my family crowding the small living room: Two of my three brothers (Bubby had taken his drain snake and gone home), my sister, their spouses, a nephew, two nieces, a great-niece and several dogs. Almost the whole family. And I thought of all the times last summer that there'd been a similar crowd under the shade trees, and how hard it is to get us all together anywhere else, but how easy it is with the words "Cookout at the farmhouse this weekend."
By the time everybody left we'd made plans to get together there again in a few weeks. My brother-in-law would help me clean out the cellar and haul off the old fuel tanks to sell for scrap, my brother would fix my pipes, and my sister would help me paint the windows and sort stuff to put in a yard sale she's having. They all knew how frustrated I was with the place today and probably guessed I was wondering if it's worth the trouble. Their answer, of course, is that it is.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
This could be the year
Very few things make me feel truly homicidal. Generally speaking, I'm more of a "make love, not war" kind of person. Hell, I'm more of a "make love, not dinner" kind of person, truth be told.
Yet here I sit on my back deck, on a gloriously warm and sunny spring day, wishing like hell I had a gun. An extremely accurate, high-powered rifle of some sort. With some of those fancy bullets you can't get legally.
Why, you ask?
The fucking motorcycles. They're back. And they're tearing down the busy street from which I am separated only by a back yard, an alley, and a row of houses that do little to buffer the noise from those hideous, small-penis-compensating machines that make it sound like the Formula 1 race is back in town and in my 'hood.
So here I am, sitting on my deck enjoying a gourmet dinner of mac n' cheese and Diet Pepsi, watching Big Head Dog and the Monster stalk squirrels, listening to the birds chirp, and suddenly it sounds like Mad Max and the Hells Angels have joined forces to usher in the apocalypse.
Maybe it's just the peyote talking (thanks for the suggestion, Flipside), but I am picturing myself in full camouflage and face paint, hiding in a bush between the neighbors' houses behind mine, picking off each and every one of those damn things with a well-placed shot in the gas tank, then laughing maniacally at the explosions, the carnage, the riders running down the street afire and screaming before they collapse in a smoldering, quivering heap. Ahhh, what peace that would bring me....
And I'd also be in good shooting practice for when the fucking ice cream trucks start up.
Yet here I sit on my back deck, on a gloriously warm and sunny spring day, wishing like hell I had a gun. An extremely accurate, high-powered rifle of some sort. With some of those fancy bullets you can't get legally.
Why, you ask?
The fucking motorcycles. They're back. And they're tearing down the busy street from which I am separated only by a back yard, an alley, and a row of houses that do little to buffer the noise from those hideous, small-penis-compensating machines that make it sound like the Formula 1 race is back in town and in my 'hood.
So here I am, sitting on my deck enjoying a gourmet dinner of mac n' cheese and Diet Pepsi, watching Big Head Dog and the Monster stalk squirrels, listening to the birds chirp, and suddenly it sounds like Mad Max and the Hells Angels have joined forces to usher in the apocalypse.
Maybe it's just the peyote talking (thanks for the suggestion, Flipside), but I am picturing myself in full camouflage and face paint, hiding in a bush between the neighbors' houses behind mine, picking off each and every one of those damn things with a well-placed shot in the gas tank, then laughing maniacally at the explosions, the carnage, the riders running down the street afire and screaming before they collapse in a smoldering, quivering heap. Ahhh, what peace that would bring me....
And I'd also be in good shooting practice for when the fucking ice cream trucks start up.
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