While I still have a few years (though not nearly enough) to go before I hit the 40 mark, and even though I may qualify as a "born again" virgin, I'm not actually a virgin, I do have to say that based on what I've seen I feel a certain (understandable) affinity for Steve Carell's character in the upcoming move "The 40 Year-Old Virgin."
I was reading an article about audience research that the movie's director performed, and in it I came across this quote that hit painfully close to home:
"Another dilemma: At one stage in the film's evolution, Andy himself proved a distraction. Universal executives had told Apatow that they were afraid Andy might come across at best as a creepy loner and at worst a serial killer."
I've often thought about how being alone can become a sort of self-perpetuating cycle: the more time you spend alone, the weirder you become and are perceived to be, which tends to keep people away, which leaves you alone, which leads to becoming and being perceived as being weird, which...
Of course, I have time to think about that sort of thing because, being a creepy loner(albeit harmless, though no one is willing to take that chance, because I'm a creepy loner), there's no one around to distract me.
*Sigh*
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Thursday, August 11, 2005
America's New Pastime?
Is it my imagination, or didn’t we just conquer a middle-eastern country that has a shitload of oil not too long ago?
You would think that would make a difference at the gas pump. I mean, don’t we pretty much have our own personal oil reserves in the form of Iraq? Isn’t that why we decided to bomb it into submission in the first place?
Oh wait, never mind. We didn’t go there for oil, we went there for weapons of mass – I mean, to liberate its people (Nobody ever said anything about weapons of mass destruction, which is why we didn’t find any...but if we do find them, man are we ever going to rub it in France’s face...even though we didn't go there to find weapons of mass destruction. Who told you we were looking for weapons of mass destruction?).
And that’s what we did. We liberated it. We didn’t conquer it. Because if we conquered Iraq in an effort to get out hands on its oil that would be like when Iraq invaded Kuwait for its oil, which was wrong, so…you know, maybe I should just get to my point, which is to say that gas is too goddamned expensive.
Despite the fact that it’s small and gutless, my car really doesn’t get the greatest gas mileage. The only reason I don’t have to spend more on gas than I do is that I so seldom go anywhere. However, because I can now look at the gas gauge and see how much I have, on my way home from JavaScript class I realized that I needed to fill up for the weekend, and I found that it cost way more than it really ought to cost.
Speaking of driving home from class, when I was doing so the road ended up turning into some sort of impromptu collision-avoidance obstacle course.
Honestly, if the other drivers on the road had been in radio contact with each other and were coordinating their efforts to slow me to a crawl it could not possibly have looked any different from what I saw as I was driving. I can’t imagine how people can work so well in concert with each other without actually intending to. Most organizations that are designed to work together lack that kind of teamwork.
There were even people who waited at intersections until I was close enough to almost hit them before deciding to turn onto the road. I don’t know if they were sitting there oblivious to the fact that they had time to make their turns or if they just thought they needed some kind of adrenaline rush and so they let their chances pass by and waited until making the turn had a greater chance of resulting in a fatal collision.
Nothing like a near-miss to get the heart pumping, I guess.
Still, it reallyfelt more like some kind of sick game that everyone was playing with me. I could almost hear an announcer in my head:
“Hello fans, it’ a huimid August day as we turn our attention to the road, where we find Jon moving into the right lane to pass a slow-moving dump truck. He makes it past, but is prevented from getting back into the left lane by a van that just made an illegal U-Turn into the lane. Jon grits his teeth and punches it, hoping to get past the van, but dead ahead a cement truck is slowly lumbering on from a side road. Will he brake or – no! He’s punching it even more to squeeze in ahead of the van, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision with an SUV that, seeing him coming, has slammed on its brakes for no apparent reason. Jon fakes right, but a pick-up hauling a horse trailer joins the game and cuts him off. Jon may be…yes! He is officially boxed in. It’s over! It’s all over! With nowhere to go, Jon hangs his head in defeat and accepts the fact that he is going to have to drive 15 miles below the speed limit the rest of the way home. What an exciting day for the Conspiracy to Piss Off Jon this has been. For the CPOJ, I’m Bob Uecker saying have a great afternoon, and remember, if you see Jon on the road…cut him off! This has been a presentation of the Conspiracy to Piss Off Jon. Any broadcast, rebroadcast, or use of any accounts, pictures, or descriptions of COPJ broadcasts without the express written consent of the COPJ is strictly prohibited.”
*Sigh*
Earlier today I checked my e-mail and found that I’d received a notification of someone posting a comment to Threshold. I looked through it, as it was an Anonymous post, to see if it was something interesting (as opposed to something “Zalfiro” would post), and discovered that it was actually a piece of spam!
At first, I didn’t know how to feel. After all, there was the possibility that this piece of sleazy marketing was a sign that I’ve arrived, that Threshold gets enough traffic that it might be worth posting ads in the comments section.
Then I realized that there’s probably just some bot that goes around looking for blogs that allow anonymous posting via the “Next Blog” function of Blogger, and then posts its crap, so I got annoyed.
I went in and deleted the comment, which was trying to get people to buy into some new product in the forest industry.
If this starts happening more frequently, I may disable anonymous posting, though I’m not sure that would be enough. After all, it’d be easy enough to create a Blogger login and have a bot do the same thing after logging in and still remain relatively anonymous.
So I guess we’ll see what happens.
In any case, my weekend, which has been busier than most, is drawing to a close. I hope that that those of you whose weekends are just about to begin get more time to relax than I did.
You would think that would make a difference at the gas pump. I mean, don’t we pretty much have our own personal oil reserves in the form of Iraq? Isn’t that why we decided to bomb it into submission in the first place?
Oh wait, never mind. We didn’t go there for oil, we went there for weapons of mass – I mean, to liberate its people (Nobody ever said anything about weapons of mass destruction, which is why we didn’t find any...but if we do find them, man are we ever going to rub it in France’s face...even though we didn't go there to find weapons of mass destruction. Who told you we were looking for weapons of mass destruction?).
And that’s what we did. We liberated it. We didn’t conquer it. Because if we conquered Iraq in an effort to get out hands on its oil that would be like when Iraq invaded Kuwait for its oil, which was wrong, so…you know, maybe I should just get to my point, which is to say that gas is too goddamned expensive.
Despite the fact that it’s small and gutless, my car really doesn’t get the greatest gas mileage. The only reason I don’t have to spend more on gas than I do is that I so seldom go anywhere. However, because I can now look at the gas gauge and see how much I have, on my way home from JavaScript class I realized that I needed to fill up for the weekend, and I found that it cost way more than it really ought to cost.
Speaking of driving home from class, when I was doing so the road ended up turning into some sort of impromptu collision-avoidance obstacle course.
Honestly, if the other drivers on the road had been in radio contact with each other and were coordinating their efforts to slow me to a crawl it could not possibly have looked any different from what I saw as I was driving. I can’t imagine how people can work so well in concert with each other without actually intending to. Most organizations that are designed to work together lack that kind of teamwork.
There were even people who waited at intersections until I was close enough to almost hit them before deciding to turn onto the road. I don’t know if they were sitting there oblivious to the fact that they had time to make their turns or if they just thought they needed some kind of adrenaline rush and so they let their chances pass by and waited until making the turn had a greater chance of resulting in a fatal collision.
Nothing like a near-miss to get the heart pumping, I guess.
Still, it reallyfelt more like some kind of sick game that everyone was playing with me. I could almost hear an announcer in my head:
“Hello fans, it’ a huimid August day as we turn our attention to the road, where we find Jon moving into the right lane to pass a slow-moving dump truck. He makes it past, but is prevented from getting back into the left lane by a van that just made an illegal U-Turn into the lane. Jon grits his teeth and punches it, hoping to get past the van, but dead ahead a cement truck is slowly lumbering on from a side road. Will he brake or – no! He’s punching it even more to squeeze in ahead of the van, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision with an SUV that, seeing him coming, has slammed on its brakes for no apparent reason. Jon fakes right, but a pick-up hauling a horse trailer joins the game and cuts him off. Jon may be…yes! He is officially boxed in. It’s over! It’s all over! With nowhere to go, Jon hangs his head in defeat and accepts the fact that he is going to have to drive 15 miles below the speed limit the rest of the way home. What an exciting day for the Conspiracy to Piss Off Jon this has been. For the CPOJ, I’m Bob Uecker saying have a great afternoon, and remember, if you see Jon on the road…cut him off! This has been a presentation of the Conspiracy to Piss Off Jon. Any broadcast, rebroadcast, or use of any accounts, pictures, or descriptions of COPJ broadcasts without the express written consent of the COPJ is strictly prohibited.”
*Sigh*
Earlier today I checked my e-mail and found that I’d received a notification of someone posting a comment to Threshold. I looked through it, as it was an Anonymous post, to see if it was something interesting (as opposed to something “Zalfiro” would post), and discovered that it was actually a piece of spam!
At first, I didn’t know how to feel. After all, there was the possibility that this piece of sleazy marketing was a sign that I’ve arrived, that Threshold gets enough traffic that it might be worth posting ads in the comments section.
Then I realized that there’s probably just some bot that goes around looking for blogs that allow anonymous posting via the “Next Blog” function of Blogger, and then posts its crap, so I got annoyed.
I went in and deleted the comment, which was trying to get people to buy into some new product in the forest industry.
If this starts happening more frequently, I may disable anonymous posting, though I’m not sure that would be enough. After all, it’d be easy enough to create a Blogger login and have a bot do the same thing after logging in and still remain relatively anonymous.
So I guess we’ll see what happens.
In any case, my weekend, which has been busier than most, is drawing to a close. I hope that that those of you whose weekends are just about to begin get more time to relax than I did.
So That Means That 1 In 25 Mothers Is A Tramp
Here's an interesting article from the UK about genetic screening and its application to paternity tests.
I found this opening line most interesting:
"One man in 25 is living under the deception that he is the father of another man's child, researchers say."
I found this opening line most interesting:
"One man in 25 is living under the deception that he is the father of another man's child, researchers say."
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
God Bless The USA!
So after all the build-up, here is that Rachael Leigh Cook picture I've been talking about:
While some of the detail has been lost in this smaller, lower-res copy, I think you can see why it was so much work. The pants alone...
Anyway, it's not as good as I would like it to be, but that's pretty much the way it always goes (particularly when trying to render RLC), and at least it's done.
While some of the detail has been lost in this smaller, lower-res copy, I think you can see why it was so much work. The pants alone...
Anyway, it's not as good as I would like it to be, but that's pretty much the way it always goes (particularly when trying to render RLC), and at least it's done.
I Enjoy Being A Girl
First off, I’ll mention that my nephew Jeremy is 16 today. It hardly seems that long ago that my mom and I made the trip down to Texas to help my sister and her husband out before and after Jeremy’s birth, but I guess it must have been. That’s what the calendar says, at least.
I’m too damn old.
In any case, happy birthday, Jeremy.
Today found me in my second day of JavaScript training realizing that I just don’t think like a coder.
Basically, while I can understand the principles and see how the things that we’re doing work, I can’t make the leap to see how any of it could be applied toward doing anything cool.
I mean, validating forms? Performing math? WTF?
So I can think of cool things I’d like to see done, and I can understand how to accomplish some things using the language, but there’s a disconnect between the two, as I just can’t see how the language can be used to accomplish the cool things.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll cover that (After we finish typing up 300 lines of code designed to check to make sure that required fields in an HTML form are filled out and that they’re filled out with the correct kind of data when the “Submit” button is clicked – there’s a task that will make you loudly yawn with excitement!), and do some things that are actually interesting, but somehow I doubt it.
I suspect that once you’ve learned the basics the rest is up to you, and I don’t see myself having the patience, or inclination, to learn how to go from getting a Web page to generate an error message if you type a letter into box that requires numbers to doing something flashy and cool.
That was part of the problem last year when I took a sort of introduction to Java (which is different from JavaScript). Basically, I couldn’t find myself extrapolating how to build some kind of cool Web applet after spending three days learning how to make a command line calculator.
I mean, it just struck me as making an intuitive leap comparable to going from figuring out how to get a Commodore 64 to scroll your name on the screen to writing Adobe Photoshop.
The other problem was that it wasn’t really an introduction to Java. It was basically supposed to be an introduction to the basic concepts of programming, using Java as the practical example. If it had served the purpose I’d hoped it was going to, maybe it would have repaired that disconnect that exists in my mind between basic elements of a programming language and a cool end result using that language and allowed me to bridge the gap.
However, the instructor pretty much blew, and because the focus was slightly more on learning Java, without actually being a full-blown introduction to Java, the class ended up being pretty much nothing. It didn’t teach me anything about the mindset of programming, and it didn’t teach me enough about the principles of programming in Java for me to do anything with what I had managed to learn.
But whatever. This class at least has been much more instructive in the actual language itself.
So it has that much going for it at least, and any shortcomings that prevent me from doing anything with it are likely to be entirely my own.
Over the years I’ve noted that my dreams very seldom have any obvious connection to current events. For example, when I dream about people I know I tend to dream about people I haven’t seen in years rather than people who are actually in my life now.
I’ve never been sure why that is, but it apparently takes a lot of effort for my subconscious to contemporize.
However, this morning just before I woke I had a dream that was obviously colored by yesterday’s events, specifically the whole gender confusion issue.
Yes, that’s right: I dreamed I was a girl.
Kind of, at any rate.
It was an odd dream that had a constantly shifting perspective. Sometimes I was a disembodied omniscient third person observing events, other times I was myself, and, still other times, I was viewing things from the perspective of a young woman.
The whole dream seemed to center around a group of co-workers planning a get-together at a bowling alley.
For the record, though the “me” that was in was, essentially, the “me” that I am now, the dream wasn’t entirely contemporary, as it seemed to be taking place in Minnesota, and the co-workers were from the job I had there more than five years ago.
To start with, the basic conceit of the dream took the form of a romantic comedy, one which I was, somewhat reluctantly watching, even though at the same time I was one of the characters in it (Starring Jon as “Himself”), which, I would assume, is why I got drawn into as a participant.
While “I” was essentially myself, and there were some familiar faces, I have no idea who the girl (And introducing Jon as “The Girl”) actually was. She appeared to be a construct of my dreaming mind.
I will say, though, that she was pretty hot.
In the times that I was viewing things from her perspective, she/I was preparing for the night out with “the gang,” and she/I was looking forward to seeing me, which is to say, Jon.
(If the fact that I was viewing things through the eyes of a pretty, twenty-something woman didn’t make it clear that I was dreaming, the fact that said pretty, twenty-something woman was interested in me certainly drove it home)
She/I was getting dressed, and was fretting about the skirt that she/I was wearing. She/I wanted to wear it, as it was a cute skirt and she/I looked good in it and wanted to look good for me/Jon, but the fact that she/I would be bowling could lead to some embarrassment.
Basically, she/I didn’t want anyone seeing her/my underwear when she/I bent over to send the ball down the lane.
So she/I was looking for a pair of shorts to wear under the skirt, but the only pair she/I could find was too long. She/I didn’t want anyone looking at her/my underwear, but she/I also didn’t want it too be obvious that she/I had shorts on under her/my skirt to a casual observer. So she/I went digging through her/my clothes to find a better pair.
That’s where I shifted back to my own perspective, and found myself reluctant to go bowling, but eager to see the girl.
As I said, there were some anachronisms in the dream. One of them was the fact that even though the setting for this dream was five or six years ago, when I was most decidedly not sober, in the dream I was, as I am now, approaching five years of sobriety.
Further, in the dream I didn’t smoke, though I only quit smoking a little over a year ago.
However, I was convinced that if I went out I would, no doubt as a result of being nervous about this girl that I liked being there, drink and smoke, and, in fact, get totally shitfaced.
My big concern was not so much that I would be throwing away years of hard-won sobriety, but that I would feel like shit the morning after, and that I would probably oversleep by several hours and be late for work.
(That much was not anachronistic for that particular epoch of my life)
So, before I went out I was trying to decide if I would remain sober, or if I would just take my chances and hope that I’d get up in time for work.
I don’t know what I decided, or whether or not the girl ever found a more suitable pair of shorts, or if we managed to hook up, as the dream was interrupted by my alarm going off.
So the whole being a girl thing was obviously influenced by yesterday’s experiences. It’s not really uncommon for me to shift perspectives in my dreams, especially since in our dreams we actually are everyone present, though I don’t recall having too many other transgendered dreams.
As for what elements of my subconscious shaped the rest of the dream, I’m fairly clueless. I don’t think my sobriety is in any danger, though I think the smoking thing was influenced by the fact that I’m in training this week. I always feel like I should be smoking when I’m in training, as we have breaks foisted on us and really, what am I supposed to be doing with that time if not smoking?
Anyway, the being a girl thing was the most interesting aspect of the dream, though honestly, if I were a hot chick I probably wouldn’t give me the time of day…
Speaking of which, on Friday I had a kind of sadly amusing encounter with one of the very few decent-looking women that can be found where I work, though this one is married.
Not that it matters, as she’s not exactly my type anyway.
Still, what makes her stand out, apart from her tremendous rack, is that she’s sort of…scary.
But it’s a good kind of scary. A sexy kind of scary.
Like, yeah, you’ll probably have some scars after it’s all over, but you’ll have memories that will last a lifetime. And sure, some of those memories may be repressed due to the trauma and can only be recovered and properly dealt with after years of therapy, but hey, it will have been worth it because, damn, that is one hell of a rack...
In any case, I nearly bumped into her in the hallway as she was rounding a corner, and she let out a little fake scream of surprise, then apologized.
I said, “That’s okay; I’ve gotten used to women screaming at my approach.”
She laughed, then paused to think about it, and with a mild look of concern, said, “That’s really sad.”
I shook my head and laughed as I said, “I’m just kidding,” but before she was totally on her way I added, “I actually haven’t gotten used to it.”
Anyway, I’m extremely close to finishing that RLC picture I started last week, and which turned out to be much more complicated than I’d originally anticipated, so I think I’m going to work on that.
In the meantime, just to clear any disturbing images from your minds (or, more likely, to plant disturbing images in your mind), when I was being the girl in the dram I looked much better in a skirt than I would in real life…
I’m too damn old.
In any case, happy birthday, Jeremy.
Today found me in my second day of JavaScript training realizing that I just don’t think like a coder.
Basically, while I can understand the principles and see how the things that we’re doing work, I can’t make the leap to see how any of it could be applied toward doing anything cool.
I mean, validating forms? Performing math? WTF?
So I can think of cool things I’d like to see done, and I can understand how to accomplish some things using the language, but there’s a disconnect between the two, as I just can’t see how the language can be used to accomplish the cool things.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll cover that (After we finish typing up 300 lines of code designed to check to make sure that required fields in an HTML form are filled out and that they’re filled out with the correct kind of data when the “Submit” button is clicked – there’s a task that will make you loudly yawn with excitement!), and do some things that are actually interesting, but somehow I doubt it.
I suspect that once you’ve learned the basics the rest is up to you, and I don’t see myself having the patience, or inclination, to learn how to go from getting a Web page to generate an error message if you type a letter into box that requires numbers to doing something flashy and cool.
That was part of the problem last year when I took a sort of introduction to Java (which is different from JavaScript). Basically, I couldn’t find myself extrapolating how to build some kind of cool Web applet after spending three days learning how to make a command line calculator.
I mean, it just struck me as making an intuitive leap comparable to going from figuring out how to get a Commodore 64 to scroll your name on the screen to writing Adobe Photoshop.
The other problem was that it wasn’t really an introduction to Java. It was basically supposed to be an introduction to the basic concepts of programming, using Java as the practical example. If it had served the purpose I’d hoped it was going to, maybe it would have repaired that disconnect that exists in my mind between basic elements of a programming language and a cool end result using that language and allowed me to bridge the gap.
However, the instructor pretty much blew, and because the focus was slightly more on learning Java, without actually being a full-blown introduction to Java, the class ended up being pretty much nothing. It didn’t teach me anything about the mindset of programming, and it didn’t teach me enough about the principles of programming in Java for me to do anything with what I had managed to learn.
But whatever. This class at least has been much more instructive in the actual language itself.
So it has that much going for it at least, and any shortcomings that prevent me from doing anything with it are likely to be entirely my own.
Over the years I’ve noted that my dreams very seldom have any obvious connection to current events. For example, when I dream about people I know I tend to dream about people I haven’t seen in years rather than people who are actually in my life now.
I’ve never been sure why that is, but it apparently takes a lot of effort for my subconscious to contemporize.
However, this morning just before I woke I had a dream that was obviously colored by yesterday’s events, specifically the whole gender confusion issue.
Yes, that’s right: I dreamed I was a girl.
Kind of, at any rate.
It was an odd dream that had a constantly shifting perspective. Sometimes I was a disembodied omniscient third person observing events, other times I was myself, and, still other times, I was viewing things from the perspective of a young woman.
The whole dream seemed to center around a group of co-workers planning a get-together at a bowling alley.
For the record, though the “me” that was in was, essentially, the “me” that I am now, the dream wasn’t entirely contemporary, as it seemed to be taking place in Minnesota, and the co-workers were from the job I had there more than five years ago.
To start with, the basic conceit of the dream took the form of a romantic comedy, one which I was, somewhat reluctantly watching, even though at the same time I was one of the characters in it (Starring Jon as “Himself”), which, I would assume, is why I got drawn into as a participant.
While “I” was essentially myself, and there were some familiar faces, I have no idea who the girl (And introducing Jon as “The Girl”) actually was. She appeared to be a construct of my dreaming mind.
I will say, though, that she was pretty hot.
In the times that I was viewing things from her perspective, she/I was preparing for the night out with “the gang,” and she/I was looking forward to seeing me, which is to say, Jon.
(If the fact that I was viewing things through the eyes of a pretty, twenty-something woman didn’t make it clear that I was dreaming, the fact that said pretty, twenty-something woman was interested in me certainly drove it home)
She/I was getting dressed, and was fretting about the skirt that she/I was wearing. She/I wanted to wear it, as it was a cute skirt and she/I looked good in it and wanted to look good for me/Jon, but the fact that she/I would be bowling could lead to some embarrassment.
Basically, she/I didn’t want anyone seeing her/my underwear when she/I bent over to send the ball down the lane.
So she/I was looking for a pair of shorts to wear under the skirt, but the only pair she/I could find was too long. She/I didn’t want anyone looking at her/my underwear, but she/I also didn’t want it too be obvious that she/I had shorts on under her/my skirt to a casual observer. So she/I went digging through her/my clothes to find a better pair.
That’s where I shifted back to my own perspective, and found myself reluctant to go bowling, but eager to see the girl.
As I said, there were some anachronisms in the dream. One of them was the fact that even though the setting for this dream was five or six years ago, when I was most decidedly not sober, in the dream I was, as I am now, approaching five years of sobriety.
Further, in the dream I didn’t smoke, though I only quit smoking a little over a year ago.
However, I was convinced that if I went out I would, no doubt as a result of being nervous about this girl that I liked being there, drink and smoke, and, in fact, get totally shitfaced.
My big concern was not so much that I would be throwing away years of hard-won sobriety, but that I would feel like shit the morning after, and that I would probably oversleep by several hours and be late for work.
(That much was not anachronistic for that particular epoch of my life)
So, before I went out I was trying to decide if I would remain sober, or if I would just take my chances and hope that I’d get up in time for work.
I don’t know what I decided, or whether or not the girl ever found a more suitable pair of shorts, or if we managed to hook up, as the dream was interrupted by my alarm going off.
So the whole being a girl thing was obviously influenced by yesterday’s experiences. It’s not really uncommon for me to shift perspectives in my dreams, especially since in our dreams we actually are everyone present, though I don’t recall having too many other transgendered dreams.
As for what elements of my subconscious shaped the rest of the dream, I’m fairly clueless. I don’t think my sobriety is in any danger, though I think the smoking thing was influenced by the fact that I’m in training this week. I always feel like I should be smoking when I’m in training, as we have breaks foisted on us and really, what am I supposed to be doing with that time if not smoking?
Anyway, the being a girl thing was the most interesting aspect of the dream, though honestly, if I were a hot chick I probably wouldn’t give me the time of day…
Speaking of which, on Friday I had a kind of sadly amusing encounter with one of the very few decent-looking women that can be found where I work, though this one is married.
Not that it matters, as she’s not exactly my type anyway.
Still, what makes her stand out, apart from her tremendous rack, is that she’s sort of…scary.
But it’s a good kind of scary. A sexy kind of scary.
Like, yeah, you’ll probably have some scars after it’s all over, but you’ll have memories that will last a lifetime. And sure, some of those memories may be repressed due to the trauma and can only be recovered and properly dealt with after years of therapy, but hey, it will have been worth it because, damn, that is one hell of a rack...
In any case, I nearly bumped into her in the hallway as she was rounding a corner, and she let out a little fake scream of surprise, then apologized.
I said, “That’s okay; I’ve gotten used to women screaming at my approach.”
She laughed, then paused to think about it, and with a mild look of concern, said, “That’s really sad.”
I shook my head and laughed as I said, “I’m just kidding,” but before she was totally on her way I added, “I actually haven’t gotten used to it.”
Anyway, I’m extremely close to finishing that RLC picture I started last week, and which turned out to be much more complicated than I’d originally anticipated, so I think I’m going to work on that.
In the meantime, just to clear any disturbing images from your minds (or, more likely, to plant disturbing images in your mind), when I was being the girl in the dram I looked much better in a skirt than I would in real life…
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Even Prison Inmates Have More Active Social Lives Than I Do
Escapee nabbed: Lawson, alleged accomplice in slammer - The Mining Journal
The prison that the guy escaped from is not too far from where I grew up, and I believe my mother said something about my sister knowing the woman's husband or ex-husband. In any case, there was some sort of "small world" connection (though the U.P. is an extremely small world).
Anyway, just like the gay porn stars, men serving life in prison get more chicks than I do...
The prison that the guy escaped from is not too far from where I grew up, and I believe my mother said something about my sister knowing the woman's husband or ex-husband. In any case, there was some sort of "small world" connection (though the U.P. is an extremely small world).
Anyway, just like the gay porn stars, men serving life in prison get more chicks than I do...
Suffering Sappho!
Despite the fact that I more or less hate my car, the fact remains that, for a variety of reasons, I’m pretty much stuck with it, so overall I’m very glad to have it back.
After all, if I have to drive around in a crappy car that I don’t like it’s better to drive around in the crappy car that I know.
As you’ve no doubt guessed, my car was actually ready today, so I was able to go in and pick it up and drop off the loaner.
All things considered, I was actually glad to be back in my piece of crap, and it seems that I actually missed the damn thing.
Beyond just being glad to have it back, though, there was the novelty of once again being able to tell how much gas I have by looking at the gas gauge, and, for the first time ever, when I turn the A/C on, my car actually gets cooler.
(I’d never bothered getting the A/C fixed before as it had never really been an issue. After all, I don’t spend that much time in my car, and the previous two summers were nowhere near as hot and humid as this one has been.)
I noted also that the car did seem to ride a lot more smoothly with the new tires and the, presumably, superior new rims, none of which is bent.
All told, the costs of the two new tires, some of the labor, fixing the A/C, and the inspection and oil change I’d originally brought it in for came to $233.
Okay, I take that back. All told, the cost came to $223.
I just got a phone call from the cashier at the dealership explaining that she’d overcharged me by $10 and that she was going to refund the money to my account.
So that was kind of cool.
Except…
Well, while this didn’t cost anywhere near as much as it could have, it was still a little pricey.
And as for the $10 refund…
When I answered the phone, recognizing the number as being the Kia dealership, I was greeted by the gravelly-voiced cashier asking for Mrs. Maki.
I said, “Well, you can speak to Mr. Maki.”
She then said, “Mr. Maki, earlier today when your wife came in to pick up your car-“
I cut in, “You mean when I picked up my car? I don’t have a wife.” I considered thanking her very much for drawing attention to the fact that I am so desperately and pathetically alone, as if I really needed a reminder, but decided against it.
She apologized, said, “For some reason I was picturing a woman coming in and picking up your car,” then proceeded to explain why she had called.
So.
A woman.
Maybe I’m not a creep; with the short hair and virtually ever-present facial stubble, maybe women think I’m a lesbian.
Nah, that couldn’t be it; I don’t wear enough flannel.
(For the record, I distinctly recall the cashier referring to me as “sir” when I was there, so it was just her memory that was faulty; she hadn’t thought I was a woman when I was actually in front of her.)
On the topic of lesbians, though, the other night I was watching a show called “Pornucopia” on HBO, which is a documentary-style series about the porn industry, and is basically an outgrowth of its old “Real Sex” series, which basically gave HBO the leeway to stop just short of airing full-on hardcore porn under the guise of investigative reporting.
In any case, the particular episode I watched dealt with same-sex scenes in porn movies.
Because they know their audience, they focused primarily on girl-girl scenes in mainstream porn, so there was a lot of footage of silicone, peroxide, and collagen-enhanced actresses doing all manner of things to each other (as I said, they know their audience), with the occasional snippet of an interview with those same silicone, peroxide, and collagen-enhanced actresses (Most interesting [and somewhat confusing] quote: Jenna Jameson, who now exclusively engages in girl-girl scenes because she’s in a committed relationship with a man, reflecting on the confusion she sometimes feels as she partakes in the “best of both worlds,” saying, “I think I might be a lesbian.”).
However, while they didn’t give them equal time (again, they know their audience), the producers did focus on some other aspects of the porn industry, such as actual lesbian porn, made by and for the mullet and flannel crowd, which is very different from the girl-girl films in the mainstream industry that are made by and for guys like me (though maybe, under the circumstances, I should be into the other stuff).
After that, they went all the way over to the other end of the pool.
According to the statistic they put up on-screen, 25 to 50% of the men appearing in gay porn can be described as “gay for pay,” which means that in their personal lives they would define themselves as straight, and that they only have sex with other men on camera because it pays so well.
And apparently it does pay extremely well. Male actors in gay porn are paid much more than their female counterparts in mainstream porn.
Personally, I can’t see how any guy who smokes pole, whether for profit or for pleasure, can refer to himself as straight with…well, with a straight face, but that wasn’t what really stood out for me.
The cameras were on location for the filming of a gay porn and were focusing on a “gay for pay” actor…whose wife was on the set with him.
In fact, she could be seen giving him tips on exactly how he should go about cradling his co-star’s…well, you get the idea.
At one point she even brought him a condom to give to fit his co-star with as they prepared to make a major switch in positions.
So yeah, that’s kind of disturbing, and obviously the relationship between the two of them is a more than a little out there, but even that wasn’t what really bothered me.
The thing that got me is that she was hot. I mean, really hot.
So the whole time I’m sitting there thinking, “This guy sucks cock for a living, and yet he’s got a hot wife. Meanwhile I can’t even get a date.”
I mean, how pathetic are you when even gay porn stars get more chicks than you?
*Sigh*
Today was the first day of my JavaScript class. It was, by the teacher’s own admission, pretty boring, as it was mostly just learning the syntax and a lot of lecture without much actual coding.
Ideally it will get a little more interesting tomorrow as we actually do something with what we’re learning.
Given that it is a pretty technical class and that most technical positions are dominated by men, I was surprised to see that the class had a 50/50 male/female split.
Too bad it proved to be another dog show.
Over the weekend, in addition to swallowing my temporary crown, I ordered volume two of “Batman: The Animated Series,” and volume one of “Superman: The Animated Series” on DVD, and when I got home after picking up my car today they were in my mailbox waiting for me.
So that was cool.
A bit ago I went over to the Safeway to pick up a couple of things. While I was there, I saw something that I don’t ordinarily expect to see in real life. In fact, I really didn’t believe my eyes, as there in front of me was a very, very cute, very tan girl in a pair of extremely short hot pants and a cut-off T-shirt that barely covered her bikini top.
She was like something out of a Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson video.
Naturally I suspected that she was too young for me to be looking at, despite how well she was displaying herself, but she was pushing around her own cart, which suggested to me that she might be old enough to be out in the world on her own.
In fact, she was too young, as she was merely temporarily separated from her mother and her equally hot and scantily-clad teenage friends/siblings/back-up dancers.
Teenage girls are altogether too hot these days. It ought to be against the law.
Oh wait: it is against the law.
*Sigh*
Sometimes it’s hard being a lesbian…
After all, if I have to drive around in a crappy car that I don’t like it’s better to drive around in the crappy car that I know.
As you’ve no doubt guessed, my car was actually ready today, so I was able to go in and pick it up and drop off the loaner.
All things considered, I was actually glad to be back in my piece of crap, and it seems that I actually missed the damn thing.
Beyond just being glad to have it back, though, there was the novelty of once again being able to tell how much gas I have by looking at the gas gauge, and, for the first time ever, when I turn the A/C on, my car actually gets cooler.
(I’d never bothered getting the A/C fixed before as it had never really been an issue. After all, I don’t spend that much time in my car, and the previous two summers were nowhere near as hot and humid as this one has been.)
I noted also that the car did seem to ride a lot more smoothly with the new tires and the, presumably, superior new rims, none of which is bent.
All told, the costs of the two new tires, some of the labor, fixing the A/C, and the inspection and oil change I’d originally brought it in for came to $233.
Okay, I take that back. All told, the cost came to $223.
I just got a phone call from the cashier at the dealership explaining that she’d overcharged me by $10 and that she was going to refund the money to my account.
So that was kind of cool.
Except…
Well, while this didn’t cost anywhere near as much as it could have, it was still a little pricey.
And as for the $10 refund…
When I answered the phone, recognizing the number as being the Kia dealership, I was greeted by the gravelly-voiced cashier asking for Mrs. Maki.
I said, “Well, you can speak to Mr. Maki.”
She then said, “Mr. Maki, earlier today when your wife came in to pick up your car-“
I cut in, “You mean when I picked up my car? I don’t have a wife.” I considered thanking her very much for drawing attention to the fact that I am so desperately and pathetically alone, as if I really needed a reminder, but decided against it.
She apologized, said, “For some reason I was picturing a woman coming in and picking up your car,” then proceeded to explain why she had called.
So.
A woman.
Maybe I’m not a creep; with the short hair and virtually ever-present facial stubble, maybe women think I’m a lesbian.
Nah, that couldn’t be it; I don’t wear enough flannel.
(For the record, I distinctly recall the cashier referring to me as “sir” when I was there, so it was just her memory that was faulty; she hadn’t thought I was a woman when I was actually in front of her.)
On the topic of lesbians, though, the other night I was watching a show called “Pornucopia” on HBO, which is a documentary-style series about the porn industry, and is basically an outgrowth of its old “Real Sex” series, which basically gave HBO the leeway to stop just short of airing full-on hardcore porn under the guise of investigative reporting.
In any case, the particular episode I watched dealt with same-sex scenes in porn movies.
Because they know their audience, they focused primarily on girl-girl scenes in mainstream porn, so there was a lot of footage of silicone, peroxide, and collagen-enhanced actresses doing all manner of things to each other (as I said, they know their audience), with the occasional snippet of an interview with those same silicone, peroxide, and collagen-enhanced actresses (Most interesting [and somewhat confusing] quote: Jenna Jameson, who now exclusively engages in girl-girl scenes because she’s in a committed relationship with a man, reflecting on the confusion she sometimes feels as she partakes in the “best of both worlds,” saying, “I think I might be a lesbian.”).
However, while they didn’t give them equal time (again, they know their audience), the producers did focus on some other aspects of the porn industry, such as actual lesbian porn, made by and for the mullet and flannel crowd, which is very different from the girl-girl films in the mainstream industry that are made by and for guys like me (though maybe, under the circumstances, I should be into the other stuff).
After that, they went all the way over to the other end of the pool.
According to the statistic they put up on-screen, 25 to 50% of the men appearing in gay porn can be described as “gay for pay,” which means that in their personal lives they would define themselves as straight, and that they only have sex with other men on camera because it pays so well.
And apparently it does pay extremely well. Male actors in gay porn are paid much more than their female counterparts in mainstream porn.
Personally, I can’t see how any guy who smokes pole, whether for profit or for pleasure, can refer to himself as straight with…well, with a straight face, but that wasn’t what really stood out for me.
The cameras were on location for the filming of a gay porn and were focusing on a “gay for pay” actor…whose wife was on the set with him.
In fact, she could be seen giving him tips on exactly how he should go about cradling his co-star’s…well, you get the idea.
At one point she even brought him a condom to give to fit his co-star with as they prepared to make a major switch in positions.
So yeah, that’s kind of disturbing, and obviously the relationship between the two of them is a more than a little out there, but even that wasn’t what really bothered me.
The thing that got me is that she was hot. I mean, really hot.
So the whole time I’m sitting there thinking, “This guy sucks cock for a living, and yet he’s got a hot wife. Meanwhile I can’t even get a date.”
I mean, how pathetic are you when even gay porn stars get more chicks than you?
*Sigh*
Today was the first day of my JavaScript class. It was, by the teacher’s own admission, pretty boring, as it was mostly just learning the syntax and a lot of lecture without much actual coding.
Ideally it will get a little more interesting tomorrow as we actually do something with what we’re learning.
Given that it is a pretty technical class and that most technical positions are dominated by men, I was surprised to see that the class had a 50/50 male/female split.
Too bad it proved to be another dog show.
Over the weekend, in addition to swallowing my temporary crown, I ordered volume two of “Batman: The Animated Series,” and volume one of “Superman: The Animated Series” on DVD, and when I got home after picking up my car today they were in my mailbox waiting for me.
So that was cool.
A bit ago I went over to the Safeway to pick up a couple of things. While I was there, I saw something that I don’t ordinarily expect to see in real life. In fact, I really didn’t believe my eyes, as there in front of me was a very, very cute, very tan girl in a pair of extremely short hot pants and a cut-off T-shirt that barely covered her bikini top.
She was like something out of a Britney Spears or Jessica Simpson video.
Naturally I suspected that she was too young for me to be looking at, despite how well she was displaying herself, but she was pushing around her own cart, which suggested to me that she might be old enough to be out in the world on her own.
In fact, she was too young, as she was merely temporarily separated from her mother and her equally hot and scantily-clad teenage friends/siblings/back-up dancers.
Teenage girls are altogether too hot these days. It ought to be against the law.
Oh wait: it is against the law.
*Sigh*
Sometimes it’s hard being a lesbian…
Monday, August 08, 2005
A Little Bit Of Bling, Apparently I'm A Walking Radiohead Song, And I Guess That Birds Will Shit On It
The last time I went to the dentist he put a temporary crown in place and said that they’d call to let me know when the permanent one arrived.
Over the weekend, most likely on Saturday when I was eating some “Hot Tamale” candies, the temporary crown came loose and was lost...most likely in my stomach, as it probably got yanked out by one of the sticky candies and followed the same path the candy took.
In any case, I decided that I should probably do something about that today, so I stopped by my dentist’s office to let him know that the crown was MIA.
It was just as well; my permanent crown had arrived and I’d basically just saved him the trouble of removing the temporary one.
So now I have my permanent crown, which actually has some bling.
Because my partial plate will rest on it, there’s a section of the crown that is gold.
So with my gold tooth I am officially pimpin’ now!
When he was telling me about the gold, I considered saying, “Well, platinum is really more the way I roll,” but decided against it…
On my way to the stairwell leading up to my dentist’s office I nearly collided with some people coming out of the stairwell carrying plates of food, as apparently one of the offices upstairs was having some kind of barbecue, though I’m not sure exactly where they were doing the grilling. Still, the air hung heavy with the smell of barbecue throughout the second floor.
Because I didn’t have an appointment I had to sit in the dentist's waiting room for a bit before he could squeeze me in. There was an attractive, but married, woman in to get a cleaning for herself and her three kids. This was apparently their first visit to this dentist since moving here from somewhere else, so there were a lot of questions about allergies, any medications the kids were taking, and so forth, which the woman struggled to answer (I’ve never seen a mother so clueless about her children’s medical and dental histories) before finally realizing that she actually had all of their records with her in an envelope, which she then gave to him.
The dentist took two of the kids (twin boys) back, and then it suddenly occurred to the mother that they might get X-Rayed, so she called to the dentist to ask if they needed X-Rays, because she didn’t want them “radiated any more than they have to be.”
It was eventually determined that the boys didn’t need X-Rays, but the mother did, though she objected saying, “I don’t want to be radiated. Why do I need to be radiated just for a cleaning?”
The dentist told her that he would explain later, and she finally sat down with her daughter while the boys were tended to.
Meanwhile the cute-ish, but somewhat heavy, and also married chick who had, very reluctantly, sat next to me to wait after she came in, was called back.
When she first came in, there was nowhere else for her to sit, as at the time she came in the mother and kids were taking up the couch and I was seated in the middle of three chairs. She hesitated for several seconds, and I don’t doubt that she seriously considered standing, before finally giving in and sitting next to me.
I suppose I could have been a gentleman and moved down a seat, and honestly, I considered it – before I saw just how reluctant she was to sit near me. At that point I just thought “Fuck her,” and decided to be an ass. After all, I’m not that much of a creep that women have to worry about sitting by me, or at least I don’t think I am.
Besides, it’s not like she was so hot that she’s likely to constantly get hit on to the extent that every guy needs to be viewed with suspicion.
When she did sit next to me it’s not as though I sat there staring at her or even tried to engage her in conversation. In fact, I was quietly minding my own business reading an e-book on my PDA. So while I didn’t move in order to accommodate her uneasiness about sitting next to a creep like me, I wasn’t enough of an ass to try to make her uncomfortable once she did sit.
Anyway, you’d think that by now I’d be used to that sort of thing. God knows I get enough women eyeing me suspiciously when I’m out walking, and it’s not like I’ve never had the experience of taking a seat next to a woman only to have her get up and take a different seat far away from me.
I’m always reminded of the time I was sitting in “my” bar back during my drinking days. The actual bar itself, the one on which my drink and my elbows rested, was L-shaped.
On this particular evening I had taken a seat right at the corner of the bar. There was a fairly attractive young woman seated to my right at the base of the “L.”
It was a busy night, so the bartender was off tending to other people and wasn’t there to provide me with an ashtray. However, I noted that there was an unused ashtray on the bar in front of the young woman. With no agenda beyond getting an ashtray, I turned to the young woman and said, “Excuse me, are you using that ashtray?”
Without looking at me, she rolled her eyes before closing them tight and letting out a heavy, angry sigh, then opened them again as she turned on her stool, stood up, and walked out the door.
Okay, so I’m sure there are lots of possible reasons she got up and left as soon as I said something to her, but the most obvious conclusion is not that she wanted to avoid being bothered by my smoking, it’s that she wanted to avoid being bothered by me, period.
As I said, I had no agenda other than to acquire an ashtray. Nowhere in the back of my mind was there even a glimmer of hope that my asking her if she was using the ashtray would lead to a conversation, and once I’d gotten an answer, I had no intention of talking to her any further. Then, as now, I really didn’t bother trying to hit on a woman unless I got some kind of clear indication that it might be worth giving it a shot, because, quite frankly, pretty much every time I do try it plays out almost exactly like the “ashtray incident” did.
That experience, along with the one I’d had there, was very much on my mind after I’d left the dentist’s office and stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things, preventing me from attempting to engage an apparently single young woman in conversation while I was there.
I had an “opening,” too, in that she was wearing a T-shirt that said something like “Scars are like tattoos with better stories,” giving me the opportunity to say something along the lines of “I like your shirt,” or to inquire as to whether it was the motto of some organization she belonged to, or something, at any rate.
Instead, I self-consciously avoided making eye contact with her, grabbed what I needed, and with the question “What would be the point?” reverberating through my head, went out to my car and made my way home...
It had been my belief that I had a lot of stuff to get done this week, which I was going to have to cram all into one day, as for the next three days I’ll be in JavaScript training at HQ all day long, making this my only real day off, as I try to avoid venturing out into the nightmare that is NoVA traffic after 5 pm whenever possible.
However, it turns out that, apart from going to the dentist and picking up a few groceries there really wasn’t anything that I had to do this week.
Presumably tomorrow I’ll have to head to the dealership right from class to pick up my car. I bloody well better have to, at any rate. I really don’t want to have to wait another week for my rims to arrive while I drive around a car that can’t make up its mind whether it’s a minivan or a compact car.
One thing I can say about the car, though: at least it’s not so ugly that birds won’t shit on it. Here’s hoping the forecast is right and that it does rain tonight…
Over the weekend, most likely on Saturday when I was eating some “Hot Tamale” candies, the temporary crown came loose and was lost...most likely in my stomach, as it probably got yanked out by one of the sticky candies and followed the same path the candy took.
In any case, I decided that I should probably do something about that today, so I stopped by my dentist’s office to let him know that the crown was MIA.
It was just as well; my permanent crown had arrived and I’d basically just saved him the trouble of removing the temporary one.
So now I have my permanent crown, which actually has some bling.
Because my partial plate will rest on it, there’s a section of the crown that is gold.
So with my gold tooth I am officially pimpin’ now!
When he was telling me about the gold, I considered saying, “Well, platinum is really more the way I roll,” but decided against it…
On my way to the stairwell leading up to my dentist’s office I nearly collided with some people coming out of the stairwell carrying plates of food, as apparently one of the offices upstairs was having some kind of barbecue, though I’m not sure exactly where they were doing the grilling. Still, the air hung heavy with the smell of barbecue throughout the second floor.
Because I didn’t have an appointment I had to sit in the dentist's waiting room for a bit before he could squeeze me in. There was an attractive, but married, woman in to get a cleaning for herself and her three kids. This was apparently their first visit to this dentist since moving here from somewhere else, so there were a lot of questions about allergies, any medications the kids were taking, and so forth, which the woman struggled to answer (I’ve never seen a mother so clueless about her children’s medical and dental histories) before finally realizing that she actually had all of their records with her in an envelope, which she then gave to him.
The dentist took two of the kids (twin boys) back, and then it suddenly occurred to the mother that they might get X-Rayed, so she called to the dentist to ask if they needed X-Rays, because she didn’t want them “radiated any more than they have to be.”
It was eventually determined that the boys didn’t need X-Rays, but the mother did, though she objected saying, “I don’t want to be radiated. Why do I need to be radiated just for a cleaning?”
The dentist told her that he would explain later, and she finally sat down with her daughter while the boys were tended to.
Meanwhile the cute-ish, but somewhat heavy, and also married chick who had, very reluctantly, sat next to me to wait after she came in, was called back.
When she first came in, there was nowhere else for her to sit, as at the time she came in the mother and kids were taking up the couch and I was seated in the middle of three chairs. She hesitated for several seconds, and I don’t doubt that she seriously considered standing, before finally giving in and sitting next to me.
I suppose I could have been a gentleman and moved down a seat, and honestly, I considered it – before I saw just how reluctant she was to sit near me. At that point I just thought “Fuck her,” and decided to be an ass. After all, I’m not that much of a creep that women have to worry about sitting by me, or at least I don’t think I am.
Besides, it’s not like she was so hot that she’s likely to constantly get hit on to the extent that every guy needs to be viewed with suspicion.
When she did sit next to me it’s not as though I sat there staring at her or even tried to engage her in conversation. In fact, I was quietly minding my own business reading an e-book on my PDA. So while I didn’t move in order to accommodate her uneasiness about sitting next to a creep like me, I wasn’t enough of an ass to try to make her uncomfortable once she did sit.
Anyway, you’d think that by now I’d be used to that sort of thing. God knows I get enough women eyeing me suspiciously when I’m out walking, and it’s not like I’ve never had the experience of taking a seat next to a woman only to have her get up and take a different seat far away from me.
I’m always reminded of the time I was sitting in “my” bar back during my drinking days. The actual bar itself, the one on which my drink and my elbows rested, was L-shaped.
On this particular evening I had taken a seat right at the corner of the bar. There was a fairly attractive young woman seated to my right at the base of the “L.”
It was a busy night, so the bartender was off tending to other people and wasn’t there to provide me with an ashtray. However, I noted that there was an unused ashtray on the bar in front of the young woman. With no agenda beyond getting an ashtray, I turned to the young woman and said, “Excuse me, are you using that ashtray?”
Without looking at me, she rolled her eyes before closing them tight and letting out a heavy, angry sigh, then opened them again as she turned on her stool, stood up, and walked out the door.
Okay, so I’m sure there are lots of possible reasons she got up and left as soon as I said something to her, but the most obvious conclusion is not that she wanted to avoid being bothered by my smoking, it’s that she wanted to avoid being bothered by me, period.
As I said, I had no agenda other than to acquire an ashtray. Nowhere in the back of my mind was there even a glimmer of hope that my asking her if she was using the ashtray would lead to a conversation, and once I’d gotten an answer, I had no intention of talking to her any further. Then, as now, I really didn’t bother trying to hit on a woman unless I got some kind of clear indication that it might be worth giving it a shot, because, quite frankly, pretty much every time I do try it plays out almost exactly like the “ashtray incident” did.
That experience, along with the one I’d had there, was very much on my mind after I’d left the dentist’s office and stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things, preventing me from attempting to engage an apparently single young woman in conversation while I was there.
I had an “opening,” too, in that she was wearing a T-shirt that said something like “Scars are like tattoos with better stories,” giving me the opportunity to say something along the lines of “I like your shirt,” or to inquire as to whether it was the motto of some organization she belonged to, or something, at any rate.
Instead, I self-consciously avoided making eye contact with her, grabbed what I needed, and with the question “What would be the point?” reverberating through my head, went out to my car and made my way home...
It had been my belief that I had a lot of stuff to get done this week, which I was going to have to cram all into one day, as for the next three days I’ll be in JavaScript training at HQ all day long, making this my only real day off, as I try to avoid venturing out into the nightmare that is NoVA traffic after 5 pm whenever possible.
However, it turns out that, apart from going to the dentist and picking up a few groceries there really wasn’t anything that I had to do this week.
Presumably tomorrow I’ll have to head to the dealership right from class to pick up my car. I bloody well better have to, at any rate. I really don’t want to have to wait another week for my rims to arrive while I drive around a car that can’t make up its mind whether it’s a minivan or a compact car.
One thing I can say about the car, though: at least it’s not so ugly that birds won’t shit on it. Here’s hoping the forecast is right and that it does rain tonight…
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