What does a man do when he has 2 weeks off from work?

Even though he braces for Xmas, he learns a boat load of Xmas songs on the guitar to impress his GF. He unfortunately plays them in the “Wait. Oops. That was wrong. Hold on. Oh, Fuck it I’m playing them Heavy metal” quality that only he can muster.

He doesn’t get up before 9, he wears mostly nylon sweatpants, and bedhead replaces hair gel as the style of the times. Showering on a daily basis becomes more of a suggestion than a mandate, and later more of a crap shoot. This policy is later revised when he smells food and realizes that he’s the only one in the room and the stove is off.

He treats Mr. DVD Player like Tommy Chong with a messenger bag full of Acapulco gold, while completely snubbing his closest compadres, Mr. PC, and Mr. Playstation. Neither see a volt of power, and he doesn’t care.

He watches at least 20 episodes of Jerry Springer to teach him perspective: sitting in an apartment in Hull in sweatpants is much better than being on a stage with a mullet getting slapped by the enormously obese transvestite who is humping both your sister and your momma.

He also watches a few episodes of Maury Povitch, which teaches him math: If a woman needs to test 15-20 men who they are “sure” they had sex with on the week they got pregnant, on average, said woman is humping like a thousand cocks a year.

He embarks on a stupid, expensive technical project just because he has the time and some spare cash. Once it’s done he stares at it and realizes that the digital video recorder he built only gets 20 channels to tape from because he will not spend the extra $45 that Comcast demands to release their better channels to him.

He cooks ham, bagel and egg sandwiches, tangerine chicken, and a fully stuffed duck. He makes the stuffing by not really following 2 recipes at the same time, and is amazed at how good it comes out.

He flips the gym the bird, as well as any exercise that doesn’t involve eating or nudity.

While normally averaging more than 1 migraine a week, he gets 0 over the whole vacation.

He swears to his beard that he’s never going back to work, and then accidentally shaves a good portion of it off, nullifying the pledge.

…All allowing him to embark on the path to becoming more human, less cube farm robot like no 1 week vacation ever could.

Movie Reviews #636585
Bourne Supremacy (Action): Same old story: Boy meets girl, government puts a bullet in girl, boy goes killing spree. It met nearly all the requirements of a good action flick, having an abundance of explosions, gun play, kung fu, and car chases. There was a lack of a smoldering, scantily clad, pouty, supermodel lead in 6 inch heels and a short skirt, but the whole “I look like a pretty normal guy, but I’m trained to kill you in 15 secret ways with an ice cream scoop” easily made up for it.

For those who aren’t fans of shaky camera shots, this may not be the movie for you, although it was more NYPD Blue than Blair Witch, lending itself to the feeling that you are more of a bystander in the middle of the action than a bystander waiting in line to throw up. B+

From GF, with Love
If you yawn and your GF asks if you farted, instead of giving her that hurt, shocked look, invest heavily in mints and mouthwash.

From Me, with Love
One of my really good friends is engaged to a Harvard Lawyer. I was chatting with him via IM.

Me: Hey do you think that your fiance is a type A personality?
Him: [crickets]
Me: I only ask because I want to know if you’re marrying up or even.
Him: [crickets]
Me: I mean, I think of you are more of a B+ personality.
Him: lol
Me: No, really.
Him: She’s most definitely an A.
Me: Ok, then. Now let me ask you: Does that mean that laying around eating potato chips off your belly and playing video games is frowned upon?
Him: lol
Me: …Because I really don’t think I could deal with that. Hey, now what’s that personality type where you really don’t give a fuck about things most of the time, but when you do, you really give a fuck?
Him: lol
Me: I’m going with C+
Him: You’re selling yourself short…
Me: [crickets]
Him: [something like www.personalitytest.com/ testyurpersonality?php@dogdoo.m/ mrpoopy/ asshat.php]
Me: Personality tests are for Type a personalities looking to be A+’s
Him: lol

Should I be worried that a good portion of my conversations involve me talking and other people laughing at me?

Summary
Borrowing the Bourne Supremacy: 0 Dollars
Having stinky fart breath: 0 Dollars
Having friends that upgrade your personality type without tests: priceless.

Her: Oh, I like your new haircut. It makes you look a little scary, though.
Me: What do you mean?
Her: I don’t know.
Me: Like a Russian mobster?
Her: I don’t know.
Me: Grrrrrrr.
Her: You know, I think I’m a little afraid right now.

Note to self: military haircuts and scraggly beards scare chicks.

I am Offended?
I love Slayer (with album titles like Hell Awaits, Reign In Blood, Seasons In The Abyss, and God Hates Us All, how could I not?) But, when someone takes slayer and makes classical music out of it, boy do I get offended.

Thanks, String Quartet. Thanks a lot. Bring Slayer to the cultured masses. There’s something just wrong about a classical song called “Dead Skin Mask.”

Ew.

I am an Idiot?
Today at work, human resources requested confirmation of my salary. When I saw the number that they gave me, I thought that the number was about 7 thousand too low. After a little checking, I confirmed that HR was right and that I don’t make nearly as much as I had thought.

Dear bosses,

Just mentioning numbers randomly instead of giving me a raise may keep me in your employ, as I will somehow convince myself that I make whatever I feel like. The odds of me confirming my assumptions are close to nil.

I am an idiot.

I am Nice?
when we walked into Stars for breakfast this weekend, the host made a small wager with us. Holding a paper napkin and aiming for a trash can he said, “I’ll tell you what: If I make this shot, I’ll seat you now. If I don’t…No wait. If I make this shot, you have to get me a coffee. If I miss, you can forget about the coffee.”

Noting that both sides of a wager should benefit those wagering in an opposite fashion, I thought the bet was a little skewed and useless, but took it by default, simply by not offering any resistance.

He missed anyway.

When he seated us, I thought of the coffee shops within a short distance and asked him if he had won, would he be drinking Dunkin’ Donuts or Mary Lou’s coffee. “Actually,” he said, “I’m a little bit of a coffee snob. I only drink Starbucks.” He then returned to the front.

Even though Starbucks was out of the way for where we were going, I knew I was going to get him a coffee and drop it off just for the hell of it. So, when we left, I headed for Starbucks. I haven’t been in a Starbucks in a while, and let me tell you, Starbucks is chock full of people that I not only knew I could shake down for their coffee money, but their stupid black wire glasses and bad, expensive haircuts made me really, really want to. When the guy behind the counter accepted “medium” from me without using, or making me use the word “grande,” I was placated enough to forget my rising urge to kill. He must’ve sensed my dilemma, and known that there is no way to recoup an ounce of masculinity while ordering a normally macho black coffee if you have to say “grande,” “machiado,” or “touch my fanny, stud.” None. And if a man can’t feel macho, he, by code, is nearly required to lash out at others. Touche, Starbucks man. Touche.

On the way back to Stars, even the bump that put the first splash of coffee on the my new seats elicited nothing above a dull “Fuuuuuuck” from me (at least it was for a good cause, right?). Anyway, when we got there, I made the GF go in and drop off the coffee, so she is the only one who got to see that confused and happy expression that people make when they are the target of a random act of kindness.

She said it was pretty cool.

Another Planet
After checking spec after spec, and car after car, I figured that the only real way to know if I like a car is to get away from the computer screen and go drive it. I set out today to test drive a few cars without having to drive all the way up to the automile, so I visited a couple of dealers close to home.

As it is very similar to Nissan’s Japan-only Skyline GT-R, I wanted to get into the Infiniti G35. The coupe’s front seat was so small that it would require a buzz cut to keep my head from hitting the roof, and the back seat would’ve required full decapitation. Despite the 260 horses, AWD, and the nice response (which on one occasion threw the salesman explaining the climate control forcefully into the back seat) the lack of a manual transmission left me wanting. Also, the sedan seemed like more of a large, fancy grampa car than I wanted to get into. I felt like the upgrade path from the G35 would be directly to white shoes and a cream colored Cadillac.

The next car I wanted to try out was the Subaru Impreza WRX STi. It’s an ugly ass car with a turbo charged 4 cylinder that puts out 300 Hp and 300 ft. lbs. of torque. Ugly or not, it goes from 0-60 in under 5 seconds.

I went to Planet Subaru in Hanover and wandered around for 5 or 10 minutes without getting even a simple greeting from any of the staff. When I went to the desk to ask if I could see the WRX-STi, the guy handed me the keys. When I told him that it was blocked in, he told me (get this) that it was a high risk car that they don’t let off the lot. When asked how you get the feel for the car that you can’t drive, he said that you try another model and you estimate based on that. I think the dropped jaw and ensuing questions adequately conveyed my concern that the planet that “Planet Subaru” refers to is obviously not Earth. I wasn’t trying to listen to a CD before I bought it. This was a car. And buying cars requires driving them. Who the hell buys a car blind?

After seeing the 15 year old sales manager (who was trying to look managerial while busily playing solitaire or surfing porn), and hearing this incredible bunch of crap, I started wondering how the place stays in business…but I went and sat in the ugly ass car for 5 minutes, anyway. Like some of my ex’s, it’s as ugly on the inside as it is on the outside. Being that I’m used to a crisp Honda gearbox, even though the shifting was nice and short, it was pretty damned unintuitive. This was all noted as I sat there like a six year old pretending to change gears and squeal around corners to get the feel for the car. Thank goodness no one was watching.

The only saving grace for the STi is what is under the hood, and on Planet Subaru, that’s a little to “risky” to let a prospective buyer near.

I ask you, “WTF?”

Saving Grace
After the whole BS at the Subaru dealer, I was glad to go see the GF’s niece, whose tiny smile and fat cheeks have little idea of what kind of horseshit they stack into car dealerships these days. On the way home, we discussed the GF’s sister in law referring to me as “Uncle Jonny.” As the GF and I are not married, this is a very kind inclusion to bestow upon me, but technically incorrect. It was like getting an honorary doctorate.

When the GF asked me if this was ok with me, I said that I was actually pretty pleased with it. And if I had stopped there, it would’ve been ok. Unfortunately, I added, “Well I think we are pretty solid. There’s no stopping this thing, anyway. It’s like a freight train.”

I don’t think it came out the way I meant it.

As the GF and I like to drive around simply for the fun of it, at 4:30PM we went out for a quick drive. After winding our way aimlessly down route 3A, by 7PM we found ourselves in Hyannis. Go figure. For a good portion of the ride on cape, the GF kept thinking that we were in a mystical town called “Yalmouth.”

After a good bit of driving, and passing the same gas station 3 or 4 times, we figured that we’d better stop in somewhere for a bite to eat. We stopped into the British Beer Company only because it had the most obvious “We are a restaurant” style sign on Main Street. I had a pretty good meal consisting of chicken, mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes, served over spaghetti fried into a pancake. The GF ate pot roast. I have no idea why, and it seems neither did she. We noted that we should one day return for a good look around, and then headed home.

The aimlessness of it all made it seem almost like a mini-vacation. Whoa, that makes me seem lame.

Friday: While discussing whether Halo was too violent for her 11 year old son. When told that the game may be a little frightening for kids, but nothing to worry about, she pressed on with,

Well, is it scarier than say… Frogger?

Once the laughter subsided, we found that we really couldn’t name one game that wasn’t.

Saturday: With the aid of a personal computer, I transformed a card for a 7 year old into a birthday card for my Mom. We then went to dinner at a restaurant that a friend that I haven’t seen in 10 years now owns. The food was on par with my favorite restaurant, Tosca’s, and my Dad swore that it was actually better. We spent the entire dinner with a newspaper clipping of my friend when he was about four swimming on the table. We were told that it would be available on the table whenever we came back.

Sunday: Ate a good breakfast in the middle of which a very shaky guy ordered and quickly drank a White Russian, we moved my GF out of her apartment, walked 3 or so miles to the store to pick up a ham steak that I would later drown in ketchup and macs n’ cheese, laid in the grass listening to a free big band concert in the park where the singer didn’t have the faintest idea of the words to “Just a Giggolo”, and ate pumpkin ice cream.

The GF liked everything except the pumpkin ice cream, which she described as the way a candle would taste…if she ate candles. She also clued me in to the fact that when we Bostonians want to say “Shaw Ave,” we say, “Shawr Ave.”

Kids
As we were driving a load of stuff from my GF’s place to mine, a chubby young girl on the side of the road yelled the dirtiest word that she could muster at our passing car.

She yelled, “UNDER WAYER!” (which I spent the remainder of the day yelling from the car).

Adults
While shaking her head at me like there was something wrong with me, the GF’s sister in law looks at her and says, “You know, he’s funnier than most comedians that get paid for this stuff.”

Those are the best rewards.

Me
The strangeness of opening a menu and seeing “Gingerbread pancakes with cinnamon butter and real maple syrup” forced me to not only order it, but to push myself way past full in order to finish the last delicious bite.

The strange thing is, I don’t even like gingerbread cookies.

Love Defined
Love: You go to give your girlfriend a kiss. She stops you by gently holding your chin and staring lovingly into your eyes. Then, you kiss.

True Love: Later, you find out that her pause was less about romance, and more about wiping a booger off of your chin, but she didn’t want to ruin the moment.

My GF gets a Lillian Vernon catalog, and as there are no electronics or boobs in it, I don’t bother even cracking the cover. I never had an opinion on it before, but this month’s cover pushed Lillian Vernon into the dislike category.

Look at the expressions on these dogs. I can easily visualize the little one thinking, “Hey, remember that episode of I dream of Jeannie where Jeannie shits right in her costume? No? Well, I’m writing that episode right now. Adopt Children.”

As men, we like to consistently think and act like twelve year olds, but there are distinct stages that a man goes through in life. To easily ascertain what stage any particular 12 year old is in, one must simply observe his purchases at the local drugstore. Today, I hit stage four.

Stage 1: “They’ve sealed a tiny Spiderman in a cheap plastic case and it costs $1.99 to free him! I’ll free you, Spidey! (shake shake) You got no candy in there, Spidey? Sorry, Spidey. No candy, no savey. Now, where’s the candy and the Mad magazines?”

Stage 2: “Ahem. I would like to purchase some of your finest $1.99 cigars, my good man. You want an ID? From me? As my finely groomed moustache shows that I am clearly of age, I will not be providing ID today. Plus, my spouse has retained my ID at the local cocktail party, and I am currently unable to retrieve it.”

Stage 3: “I would like to purchase this package of gum, these mints, this magazine, these batteries, these sunglasses and oh perhaps a package of those con-doms behind you, please.”

Stage 4: “Ooh, now that is cool. I need to get me one of these babies. Excuse me, could you unlock the Rotary nose hair clipper case?”

Stage 5: “Whoa. These glasses make me look just like Arnold fucking Schwartzenegger. Hasta la vista you punk kids. Excuse me, how much are these? $4.99? Young man, in my day, for $4.99 you could take a young lady out for a night on the town including dinner, break dancing, and a round or two of Pac-Man, and still have money leftover to fill the coal bin. I’ll just take the Depends.”

Skepp
On a ride around hull, we came across a docked tall ship flying a Swedish flag. As this is pretty unusual to see, we pulled over to investigate.

We sat for a few minutes watching the captain fish off of the back, hooking little more than the pilings of the pier. Despite being uncomfortably thin, and wearing a pony tail and a thick black beard, he seemed to be as small and hard as any of the stones that littered the beach. He seemed rather annoyed not only about catching nothing but the pier, but by the Bud drinking, visor wearing boaters pulling their Bayliners along side to ask him astute questions like “Hey, man is that an old boat or something?”

As we got tired of watching the uneventful life of the angry captain, and were ready to take off, I decided that I needed to find out why there was a Swedish flag flying on the main topgallant mast. I walked over to a bearded member of the crew, who was working feverishly to repair a rope. He obviously had very little contact with humans, and had trouble formulating the answer that the ship was a replica modeled after one that had been owned by Sweden, Finland, and Holland. Even though I knew that he was involved in a conversation that he was clearly uncomfortable having, I asked him a few questions more.

He told me that a section of the 500 or so volunteers that ran the ship would spend from a week to a month on board, sailing the ship up and down the east coast giving tours and sunset cruises. According to him, the ship could sleep about thirty, but that could get a little crowded for his liking. He himself had been on the ship for a month, but this was his last day, as he had to get back to school.

I for one, thought it would be pretty cool to sail on a ship for a week, but after seeing the manner of the captain and the introverted personality of the crew, a lot of the romance was lost very quickly. But, it had a Swedish flag. And you don’t see that every day. Especially in Hull.

Note: My GF is irritated that I didn’t mention the Finnish or Dutch Flags flying on the other masts. She is of Dutch ancestry and thinks that I’m Sweden-centric.

Today was an average day.  I woke up, got in the shower, and in the 20 minutes that I was in there, guess how many songs I heard on the radio.  Give up?  Two.  The rest of it was all commercials.  Now if the average pop station plays its main songs up to 100 times per week (do the math, it’s 13 times a day), to jam them deep into your head, how is that I listened to 14 minutes of commercials?  I love music, but I was so fed up with the radio, that I actually contemplated paying the fee for satellite radio.  Then, I went paranoid and thought that they would somehow use my listening choices against me.  Then, I went anarchistic and decided that airwaves wanted to be free, man.  I thought I could set up some sort of pirate radio station and take down the man.  Then, I got distracted by something shiny in the kitchen and lost my train of thought.

I walked to through the kitchen to the living room, and found Fox News on the idiot box.  Usually, Fox is the most unbalanced, right wing, “news” that one can find on American television, but today, the fat, loudmouth “reporter” filling the screen was decrying the DNC’s ridiculous “Free Speech Zones” as razor wired internment camps for free speech.  I found this very surprising, even refreshing.  Fox news promoting free speech?  Was I dreaming?

As I walked away from the TV, I remembered that this was the Democratic National Convention, and of course a right wing “news” source is going to decry any attempts to protest it.  Republicans are going to be the ones in the protest zone, and they’re going to be sealed into the plastic coated, razor wired area with Anarchists and other lunatics.  So, Fox is not against “Free Speech Zones” in general (did you ever hear them point out Bush’s use of free speech zones?), but they are against this particular free speech zone because they’re party will be forced to use it this time.

I started thinking about not only what it means to have a free speech zone, but the sheer audacity of the individual(s) that suggested and built it.  I can’t understand how the idea even got past the suggestion stage without having some major outcry.  Growing up on Rocky fighting the Russians, The Wolverines fighting the Russians, and Rambo fighting the Russians, I for one can’t even comprehend a free speech zone.  When I was a kid if someone told you that you couldn’t say something, you shot back “Oh yea, buddy?  This is America and I can say any godamned thing I want.  If you don’t like it, move to Russia!”  And that was it.  America was for telling people off, and Russia was the place where the secret service would send your family to Siberia for reading the wrong book.  In America we said what we wanted, pissed where we wanted, and protested any place we pleased (until the cops or the goons moved in and cracked some skulls, of course).  We didn’t have “protest zones” or rules of free speech or political correctness.  I was an American child, and I thought that I was free to speak, free to act, and free to play kickball on whatever sewer cap that I could find.  The Russians were the ones that kept information on their people and suppressed them, not us.  Yet every year, more rules are made that favor fewer and fewer people in America, and we don’t seem to know how to stop it.

Then, I started thinking about a giant Free Speech Cage match…

Laaaaaaadiiiiiiiieeeees aaaaaaand Gennnntleeeemeeeeen.  In the anarchists corner, hailing from the city sewers, weighing in at 225 pounds, Butch “The razor” [Naaaamee Wittthhhhhheeelld].  And in the Republican corner, hailing from Hingham, Mass, weighing in with a net worth of $542,000, Thurston “The Director” Piiiiiieeeeerce the thiiiiird…

Then, I saw something shiny in the kitchen and remembered it was time for me to go to work.

Then, for 8 or so hours, I worked.

Then, I stopped working and went home.

Then, I tried to surprise my GF by taking her to the movies, but she didn’t want to go (which was good because I didn’t really want to go, either).

Then, for 20 minutes we just played the “No, what do you want to do?” game.

Finally, I formulated a quick plan, and threw the GF into the car.  I drove us to a sub shop, which, according to the hand-written sign on the counter, was closed for the evening.  Then, I drove to another sub shop which was so closed that there were ladders in the window.  I finally drove to a third that was open, but had an albino lobster and some fishing nets on the wall.  After grabbing couple of subs, we walked down to the beach and sat on the sand.  The breeze had picked up, making the lingering heat of the day much more bearable.

And we sat.  And we ate.  And we watched the surf.  And the tension of finding something to do vanished.  Once we found that we could fully relax, we accumulated a nice crowd of gulls around us waiting for hand outs.  Rule 1: Never feed the gulls before you are finished, because once you start feeding the gulls, you are finished.  Once we got to the point in our sub eating journey that the work outweighed the benefit, we began throwing the bits of leftover food to the gulls, aiming mostly for the weaker ones that got pushed out of the way by the mullet-wearing, jock asshole gulls.  As my GF likes birds almost as much as I like sharks, I was intentionally throwing some of the food waaaay inside, for which I was nervously chastised.

Then, we just walked.  And we laughed.  And we found that running shoes let in water as easily as they do air, and souls let in peace as easily as they do stress.

Picasa
Google bought a photo album tool called Picasa.  As the software that came with my digital camera sucks, I thought that I’d check it out.  I like it for its simplicity, although I did experience problems importing a couple of photos from my camera.  Also, the timeline function, while a neat idea, will not work with my piece of crap video card. 

The end is Nigh
I found this cartoon from the ACLU, and it made me want to re-up.  Then, the mood passed and I fell back into the role of the drone protecting the corporate hive.

worker bees can leave
even drones can fly away
the queen is their slave
-Jack

The Writers
Since no one I know really updates their blogs anymore, I have been on a tear to find new lives to peek into.  I put a couple that I’ve started reading daily onto the side bar, and I may add these two if I find that I keep up with them. 
 
The Sandal Wearing Adventurist and the Angel Headed Hipster

The Reader
Sometimes, I think that I can write.  And sometimes, I can.  When I read other people’s stuff, I think I’m delusional.  I think that I am not a needle in a haystack, but a merely a piece of hay.

The Lessons
When we made an offer on a house, the sellers were real pricks about signing the deal.  They made demand after demand and said that we weren’t to present a laundry list of corrections after the home inspection (as if I would waive that).  After we walked away from the deal due to the laundry list of items from the home inspection and the strange way the buyers had been acting, I was confused that the sellers were surprised that we didn’t negotiate with them.

Lesson 1: If you say that you will not negotiate and act like a hard ass, make sure the guy on the other side of the table won’t call your bluff.

Lesson 2: If you don’t lie well, make sure the guy on the other side of the table is not more thorough than you are.

Lesson 3: If you’re going to act like a prick and make people uncomfortable, don’t ask them to provide you with the results of a $400 inspection report for free after they walk away from the deal.  They might gently tell you to go fuck yourself.

Last week, we found a house with a big stone fireplace and a good number of bedrooms that is very close to the water.  The price was on the high end of our price range, but given that it had just about everything we wanted in a house, we went home and ran the numbers.  Within hours we put in an offer of 95% of the asking price.  The offer was valid until 6 PM the following night.

At 6 PM the following night, the broker called back and told us that the offer had been accepted by the buyer.  The only issue was that the realtor said that they did not have a pre-approval letter from us, and the buyer would not sign the offer until we were pre-approved for a loan.

I knew that the broker had a pre-approval on record for us that was merely a month old.  Even though the letter from the mortgage company clearly said “pre-approval” on line 1, the broker claimed that the letter that we had was considered a “pre-qualification” letter and not a “pre-approval” because our incomes and employment had not been verified.

As I couldn’t comprehend the gibberish that they were spewing, and three mortgage companies could only send me a what the broker would consider pre-qualification letter, I was getting not only irritated, but confused.  To the mortgage companies, ther was no such thing as a pre-qualification, and the broker’s notion of a pre-approval didn’t actually exist in the mortgage process.  So, even though the broker had no idea that processing a simple pre-approval had nothing to do with income verification, I went the extra mile and asked the mortgage company to go the extra step and verify our incomes, anyway.  They did.

So, after a half a day of running around and collecting documents, we returned what is commonly known as a “commitment letter” to the real estate broker because they hadn’t any idea about how the mortgage process works.  Within hours, the broker began calling the mortgage company asking them to write an amount into the “commitment letter” that covered the entire cost of the house rather than the amount that we asked the mortgage company to lend us.  The offer was already expired by over 2 days, but without this information, the seller would still not sign the already invalid offer. 

Given that we had been jumping through hoops and going way beyond what is required of a buyer, I put my foot down.  I called the broker and told her to stop calling the mortgage company (that is my business) and to work things out before we plunged deeper into the lunacy.  Half-way in to the call, the broker started a sentence with, “Well, when the seller bought his house he had to provide bla bla bla…”  Whoa, hold on there, Sparky. If the real estate broker was basing her visions of the way the house buying process works upon the experiences of the seller, there was a major problem with the real estate broker. Once I had her attention and was free from interruptions, I then spent the next 15 minutes explaining the process behind buying a house, including the difference between a pre-approval and a commitment letter.  Finally, the broker realized that she was in error, and apologized saying that the the seller was a very nervous man and that he had given her a “brain cramp.”

By the end of the day, the seller had signed the offer with no further hoops for us to jump through, allowing us to schedule the home inspection for this past Saturday.  While I was busy calling the lawyer to get the paperwork moving, we got a message that the seller had agreed to a lower than asking selling price and did not want a “laundry list” of items to fix after the home inspection.  As I was already informed of the seller’s nervous personality, and my personality was saying, “tough shit,” I wrote it off.

We attended the home inspection early on Saturday morning, not expecting to really find anything wrong.  I thought that even if I found some minor issues, I am handy enough to fix them.  If there were major issues, I could always hire someone to fix them correctly.  “Correctly” is a very important point for me.  I might throw my clothes on the floor, but if there is work to be done, I will either do it right myself, or hire someone to do it right if I can’t.  I won’t do a sloppy job, and I won’t let others. It is stupid and a little crazy, but I’m oddly offended by sloppy work on a house, and I don’t know why. When others have done sloppy work on a house, it actually makes me angry.

After the 2.5 hour inspection, I was pretty much entirely pissed off.  Plaster was coming off the walls, the 200 amp electrical service was actually 100 amps, the fist sized holes looked as if they let a blind guy with no arms do all the plaster patching.  His blind buddy did the painting.  Needless to say, I came up with the exact laundry list that the seller was worried about. 

The first floor had an electrical box actually screwed to the floor.  I’ve seen them sunken to the floor (which I don’t like), but never have I seen a six inch by six inch electrical box screwed to the dining room floor.  The entire second floor was a gut job. The price they were asking for the work they had cruelly inflicted on the house, the rehab wasn’t worth it to me.  If they had done no work, I would’ve been happier, as I would save the extra step of undoing their work before doing my own. 

I didn’t want to disappoint the GF because I know how much she liked the house, but I really don’t want to do any major work to a house if it falls on the high end of what I can afford.  And this house needed a lot of work.  So, for a day or so, I stewed.  I had a really tough time with it.  There was lots of staring out the window and trying to find a way to make both of us happy, but finally arrived at the opinion that the offer should be retracted.  The GF, as sweet as she is, put me at ease quite nicely.  She said, “We’re in this together.  We both have to live with this decision.  If you have serious reservations about this house, then we can’t go forward.”

And I think that was the nicest thing that she could’ve done.

When we retracted, the broker was very understanding, and the hassle was much less than I expected (I was prepping for war, and the GF was making tea.  Tea was in order.).  The broker wanted me to give a copy of the inspection to the seller, and I said I’d look for it, but given that a home inspection costs $400 and the sellers were a fat pain in the ass, I think I’m going to have a lot of trouble finding my copies.

You win some, you lose some.

Opinion 1
It seems that if I have to spend a full day explaining the difference between a pre-approval letter and a commitment letter to the manager of a real estate office, someone is not doing their job.

Opinion 2
If I ask you what I need to bring in for paperwork and then repeat what you say back to you, please don’t wait until you’re looking through the papers to say you forgot to tell me to bring some papers that are located 45 minutes away.

Opinion 4
Nice people can easily get me to jump through hoops like getting commitment letters and driving to get missing documents.

Opinion 5
I love it when a plan comes together.

Movie Review #682253
Matrix Revolutions: Good parts, but mostly laughably over-dramatic poo. The original Matrix: A. The third installment: C.

Last night, some friends and I went to dinner at a restaurant at the mall, and even though it was pretty muggy out, we decided to sit outside. The location of the restaurant is next to not only the mall entrance, but the bus stop. This is not the ideal place to have dinner for most people. Let me rephrase: This is probably a location that most normal people would ask to be moved from. For a people watcher though, it is as close to sitting in the audience of Jerry Springer that one can get without actually visiting Chicago.

There are the teens trying to look cool while their moms yell directions on when and where to meet them later, there are the suburban pseudo rap stars who’s only way to get they’re roll on, is to put it under their arms, and there are the Springer crew: The low class, heavy set, 15 Wal-Mart bag carrying, kid smacking sons of bitches that make bus rides pure bliss. Last time I sat there, a girl was yelling, “I’ll kill you, you fuckin’ bitch!” to another girl whose accent was as thick as her makeup.

This is what I look forward to: insane humanity separated from me by a railing. It’s like going to the zoo. The Human Zoo. With humans that are as close to throwing poop at each other as can be had in a modern suburban society.

Last night there weren’t really any major surprises until a tour bus pulled up to the bus stop. It sat there for 10 or 15 minutes with its engines on, and being a male, I completely tuned it out as a part of the landscape in the first 5. I don’t think the fat, gold chain wearing male at the table next to us had the same brain capacity as I do, as he began bitching and moaning about the bus, and the noise, and the imaginary fumes that were ruining his American pub style cuisine.

Within minutes, a thin little black guy with a scally cap and I think a tan members-only jacket got off the bus and walked toward the rail. Fat ass yelled at him, “Move the friggin’ bus! NOW!” Given the way he was talking down to the driver, I assumed fat ass worked as a supervisor for the bus company or something. The bus driver, very apologetically said that he was sorry and that he wasn’t thinking that people were eating here and… “Just get out of here, now!” fat ass yelled. At that point, I just shook my head and thought, What an asshole. And that’s when I witnessed a moment of beauty. The bus driver waited for a pause and calmly said, “There’s no need to talk to me that way. I’m treating you with respect, please do the same for me. I just wasn’t thinking. I’ll move the bus.”

Bus driver knocked fat ass right off of his high horse and everyone within earshot knew it. Even fat ass himself knew it. I love those moments when I’m reminded that none of us has to take anyone else’s shit, and we can achieve balance simply and elegantly without the use of a baseball bat.

The GF leaned in to me after the exchange and said, “I hope they’re not on a first date.”
“Oh, God. I hope they are.”

Upon arriving to our usual breakfast spot, we were, as usual greeted by the host. Today, he looked a bit confused and said, “But, you’re an hour early.”

Humans create patterns, and whether we think we notice or not, we integrate other people’s patterns into our own. We seem to do this on a vast scale, with minute patterns being brought to the conscious only when exceptions occur. If I could now only recognize the patterns without first having to see the exceptions.

Know what’s nice? Introducing my GF into a local joint where I’m somewhat of a regular and having the staff give me the thumbs up when she isn’t looking.

Onion Booty
For the last 5 months, “onion booty” has been in the top 5 search terms for dyers.org. What is an onion booty, you ask? An onion booty is a booty that is so good that it makes you cry.

How people are getting to my site with these search terms is beyond me.

Swedes
The Swedes are in the country. I played a little Need for Speed Hot Pursuit 2 with one of them for a couple of hours. I find it odd that after 2.5 years, they’ve only met my GF once, and it was before we were actually dating. Weird.

UNO
Played UNO with all cards dealt face up. Why this is noteworthy is beyond me. Nerd in trouble. Send Help.

Morning
We saw two houses in the morning, both crap holes, both overpriced. One had a really fat, nice dude in it. The other was on pilings, and was full of whisky and shamrock.

Afternoon
After seeing a half-hour commercial from Dollar Bill’s Discount World a couple of weeks ago, I have wanted to go up to New Hampshire to see it. It’s simply a dollar store, but the owner seems to be a corny nut. So, seeing as we had no plans on Saturday, I suggested that we spend the day in New Hampshire or Maine…And if we were going North, we might as well hit Dollar Bill’s on the way, right? Right.

It was as I expected: tons of cheap crap. As a bonus, the nutty owner kept making corny announcements on the P/A System. While I wasn’t smirking over the announcements, I was smirking over the crap.

Without spending more than $20, we got coloring books for the nieces, ping pong paddles for my parents, a pizza pan, two sets of “sports maracas”, a giant gift bag, and two plastic bees on sticks to shove in the GF’s sister’s garden. Oh, and I got a Coke. The items that I passed up included were: shirts with wolves on them, anything with a wizard or indian on it, and an umbrella hat.

Evening
For a couple of hours in the afternoon, we tooled along exploring a little bit of NH, ending up at the GF’s sister’s house. Children are not only fun for making chalk drawings and playing, but I learned that they are just heavy enough to fix any problems by walking on your back.

Trixters
As we were driving, a woman in a souped up Dodge Neon cut off my GF abruptly enough to get her to lean on the horn.

For nearly two miles on the highway, I aided her in boxing the woman in. I think she must’ve switched lanes 4 times before I let her past.

Afterward, I mentioned to my GF that the woman was probably not normally a nutty driver, but her husband was at the hospital dying. As this changed the tone of our fun, it was not well received.

Fuji
Went to dinner at Fuji with Palatzo. Even though I think that Fuji sushi is the best in the Boston area, the dinners end up being more of a social event than a simple sushi dinner. There is always import tuner talk, insults, and a good amount of fun between us, the owners, and the staff. As usual, the dinner took over two hours.

Before we left, we were standing with the staff shooting the bull. When asked what I was doing after dinner, I said I was going home to my GF. Then, some Chinese shot back and forth between two of the staff. When asked what was said, the embarrassed translation was that the woman couldn’t understand how I could have been married to “the mean one.”

I admit that I was amused.

Conversation
Mr. NYC:: “So, I’m low on money on the train to NY, I’m starving, and they only take cash at the snack bar. I walk up to the counter, and after trying to pay with every cash substitute I can think of, I fall back and try to strech the $10 cash I have as far as it will go. A lady overhears me and asks if I need money to get something to eat. I politely dcline, but she says it’s really no problem and whips out a wad of cash. I still declined, but weird for NY, huh?”
Mr Boston:: “Did you notice if she had an adams apple?”
Mr. NYC:: [laughter] “I don’t think so.”
Mr Boston:: “Hmm. I guess that is weird, then.”

Star Trak
I don’t think I’ve ever dated a woman who can happily sit through an episode of Star Trek. Wait, let me rephrase: I don’t think I’ve ever dated a woman who can simply sit through an episode of Star Trek. Hell, most of the women I’ve dated have called it “Star TRAK.” I’m not actually a big Star Trek fan, but it can be isolating to the geek to explain what an Andorian is, why it’s really cool that Kill Bill Vol. I started with a Klingon quote, or having to say, “[sigh] No. I’m a Medical officer. The captain would wear red or gold. Medical officers wear blue. God.”

Hold on. Maybe this is a very good thing. Yes. This is good. Keep me from taking electronics that do not belong to me, wearing Star Trek Uniforms to work (or anywhere for that matter), taping my glasses in the middle, or from playing any variation of “Magick: The Gathering.” In return, I will fix electronics for you and anyone you know, explain what an Andorian is (again), and not wince when you say Star Trak. Yes. It is a fair deal. He saweth the deal and proclaimed it was good.

Jam Master J
I love the phrase badunkadunk, but there is no real way to use it without sounding like an idiot, or dressing like a rapper. Damn you, rap words, get on up outa my grill, yo. Awwwwwww yea.

One Lesson
I watched a two year old pick up a toy that he had never seen and listen to the Spanish word for trumpet: “La trumpeta.” He would listen, look at me, smile, and say, “la tupeta.” He later growled “swoooooooorrrrdddd” and chopped away at my legs for a while. I don’t think I told him how amazed that I was, as I couldn’t remember the Spanish word for “amazing.” Plus, give me a break, the kid had a fuckin’ sword.

Two for Fighting
The GF and I had a little spat about weekend plans on Sunday. They happen very infrequently, but they do occur. We were going to see a dance recital, and she wanted to stay at her sister’s overnight. As her sister has two little ones that are up when children normally are, and I was exhausted from the virus hell of last week, I knew that there would be no chance of recovery if I stayed. I figured that I would follow her and her mom up for the day in my car, see the recital, hang out a bit, and drive back in the evening by myself. That way, I wouldn’t poop on anyone’s overnight plans, and would get in some much needed rest. Everyone wins.

As I don’t know women well, I had no idea that my compromise was not a compromise. Compromising would’ve been me staying at the sisters. I thought that was called a sacrifice, but I’m still not sure. All I know is that I obviously made the wrong decision. As I tried to point out that she was telling me that I sucked and was an a-hole for not staying, she pointed out that those were not her words. This was true. My statement was merely an exaggerated interpretation of the impression given as run through the Jon-Translator. Then, as time slowed, she dropped the bomb:

“I wonder how badly Jenn really treated you.

Ohhhh shiiiiiiiiit. The girlfriend had just sided with the ex-wife from hell. Pigs flew around chasing the monkeys that flew out of my butt back to a hell that had completely and utterly frozen over. The words hung in the air and time stopped. If someone jumped in the air, I know we could’ve done that cool matrix style fighting (I really should’ve thought of that…).

I had pondered this point many times on my own, but when coming from someone else, the possibility stung. I really almost left, although a bit dramatic even for me, but nothing should be taboo in an argument, and I felt the need to stay and finish the fight off.

At that point, I had decided that I wasn’t going at all, and got in my car to leave. Within seconds, I caved when I saw how unhappy the GF had become. Even though I’m not one to back down, I’m not one to hurt people, either. I decided to breathe, and just go back to the original plan where I thought everyone won and pretended the previous hour never happened.

On stage of the dance recital, what does one of the little girls say while waving? Hi, Auntie? Nope.

Hi, Jon.

Worth every penny. Children of the world: Take me as your king.

Three Times Wrong
At a Dunkin’ Donuts on the South Shore before leaving for said recital, I noticed a blonde girl in the car next to me. As her boyfriend came out of the DD, I noticed, as utterly gay as this sounds and shameful as it is to admit, that he had nice eyes (wrong to notice, and double wrong to comment on). Two hours from the DD and four hours later, the same kid and the blonde girl were in line at the dance recital.

Just an odd coincidence.

P.S. Never used the phrase “purdy mouth” in the above section. Still not gay. Thanks. Have a nice day.

Twenty Rounds
To parents: Please don’t put your eight year old boy in dance lessons unless you have been intentionally raising him as a girl since birth. And for god’s sake, don’t make him wear sequined vests or a sailors cap. I saw that kid this weekend, and by the look on his face, once he can legally access a rifle, he will. He barely looked up the entire time, and only smiled when he tapped this funny rhythm that went: -.- .. .-.. .-...

Soon, I will be 32. I have survived another year. Usually around this time, I just want to be left alone, and avoid celebrating like politicians avoid the truth. Inevitably, I’m lucky enough to have the following conversation a number of times:

What do you want for your birthday?
Nothing.
No, seriously.
No. Seriously. Nothing. I’m good. Thanks, though.
You have to pick something.

I do?

I’m grateful that people ask, but I never really want anything. Given my odd tastes, I have a hell of a time finding things that I like, nevermind asking other people to try to figure the puzzle out. People still try, which I appreciate and find unusually amusing at times (that’s you, Dad), but the results are usually bad. I always feel bad that they spent the money, and not to be ungrateful, but it’s never what I really want. I don’t really want things. I get uncomfortable getting gifts, and they weigh me down, albeit for a short time.

Usually, I will be directed to make a small list of CD’s and the like, but I never end up really wanting any of the marginally interesting things on there. Everything that I list is peripheral. Like my old friend, if I really wanted it, I would have bought it already. The list that I make is merely for the giver to give from, so that they don’t have to waste time running around.

Last night, as I was doing exactly this, I thought, I’m not doing this this year. I have everything that I need right now in terms of tangible items. If birthdays are really about the person having their way for a day, and not about just buying things to make the giver feel good, then my wish is to not have any tangible gifts this year. Maybe I should explore that as some sort of control issue. Maybe I get more out of a kick out of giving than getting. Maybe I’m just some freakin’ weirdo who makes mountains out of mole hills. I don’t know.

This year, I’m not writing the list.

So, if you want to give me a real gift, give me strength, laughter, kindness, empathy, wisdom, or anything that can fit on a page of a notebook. Tell me a story. Tell me a secret. Tell me a joke. Take the money that you would have spent, and buy spend it on some random act of kindness, or leave it where only a child can find it. Make me a list of songs that you can’t live without or a recipe that makes you proud. Or send me a picture that I can put up to prove to the burglars that I have friends (Please honor my strict “No nudes from Dudes” policy. This goes x100 if your name contains “Rico,” “Palatzo,” or “Rico Palatzo”). Then, tell me the story.

Or send some flowers to my parents and thank them that I’m here and not too damaged.

But don’t visit BestBuy. I’ve already been and it’s really, really empty.

PIP
Girls tend to leverage technology more if they find it useful. A useful example is showing your girlfriend how to use the Picture in Picture feature when “the Bachelorette” and “Friends” share a time slot. I think that this is the only woman that I’ve been involved with that can not only work all of the remote controls, but that is now using an advanced feature of the TV.

If I could only teach her to be a CounterStrike sniper…

CD Trade
I have 65 CDs sitting on my floor that I want to trade. If you want to trade a CD for any of them, e-mail me above. The photo is here.

VD
Given the number of days until Valentine’s Day, and subtracting the actual number of ideas that I have for said day, we can plainly deduce that I am screwed.

Originally (as with most of our holidays), February fourteenth was a pagan holiday honoring Juno, the goddess of women and marriage. The fifteenth was the first day of the Festival of Lupercalia. On the eve of the festival, Roman women would write love notes and put them in an urn. The Roman men would draw a note from the urn, with whom he would be coupled with for the entire Lupercalia festival.

Why have we screwed up EVERY FUN GODDAMNED ANCIENT TRADITION and turned it into something benign?

For those opposed: Anti-Valentine.

As I lay dreaming about frantically trying to rebuild house after house after they had each mysteriously blown up, a sprightly, barely-sleeping girlfriend had risen and was fiddling with my alarm clock to make sure that I had actually set the alarm. Not sensing any danger, and being way behind schedule on the house rebuilds, my brain slept on.

Until…

The brain sensed something moving from the window side of the room. It was, of course, the girlfriend, returning from an unsuccessful reconnaissance mission to from the Alarm Clock Delta, but given that the direction of the movement was from the windows rather than toward them, the brain tripped the intruder alert, vaulting me out of my nighttime contractor’s job right into the darkened room of Jon the Professional Dork.

As I have the brain of the absent-minded professor, checking alarm clock status, stove burner status, or car emergency brake status is a valid query at any time of day or night, so there wasn’t much for me to be angry about. Absent-minded people bring it on themselves. Still, given the woman’s nature, she was very apologetic for waking me straight through to the next day.

As I found her actions easily justifiable, all I could ask of her as I was leaving for work was,

If I’m not beating you up over this, why do you continue to beat yourself up?”

And that question has stuck with me all day:

Why do some of us beat ourselves up when even others refuse?

Tis the Season
The last few days have been spent burning my eyes out designing XMas gifts on the PC. The first design took four hours, while the second took a mere 3. The only reason for the 25% reduction in design time was that my production manager (read GF) deemed the design complete and future creative effort minuscule enough to be lost in the overall design.

So, given that these are coming from the Dyer Originals Collection, accounting for the time spent, and allowing me a $2000 per hour “Buy yourself a pony tail” bonus, I would estimate the value of these gifts to be in the neighborhood of $6017 to $8017!

So, if you receive one of these beauties, please remember that they are as valuable as diamonds, have similar resale, and should be treated as if they were an exquisite macaroni portrait created by a five year old.

So far today, I have listened to the latest round of rumors flying around about me, and they all seem to be coming from one person. Like the rumors that I was gay (oy), I requested that this round stop, too. There is a fine line with me that runs razor-like through two extremes: giving away all the information and shutting down that shop and putting up the walls in a paranoid frenzy. In recent history, I’ve expended a great amount of effort to tear down a lot of the walls and actually interact with my environment.

Unfortunately, one place that I still prefer to keep separate from my private life is my work life, if for purely financial reasons. I like to eat, and when one starts turning my preferred method of gaining access to food into a three ring circus or a High School rumor mill, I don’t appreciate it one bit. I get overly defensive, I get paranoid, and I shut down.

Then, the walls go up, the cannons get aimed, and a couple of warning shots are fired.

Some people need hobbies that don’t include me.

On a 74 degree day in November, walking from Lafayette Place through the homeless spotted Commons, through the tourist-filled Public Gardens, and down luxury laden Newbury Street ending on Mass Ave and back can be a phenomenal way to spend a Saturday. Midway through our walk, my girlfriend turned to me and said,

“You know what the best thing about this walk is? We don’t have anywhere to be.”

And she was partly right: Leisure without a planned end can be a very relaxing way to spend a warm fall day, but eating a dinner after a long walk consisting solely of nachos supreme and enough cheesecake to make one feel nauseas can be much, much more rewarding.