Weddings… What can I say that hasn’t been said already? Weddings totally rock! Yeah, I know, I’m against the whole marriage and commitment thing, but the actual event, the wedding itself, is just an amazing experience. And I’m not saying this just because it gives me a perfect opportunity to throw out lines from the movie Old School. Which, by the way, is not only a great movie, but a timeless classic.
Maybe you’ll want the full story. Saturday, one of my fraternity brothers got married. It’s always a joyous occasion when someone you’ve known throughout your college career finally settles down with a woman he holds close to his heart. Yes, I’m a sucker for that lovey-dovey sentimentality crap. Also, there was an open bar.
Few other phrases in the English language can inspire so much wonder and excitement as those two words: open bar. Just writing the words is making me giddy. I want everyone out there to know, I went to the wedding because both Josh and Monica are very dear friends of mine and I would carry out any favor they needed at the drop of a hat. They’re just that awesome. But the much less compelling and highly secondary reason I attended the wedding this weekend was for my other very dear friend, alcohol.
I hope you all are already aware of my penchant for that particular aqueous substance. As far as I’m concerned it’s a magical elixir that chases away bad things. It also happens to make my friends much more interesting and certain people much more bearable. Though I think the surgeon general needs to add the following warning label to all liquor bottles sold in the US:
Warning: Objects viewed while inebriated may be less attractive tomorrow morning than they currently appear.
I’m just saying, it’s something that everyone should be aware of. Not that I had to worry about that during the wedding, no sir. I may have been drinking alright, but I was hanging out with my fraternity brothers that I hadn’t seen in a while. There was no trolling for bridesmaids for me. I was simply happy to see everyone again, especially some of the guys whom I hadn’t seen in a good two years. Man, where does the time go?
I have to say, everyone was happy to see me as well. I’m just the kind of guy that all the other guys want to be around. I think it has something to do with my lack of niceties around women. I have a very bad habit of saying things that make girls genuinely upset and reproachful. And you know what, I’m ok with that. I just find angry women amusing. It has the added side effect of making all the other guys around me look that much better by comparison. And guys like looking better by comparison.
All the old frat brothers seemed quite surprised that I had dressed up for the occasion. Now, I’m normally all for casual wear and comfortable clothing. That’s just my style. But I do like to dress up all fancy for certain events. I happen to think I look damned good in a suit, but then again, that’s just my opinion. Besides, it was a wedding; you’re supposed to look your best at weddings. So seeing me in nice charcoal pants, a starched shirt, tie, and a coat was apparently something unexpected. The green shirt and khaki pants ensemble that I wore practically every week to frat meetings back in college just wasn’t going to cut it for Josh and Monica’s big day, even a bachelor bum like me knows that.
The girls that I ran into at the wedding also noted that I looked rather nicely dressed for the evening. Although, they seemed to have a hard time accepting the fact that I had actually dressed myself in such button-up finery. The first three or four times I heard the comment, “I don’t believe it! There is no way you dressed yourself this morning!” I thought it was rather funny. I’d like to think I’m genuinely a good sport like that. But after the seventh or eighth time hearing the very same line from a female acquaintance, I started to get a little fed up with the whole act.
Though, I do have to admit, there have been times that I haven’t quite been up to code on my dress. Getting all the shirt buttons lined up properly while dressing is still an ongoing struggle. And I don’t even want to mention the incident where I tucked the collar down inside my shirt. It ended up not being the latest fashion trend as I had been led to believe. But this does not mean that I am incapable of dressing myself. I’m merely… a little slow. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
I was finally able to convince my female admirers (I’m going to call them that until I am scientifically proven otherwise) that I had managed to struggle into a suit and tie entirely of my own volition. I told them I used a diagram pinned up to my wall that showed step by step instructions on how to get everything on. They bought that. Apparently I’m incapable of buttoning my own shirt, but following directions, sure I can do that.
You know, come to think of it, that’s really not a bad idea. I’m just going to write that down on my list of ideas that I’ll eventually get rich off of. I’m thinking a 1, 2, 3 instruction guide, showing elaborate illustrations to help with donning formal wear. It’ll look just like the Lego instructional pamphlets that come with new Lego sets. I’m sure there are plenty of guys out there who could use some graphical insight to help fasten their ties. Let’s be honest here, wearing a clip on tie is a total fashion faux pas.
The wedding itself was lovely and the reception was delightful. From what I hear, I had a wonderful time. For the record, however, drinking three bottles of red wine all by yourself is not recommended, even if it is an open bar. But, being the trooper that I am, I took my booze (hey, wine is still booze) like a man, and kept it all down. I even managed to make it through the night without pissing off any women. Go me!
Just remember to always beware the tomorrow, as the morning light will most assuredly rise to kick you in the kiester. I was not feeling okay when I woke up the next morning, large quantities of alcohol will do that to you. At the same time, this warning applies to the happy couple as well. Oh, I’m sure they woke up Sunday morning just as thrilled as can be, and I am truly happy for the two of them. But they’re together now… forever.
I was in the church. I heard the pastor say it. “Until death do us part.” Those words sent a chill down my spine. Heck, it still gives me the willies today. One woman… one lover… one companion. One wife, until you die. Not my cup tea, sorry. But for those of you who do take the leap, those of you who do find comfort and solace in the arms of another and are bound to them for eternity, I wish you the best of luck. For there is nary a thing in this life more powerful than spending time with those you truly care for.
And to Josh and Monica: I wish you the greatest happiness and blessings for the rest of your years.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
We’re Gonna Party Like It’s Your Birthday
Last Friday was my friend Kristi’s birthday. And if I know anything about celebrating a birthday, then it’s going to involve copious amounts of alcohol. Ok, so maybe I involve bountiful quantities of alcohol for any celebration. That’s just who I am. What can I say? Distilleries around the world love me.
So it was Friday, the 19th of October, when my friend Kristi turned the big 24. Now, that’s not a big number in any way. It’s not, say… 25, which is a full quarter of a century. Nor is it 40, which is the number that marks the onset of middle age official. It’s not even close to 62, which is the when you can start collecting partial social security benefits. But, 24 is a big enough year to require getting drunk and taking birthday spankings from your friends. The spankings were not my idea. Seriously, I was a good boy. I kept my hands to myself for once.
For the record, Kristi spells her name with a “Y.” Thus, when she writes her name out, it is looks like “Kristy.” But I spell it differently. Mainly, I spell it that way because it makes her sound like a stripper, and that amuses me. She doesn’t seem too fond of it, though. One of these days women are going to realize that their sole purpose for being on this planet is to amuse me. Until they accept that one little fact, they are going to be perpetually inclined to hate and despise me. And that’s ok. I happen to find angry women entertaining. That’s just me.
Now, just because I’m a horrible person and I intentionally make my friend Kristi out to be stripper-esque, that doesn’t mean that I’m a terrible friend. I’m pretty sure I just contradicted myself there, but hey, I’m trying to make a point. Bear with me. Since I am such an amazingly good friend, and such a stand-up guy, I was explicitly put in charge of the whole affair for Friday night. Now if you’re plan for the evening is to drink, drink, and drink, then I’m not exactly the wrong person for the job. Some of my alcoholic feats are legendary. And then again, some of them merely involve me getting drunk, and getting slapped repeatedly. Eh, it happens.
The way I came into the position of leadership for the birthday festivities is quite a story. Well, it’s not a long story, not is it an entirely entertaining one, but it’s a story I’m going to share with you nonetheless. Personally, I find it somewhat amusing.
So, the week before (that would be the 12 of October, if my subtraction skills are up to par) I was out at a bar with Kristi and two other fine gents. Kristi, being a woman, and me being, well, me, I felt the need to say some things that annoyed and possibly upset my good female friend. Now, I’ve spent a good portion of my life learning and perfecting my abilities to piss off the opposite sex, and personally, I’d think it would be shame not to use them. So use them I did. For some strange reason, I don’t think Kristi was flattered by my improper comments. I think it was the fact that she repeatedly used the phrase, “I hate you,” that gave it away.
But in between telling me how me she hated me, which she managed to do repetitively on several separate occasions, she told me that I was in charge of her birthday for the following week. I was supposed to plan where we were going as well as recruit some more people to go out and drink with us. Now, I don’t know why the other two guys in attendance weren’t good enough for her, I mean, they were actually being nice to her, but apparently I was the guy for the job.
So in the intervening week, not only did I manage to negotiate where we would be transmuting our hard earned dollars into liquid, mind-altering substances (and by negotiating, I mean, I asked Kristi where she wanted to go, and then commanded everyone to go there; I call it leadership) but I also was able to garner a fairly decent crowd for the festivities. Ok, so maybe no one really came out because I said so, mostly they wanted to hang out with Kristi. That’s ok with me. Seeing as it was her birthday, the spotlight was most appropriately on her. I was more of a background character.
Now being in charge has its downfalls. It requires you to be responsible. And responsibility means driving all the drunken idiots home after a night on the town. But it was Kristi’s birthday, and I was in charge, so yeah, I think I can be the sober guy for one night, which is exactly what I did. So after a shortened evening on the town (we only hit two bars), we ended up back at Kristi’s apartment complex, hanging out with her neighbors. Up to that point, the evening was rather uneventful. I mean, there were shots taken, some singing, some dancing, and I’m pretty sure someone left a bite mark on Kristi’s ass (and it totally wasn’t me, I was sober, remember), but that’s really nothing to write home about.
So, here we were, seven or eight people, hanging around outside of an apartment at 3am discussing the possibility of ordering a pizza. Now, for those of you who don’t stay up that late, let me fill you in on a little secret: pizza doesn’t exactly get delivered after 2am, even on Fridays. So, bummed out, a few of our party left. Those that stayed ended up inside the neighbor’s apartment watching the recently released Transformers on DVD (good movie, by the way, even if I prefer the original 1986 animated Transformers: The Movie better). I neglected the box-office blockbuster when I found a copy of Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition lying on the kitchen counter. Beyonce was on the cover, ‘nuff said.
I had managed to not piss of Kristi while we were out at the bars. Seeing as how it was her birthday, I thought I could do at least that much for her. Though I have to admit, I accomplished this feat by keeping my mouth shut most of the time we were out. Yet somehow, I finally got on her nerves by looking at pictures of scantily clad women. Well, in all honesty, she was upset because I was slobbering all over the pictures of the beautiful blonde models in the magazine (she doesn’t like blondes for some reason). To be perfectly fair, I wasn’t just ogling the blondes, I was also eye-humping the two-dimensional brunettes as well as the insanely gorgeous Brazilians posing therein. And on a completely unrelated note, I’m saving up all my pennies for a trip to Brazil. Who’s coming with me?
Shortly thereafter, Kristi left to go walk her dogs and get some sleep. She had sobered up quite a bit up to that point, which was refreshing. If she had fallen too far into her drinks, it would have been my responsibility to look after her while she was sick. Like I noted before, I hate being in charge. But she was fine, and she left under her own power. This was right about the time her neighbor had decided to cook for everyone who was hungry since we couldn’t order a pizza.
Since it was now around four in the morning, I figured he was going to pull some chicken out of the freezer and throw it into the microwave or something. But no, he produced fresh vegetables and pork from his fridge and began chopping away. He even mixed up an Asian style spicy sauce from scratch to go with it. It was crazy. I mean, who the hell makes a home cooked meal at 4am? Apparently Alex does. Twenty minutes or so later, he served the stir fry up on top of some steamed rice in a fancy bowl. He even had chopsticks on hand for us to eat with (to his credit, he is dating a Chinese girl). By this point, though, the girls that were left had passed out on the sofa. So the only people eating were Alex, Joey, and me. Hey, more food for us guys. It was a good thing too, that Alex can cook up some damned good food.
My night finally ended just after 5am when I returned home, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed. As far as birthdays go, Kristi’s wasn’t too shabby. We all went out and had a good time. And most important of all, I didn’t have to baby-sit anyone. Because, let’s be honest here, I’m not exactly world-renowned for my responsibility. I feel for the girl who actually has no choice but to rely on me in her time of need. Seriously.
So it was Friday, the 19th of October, when my friend Kristi turned the big 24. Now, that’s not a big number in any way. It’s not, say… 25, which is a full quarter of a century. Nor is it 40, which is the number that marks the onset of middle age official. It’s not even close to 62, which is the when you can start collecting partial social security benefits. But, 24 is a big enough year to require getting drunk and taking birthday spankings from your friends. The spankings were not my idea. Seriously, I was a good boy. I kept my hands to myself for once.
For the record, Kristi spells her name with a “Y.” Thus, when she writes her name out, it is looks like “Kristy.” But I spell it differently. Mainly, I spell it that way because it makes her sound like a stripper, and that amuses me. She doesn’t seem too fond of it, though. One of these days women are going to realize that their sole purpose for being on this planet is to amuse me. Until they accept that one little fact, they are going to be perpetually inclined to hate and despise me. And that’s ok. I happen to find angry women entertaining. That’s just me.
Now, just because I’m a horrible person and I intentionally make my friend Kristi out to be stripper-esque, that doesn’t mean that I’m a terrible friend. I’m pretty sure I just contradicted myself there, but hey, I’m trying to make a point. Bear with me. Since I am such an amazingly good friend, and such a stand-up guy, I was explicitly put in charge of the whole affair for Friday night. Now if you’re plan for the evening is to drink, drink, and drink, then I’m not exactly the wrong person for the job. Some of my alcoholic feats are legendary. And then again, some of them merely involve me getting drunk, and getting slapped repeatedly. Eh, it happens.
The way I came into the position of leadership for the birthday festivities is quite a story. Well, it’s not a long story, not is it an entirely entertaining one, but it’s a story I’m going to share with you nonetheless. Personally, I find it somewhat amusing.
So, the week before (that would be the 12 of October, if my subtraction skills are up to par) I was out at a bar with Kristi and two other fine gents. Kristi, being a woman, and me being, well, me, I felt the need to say some things that annoyed and possibly upset my good female friend. Now, I’ve spent a good portion of my life learning and perfecting my abilities to piss off the opposite sex, and personally, I’d think it would be shame not to use them. So use them I did. For some strange reason, I don’t think Kristi was flattered by my improper comments. I think it was the fact that she repeatedly used the phrase, “I hate you,” that gave it away.
But in between telling me how me she hated me, which she managed to do repetitively on several separate occasions, she told me that I was in charge of her birthday for the following week. I was supposed to plan where we were going as well as recruit some more people to go out and drink with us. Now, I don’t know why the other two guys in attendance weren’t good enough for her, I mean, they were actually being nice to her, but apparently I was the guy for the job.
So in the intervening week, not only did I manage to negotiate where we would be transmuting our hard earned dollars into liquid, mind-altering substances (and by negotiating, I mean, I asked Kristi where she wanted to go, and then commanded everyone to go there; I call it leadership) but I also was able to garner a fairly decent crowd for the festivities. Ok, so maybe no one really came out because I said so, mostly they wanted to hang out with Kristi. That’s ok with me. Seeing as it was her birthday, the spotlight was most appropriately on her. I was more of a background character.
Now being in charge has its downfalls. It requires you to be responsible. And responsibility means driving all the drunken idiots home after a night on the town. But it was Kristi’s birthday, and I was in charge, so yeah, I think I can be the sober guy for one night, which is exactly what I did. So after a shortened evening on the town (we only hit two bars), we ended up back at Kristi’s apartment complex, hanging out with her neighbors. Up to that point, the evening was rather uneventful. I mean, there were shots taken, some singing, some dancing, and I’m pretty sure someone left a bite mark on Kristi’s ass (and it totally wasn’t me, I was sober, remember), but that’s really nothing to write home about.
So, here we were, seven or eight people, hanging around outside of an apartment at 3am discussing the possibility of ordering a pizza. Now, for those of you who don’t stay up that late, let me fill you in on a little secret: pizza doesn’t exactly get delivered after 2am, even on Fridays. So, bummed out, a few of our party left. Those that stayed ended up inside the neighbor’s apartment watching the recently released Transformers on DVD (good movie, by the way, even if I prefer the original 1986 animated Transformers: The Movie better). I neglected the box-office blockbuster when I found a copy of Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition lying on the kitchen counter. Beyonce was on the cover, ‘nuff said.
I had managed to not piss of Kristi while we were out at the bars. Seeing as how it was her birthday, I thought I could do at least that much for her. Though I have to admit, I accomplished this feat by keeping my mouth shut most of the time we were out. Yet somehow, I finally got on her nerves by looking at pictures of scantily clad women. Well, in all honesty, she was upset because I was slobbering all over the pictures of the beautiful blonde models in the magazine (she doesn’t like blondes for some reason). To be perfectly fair, I wasn’t just ogling the blondes, I was also eye-humping the two-dimensional brunettes as well as the insanely gorgeous Brazilians posing therein. And on a completely unrelated note, I’m saving up all my pennies for a trip to Brazil. Who’s coming with me?
Shortly thereafter, Kristi left to go walk her dogs and get some sleep. She had sobered up quite a bit up to that point, which was refreshing. If she had fallen too far into her drinks, it would have been my responsibility to look after her while she was sick. Like I noted before, I hate being in charge. But she was fine, and she left under her own power. This was right about the time her neighbor had decided to cook for everyone who was hungry since we couldn’t order a pizza.
Since it was now around four in the morning, I figured he was going to pull some chicken out of the freezer and throw it into the microwave or something. But no, he produced fresh vegetables and pork from his fridge and began chopping away. He even mixed up an Asian style spicy sauce from scratch to go with it. It was crazy. I mean, who the hell makes a home cooked meal at 4am? Apparently Alex does. Twenty minutes or so later, he served the stir fry up on top of some steamed rice in a fancy bowl. He even had chopsticks on hand for us to eat with (to his credit, he is dating a Chinese girl). By this point, though, the girls that were left had passed out on the sofa. So the only people eating were Alex, Joey, and me. Hey, more food for us guys. It was a good thing too, that Alex can cook up some damned good food.
My night finally ended just after 5am when I returned home, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed. As far as birthdays go, Kristi’s wasn’t too shabby. We all went out and had a good time. And most important of all, I didn’t have to baby-sit anyone. Because, let’s be honest here, I’m not exactly world-renowned for my responsibility. I feel for the girl who actually has no choice but to rely on me in her time of need. Seriously.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Fultron, Defender of the Universe
A friend of mine was looking to get rid of her futon. Apparently she didn’t want it taking up any more space in her apartment. I can understand that, free space can be at a premium these days. So last week I swung by her place and took the futon off her hands. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s taking other people’s furniture. Heck, I’m pretty sure 80% of the fixtures in my apartment were bought by someone other than me. I guess my apartment is a retirement home for old furniture. Which is cool, since spending money on new furnishings cuts into my video game budget.
So, last Wednesday, I was at a friend’s apartment, taking apart her futon. Now, just to set the record straight, being “mechanical” is usually the sort thing that my older brother or my father does. I didn’t quite inherit the family grease monkey genes. But that’s ok with me. I am quite proficient with other things, like, um… being creative. Seriously, you should see what I’m capable of doing with a can of whipped cream and some chocolate syrup. Hey, whipped cream and chocolate syrup make everything better. And I do mean everything.
Getting back to last Wednesday. Now I know enough about wrenches and screws and whatnot that I can take care of most of my mechanical needs. Which is a good thing. Manly men are supposed to know how to fix things. Though for the record, I much prefer to break things, it is ever so gratifying. So, taking apart that futon to make it easier to transport was no problem. It only took a few minutes for me to take the back off of it and it was ready for the short car ride to my place.
There is an advantage to driving a twelve year old man wagon (nicknamed the m’agon for short). With the rear seats folded down, I can fit all kinds of things in my car. In fact, I’ve been able to haul more furniture around than most SUVs. And on top of that, I get way better gas mileage. Needless to say, I don’t think I’m going to be buying an H2 any time soon.
My friend was worried about me since I’d have to carry all three pieces of the slightly disassembled futon into my apartment by myself (the main assembly, the removed back, and the futon pad). I told her not to worry because I’m a guy, and carrying heavy things is what guys do. In fact, I’d probably carry any number of outrageously heavy objects up numerous flights of stairs just to prove my manliness. I’m just vain like that. Heck, I still remember dragging the box spring to my bed up the two flights of stairs by myself to my apartment at two in the morning. Oh yeah, those were good times.
Needless to say, I got the new futon up into my apartment with little fanfare. It took three trips, but I handled it without any worries whatsoever. I’m just that good. Of course, after getting it into the apartment it just sort of sat there, in pieces, in the middle of my living room. And being the amazingly productive guy I am, it stayed there for most the rest of the day. You’d be surprised at how easy it is for me to continually climb over random clutter when the alternative requires extra work on my part.
Now, you might be wondering why I went through the trouble of acquiring a new futon, when I already have one. See, a few months back, I threw away a somewhat comfy sofa that reeked of feline monstrosities. The aging couch was my old roommate’s, and for some reason, he kept a cat as a pet. I’m not exactly a fan of beasts. I wouldn’t mind lighting every cat I come across on fire and throwing it into a ceiling fan, but that’s just me. I couldn’t very well keep a stinking sofa in my apartment, not if I want to occasionally bring over lady friends to entertain. I did have one lovely young lady who couldn’t sit on the sofa because it triggered her allergy to cats. That’s a good enough reason for me to dump it, so I did.
After dumping the old sofa, I moved my futon from its usual place in my bedroom into the living room to take the spot of the premier furniture piece. So now there’s a big empty space on the wall in my room, which is cool. It makes the bedroom seem much bigger now. I hadn’t really thought about what to do with that new free space just yet. Do you think eight feet by two is enough room to put in a microbrewery? Just asking… for no reason whatsoever.
So, I have this space in my bedroom that I figured I was going to put the new futon in. Then, an idea hit me. Why have two perfectly good futons, when I can combine them together to make one super-ultra futon? It’s like Voltron, the more you hook up, the better it gets. And I think it goes without saying, I learned most of my life lessons from the cartoons I watched growing up in the eighties.
So far, I’ve only piled up the two mattresses on my futon in the living room. And you know what? It rocks! It’s the most comfortable futon I’ve ever had the pleasure of resting my posterior on. I was worried that the top mattress would slip and slide off of the futon, but it has not; they’re both staying perfectly in place. So far, so good. But I think I can do more. I continued to disassemble the newly acquired futon frame into smaller pieces which are simply lying against my bedroom wall. And now I don’t know what to do with them.
I need to figure out how I can fuse the two metal frames of the futons into one super structure. We all know I’m not the naturally gifted mechanical type, so I’m at a bit of a loss here. If my older brother was here, we could combine his mechanical abilities with my creativity and produce something quite monstrous, I’m sure. But seeing as he lives in Indiana and the fact that we’ve never really worked well together on projects, I’ll just have to go it alone. I’m sure that I’ll come up with something eventually. I may not be able to turn my futon into a giant robotic tiger, but maybe, just maybe, I can give it a glowing energy sword with which to smite its foes. And I can call it “Fultron, Defender of the Universe.” Or maybe a bit more accurate: “Fultron, Defender of My Ass.” Or I could possibly come up with something that’s slightly less nerdy. I’ll keep you up to date on that.
For now, however, I’ll have to be content with having an overstuffed and rather comfortable futon to sit on while I watch football on the weekends. And well, I think I’m ok with that. There is nothing more important than being relaxed while watching UNC beat Miami in Chapel Hill. I’m still upset I didn’t buy tickets to that game and ended up watching it from home. Oh well, maybe next time. At least the Tar Heels are doing better than NC State. And you know what? That’s all I could ask for.
Oh, and Brian Griese, if you keeping winning games for the Chicago Bears, I can overlook the fact that you took Rex Grossman’s starting position. I may be Rex’s biggest fan, but let’s face it, I desperately want the Bears to win. And if Lovie Smith says Griese is the guy to do it, then Griese is the guy. DAAA BEARS!
So, last Wednesday, I was at a friend’s apartment, taking apart her futon. Now, just to set the record straight, being “mechanical” is usually the sort thing that my older brother or my father does. I didn’t quite inherit the family grease monkey genes. But that’s ok with me. I am quite proficient with other things, like, um… being creative. Seriously, you should see what I’m capable of doing with a can of whipped cream and some chocolate syrup. Hey, whipped cream and chocolate syrup make everything better. And I do mean everything.
Getting back to last Wednesday. Now I know enough about wrenches and screws and whatnot that I can take care of most of my mechanical needs. Which is a good thing. Manly men are supposed to know how to fix things. Though for the record, I much prefer to break things, it is ever so gratifying. So, taking apart that futon to make it easier to transport was no problem. It only took a few minutes for me to take the back off of it and it was ready for the short car ride to my place.
There is an advantage to driving a twelve year old man wagon (nicknamed the m’agon for short). With the rear seats folded down, I can fit all kinds of things in my car. In fact, I’ve been able to haul more furniture around than most SUVs. And on top of that, I get way better gas mileage. Needless to say, I don’t think I’m going to be buying an H2 any time soon.
My friend was worried about me since I’d have to carry all three pieces of the slightly disassembled futon into my apartment by myself (the main assembly, the removed back, and the futon pad). I told her not to worry because I’m a guy, and carrying heavy things is what guys do. In fact, I’d probably carry any number of outrageously heavy objects up numerous flights of stairs just to prove my manliness. I’m just vain like that. Heck, I still remember dragging the box spring to my bed up the two flights of stairs by myself to my apartment at two in the morning. Oh yeah, those were good times.
Needless to say, I got the new futon up into my apartment with little fanfare. It took three trips, but I handled it without any worries whatsoever. I’m just that good. Of course, after getting it into the apartment it just sort of sat there, in pieces, in the middle of my living room. And being the amazingly productive guy I am, it stayed there for most the rest of the day. You’d be surprised at how easy it is for me to continually climb over random clutter when the alternative requires extra work on my part.
Now, you might be wondering why I went through the trouble of acquiring a new futon, when I already have one. See, a few months back, I threw away a somewhat comfy sofa that reeked of feline monstrosities. The aging couch was my old roommate’s, and for some reason, he kept a cat as a pet. I’m not exactly a fan of beasts. I wouldn’t mind lighting every cat I come across on fire and throwing it into a ceiling fan, but that’s just me. I couldn’t very well keep a stinking sofa in my apartment, not if I want to occasionally bring over lady friends to entertain. I did have one lovely young lady who couldn’t sit on the sofa because it triggered her allergy to cats. That’s a good enough reason for me to dump it, so I did.
After dumping the old sofa, I moved my futon from its usual place in my bedroom into the living room to take the spot of the premier furniture piece. So now there’s a big empty space on the wall in my room, which is cool. It makes the bedroom seem much bigger now. I hadn’t really thought about what to do with that new free space just yet. Do you think eight feet by two is enough room to put in a microbrewery? Just asking… for no reason whatsoever.
So, I have this space in my bedroom that I figured I was going to put the new futon in. Then, an idea hit me. Why have two perfectly good futons, when I can combine them together to make one super-ultra futon? It’s like Voltron, the more you hook up, the better it gets. And I think it goes without saying, I learned most of my life lessons from the cartoons I watched growing up in the eighties.
So far, I’ve only piled up the two mattresses on my futon in the living room. And you know what? It rocks! It’s the most comfortable futon I’ve ever had the pleasure of resting my posterior on. I was worried that the top mattress would slip and slide off of the futon, but it has not; they’re both staying perfectly in place. So far, so good. But I think I can do more. I continued to disassemble the newly acquired futon frame into smaller pieces which are simply lying against my bedroom wall. And now I don’t know what to do with them.
I need to figure out how I can fuse the two metal frames of the futons into one super structure. We all know I’m not the naturally gifted mechanical type, so I’m at a bit of a loss here. If my older brother was here, we could combine his mechanical abilities with my creativity and produce something quite monstrous, I’m sure. But seeing as he lives in Indiana and the fact that we’ve never really worked well together on projects, I’ll just have to go it alone. I’m sure that I’ll come up with something eventually. I may not be able to turn my futon into a giant robotic tiger, but maybe, just maybe, I can give it a glowing energy sword with which to smite its foes. And I can call it “Fultron, Defender of the Universe.” Or maybe a bit more accurate: “Fultron, Defender of My Ass.” Or I could possibly come up with something that’s slightly less nerdy. I’ll keep you up to date on that.
For now, however, I’ll have to be content with having an overstuffed and rather comfortable futon to sit on while I watch football on the weekends. And well, I think I’m ok with that. There is nothing more important than being relaxed while watching UNC beat Miami in Chapel Hill. I’m still upset I didn’t buy tickets to that game and ended up watching it from home. Oh well, maybe next time. At least the Tar Heels are doing better than NC State. And you know what? That’s all I could ask for.
Oh, and Brian Griese, if you keeping winning games for the Chicago Bears, I can overlook the fact that you took Rex Grossman’s starting position. I may be Rex’s biggest fan, but let’s face it, I desperately want the Bears to win. And if Lovie Smith says Griese is the guy to do it, then Griese is the guy. DAAA BEARS!
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Philanthropic Mansion
Am I ever going to grow up? Probably not, if I can help it. I mean, who really wants to be an adult? Now, I’m sure there are plenty of bonuses like paying bills, raising kids, paying taxes, and that whole chained to a rock in a solitary prison cell lock-down that they call marriage. Oh yeah, that all sounds like fun and games, but you know, there’s also that whole responsibility thing. And I’ve never been a huge fan of responsibility.
Then again, there are certain parts about adulthood that I can actually look forward to. Yet, they are the things that I don’t currently have. A brand new Lexus would be nice. All adults are entitled to one of those, are they not? There’s also the right to stay up all night playing Metroid Prime 3 (which I still haven’t gotten around to buying just yet). But foremost among those rights of adult-ness is living on your own.
At present, I have been without a roommate for over a year and a half. And let me tell you, it feels awesome. Not that I don’t miss the old roomie, I do, he was a cool guy. There’s just a lot more freedom about living by oneself, if you know what I’m getting at. If you don’t, let me spell it out for you. When you have a roommate, it’s damn near impossible to lounge on the sofa in your underwear, eat Cheetos off your chest, and play Super Mario World. Not that I’ve tried or anything. And if my Super Nintendo controllers have an orange cheese residue on them, well, that’s entirely coincidental.
The continuing problem I’m finding with my current living arrangement is not the fact that I live alone, it’s that my apartment could use a little more class to it. Oh sure, the balcony is nice, it really is, and it gives me a good place to air out my hockey gear so it doesn’t obtain the reek of twelve separate gym lockers. But there are people that live all around me and the walls aren’t exactly soundproof. And really, that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from inviting Hugh Hefner over for a glass of warm cognac and a fine Cuban cigar. If I lived in a house, I’d totally be surrounded by Playboy Playmates every weekend. Totally.
Sadly, I don’t live in a house. And there are many reasons why having a house would be monumentally beneficial for me. For one, I like to throw parties. What can I say? I love entertaining guests. And it’s far too difficult to cut loose and have a good time when you know the ease to which it will annoy your neighbors. I have been known to throw a pretty memorable bash, if I can say so myself. I’d like to do so again, but I’m in need of better environs.
Keeping that in mind, I ran across this nifty little program on the World Wide Web. It’s amazing the things you can find on that there internets. The program has you answer a few simple questions, and after you’re done, it will “build” your dream home. Now, it’s not a complete, full detail model, but it’s a fairly engaging exercise. And personally, I found my dream house to be highly indicative of my wants and desires. Feel free to click here to take a gander at it.
The text describing my Philanthropic Mansion begins by stating that I have “people” to take care of my kitchen needs for me. Honestly, that sounds awesome. I may be no stranger to wrestling with the arcane arts needed to master the oven and microwave, but let’s face it, I’m lazy. I’d much rather have some one else do the cooking for me. And for the record, I hope these “people” that tend to my culinary needs are women, because, well, the kitchen is where women belong.
Apparently my dream home has a pantry that is loaded with enough alcohol to last through another prohibition. And to be fatally serious here, that’s something I actually have thought about before. I mean, what if the entire state of North Carolina goes dry? I would but up the proverbial creek without any booze. And that frightens me. It frightens me like a fourteen year old school girl watching The Exorcist for the first time. On a much more rational note, you can’t buy alcohol in North Carolina on Sundays until after 12pm. Additionally, the ABC Stores (only places where you can buy liquor) are closed all day on Sundays. So a guy like me has needs of a full pantry of beer, wine, and whiskey to keep the alcohol gods well venerated on Sundays until after the noon is eclipsed. So it’s nice to see my dream home has me covered there.
It would be nice to have that study stocked with hardback editions of all the classic novels. Believe it or not, I’m a huge fan of literature. I mean, I do harbor dreams of becoming a professional novelist someday. I enjoy such ancient classics as the Odyssey and the Aeneid as well as much more contemporary classics including Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Breakfast of Champions. I’ve also been known to enjoy selected works from Shakespeare. Oh, go ahead and laugh at me if you want. It’s ok, I’m used to it, I am a Rex Grossman fan, remember? And also for the record, I’ve actually read Rich Dad, Poor Dad. It’s good stuff.
Now, if I can draw your attention to the piece of the blueprint provided by the website, please. Most importantly, I’d like to note the garage measured in light seconds (which I’m scientifically aware enough to know is a measure of distance, not time). As fate would have it, the garage is big enough to fit a full sized X-Wing fighter. Now, if only it was possible to find a working model to park in there…
The home theater with stadium seating (located in the bottom right corner) is a must. In fact, I wouldn’t be much of a manly man without out it. There’s nothing like watching a football game in high definition on a television screen bigger than most stadiums’ jumbotrons. Although I’m not sure I’d need a completely separate room (on the top right) to dedicate to my many sports accomplishments. But then again, who doesn’t like trophies? I mean, they’re just so shiny.
The Grand Ballroom is a nice touch. Though I have to admit, I’d need to install a fully stocked bar in the back, loaded with a full sized keg fridge and several high quality beers on tap. That way I could entertain all my friends properly. Oh, I’m sure that it might take up room that most people would have reserved for dancing, but well, I’ve never been that big on dancing. But if my guests intend to do the dancing thing, well it’s a Grand Ballroom, I’m sure there is more than enough space for them to do so. Oh, and the wall for wallflowers is a must, because, well, I’m pretty sure that’s where your supposed to put them.
So that’s my dream home. Whenever I get around to building it, I’ll be sure to let Hugh Hefner and his numerous lady friends know, so they can swing by and visit. But until then, I’ll still be here, in my one bedroom apartment, hanging out with girls who aren’t quite Playboy Playmates. I know, it’s a sad life I live. But worry for me not, I will persevere and one day, I will have the home to fulfill all my dreams.
Then again, there are certain parts about adulthood that I can actually look forward to. Yet, they are the things that I don’t currently have. A brand new Lexus would be nice. All adults are entitled to one of those, are they not? There’s also the right to stay up all night playing Metroid Prime 3 (which I still haven’t gotten around to buying just yet). But foremost among those rights of adult-ness is living on your own.
At present, I have been without a roommate for over a year and a half. And let me tell you, it feels awesome. Not that I don’t miss the old roomie, I do, he was a cool guy. There’s just a lot more freedom about living by oneself, if you know what I’m getting at. If you don’t, let me spell it out for you. When you have a roommate, it’s damn near impossible to lounge on the sofa in your underwear, eat Cheetos off your chest, and play Super Mario World. Not that I’ve tried or anything. And if my Super Nintendo controllers have an orange cheese residue on them, well, that’s entirely coincidental.
The continuing problem I’m finding with my current living arrangement is not the fact that I live alone, it’s that my apartment could use a little more class to it. Oh sure, the balcony is nice, it really is, and it gives me a good place to air out my hockey gear so it doesn’t obtain the reek of twelve separate gym lockers. But there are people that live all around me and the walls aren’t exactly soundproof. And really, that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from inviting Hugh Hefner over for a glass of warm cognac and a fine Cuban cigar. If I lived in a house, I’d totally be surrounded by Playboy Playmates every weekend. Totally.
Sadly, I don’t live in a house. And there are many reasons why having a house would be monumentally beneficial for me. For one, I like to throw parties. What can I say? I love entertaining guests. And it’s far too difficult to cut loose and have a good time when you know the ease to which it will annoy your neighbors. I have been known to throw a pretty memorable bash, if I can say so myself. I’d like to do so again, but I’m in need of better environs.
Keeping that in mind, I ran across this nifty little program on the World Wide Web. It’s amazing the things you can find on that there internets. The program has you answer a few simple questions, and after you’re done, it will “build” your dream home. Now, it’s not a complete, full detail model, but it’s a fairly engaging exercise. And personally, I found my dream house to be highly indicative of my wants and desires. Feel free to click here to take a gander at it.
The text describing my Philanthropic Mansion begins by stating that I have “people” to take care of my kitchen needs for me. Honestly, that sounds awesome. I may be no stranger to wrestling with the arcane arts needed to master the oven and microwave, but let’s face it, I’m lazy. I’d much rather have some one else do the cooking for me. And for the record, I hope these “people” that tend to my culinary needs are women, because, well, the kitchen is where women belong.
Apparently my dream home has a pantry that is loaded with enough alcohol to last through another prohibition. And to be fatally serious here, that’s something I actually have thought about before. I mean, what if the entire state of North Carolina goes dry? I would but up the proverbial creek without any booze. And that frightens me. It frightens me like a fourteen year old school girl watching The Exorcist for the first time. On a much more rational note, you can’t buy alcohol in North Carolina on Sundays until after 12pm. Additionally, the ABC Stores (only places where you can buy liquor) are closed all day on Sundays. So a guy like me has needs of a full pantry of beer, wine, and whiskey to keep the alcohol gods well venerated on Sundays until after the noon is eclipsed. So it’s nice to see my dream home has me covered there.
It would be nice to have that study stocked with hardback editions of all the classic novels. Believe it or not, I’m a huge fan of literature. I mean, I do harbor dreams of becoming a professional novelist someday. I enjoy such ancient classics as the Odyssey and the Aeneid as well as much more contemporary classics including Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Breakfast of Champions. I’ve also been known to enjoy selected works from Shakespeare. Oh, go ahead and laugh at me if you want. It’s ok, I’m used to it, I am a Rex Grossman fan, remember? And also for the record, I’ve actually read Rich Dad, Poor Dad. It’s good stuff.
Now, if I can draw your attention to the piece of the blueprint provided by the website, please. Most importantly, I’d like to note the garage measured in light seconds (which I’m scientifically aware enough to know is a measure of distance, not time). As fate would have it, the garage is big enough to fit a full sized X-Wing fighter. Now, if only it was possible to find a working model to park in there…
The home theater with stadium seating (located in the bottom right corner) is a must. In fact, I wouldn’t be much of a manly man without out it. There’s nothing like watching a football game in high definition on a television screen bigger than most stadiums’ jumbotrons. Although I’m not sure I’d need a completely separate room (on the top right) to dedicate to my many sports accomplishments. But then again, who doesn’t like trophies? I mean, they’re just so shiny.
The Grand Ballroom is a nice touch. Though I have to admit, I’d need to install a fully stocked bar in the back, loaded with a full sized keg fridge and several high quality beers on tap. That way I could entertain all my friends properly. Oh, I’m sure that it might take up room that most people would have reserved for dancing, but well, I’ve never been that big on dancing. But if my guests intend to do the dancing thing, well it’s a Grand Ballroom, I’m sure there is more than enough space for them to do so. Oh, and the wall for wallflowers is a must, because, well, I’m pretty sure that’s where your supposed to put them.
So that’s my dream home. Whenever I get around to building it, I’ll be sure to let Hugh Hefner and his numerous lady friends know, so they can swing by and visit. But until then, I’ll still be here, in my one bedroom apartment, hanging out with girls who aren’t quite Playboy Playmates. I know, it’s a sad life I live. But worry for me not, I will persevere and one day, I will have the home to fulfill all my dreams.
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