Monthly Archives: September 2012

Buy American, or my father won’t work on it.

Cars are a dicey thing.

You can baby them and also treat them like shit, depends on your habits.

But, even if you give the car nothing but TLC, it can still break down.

Such was the case with me and my car yesterday.

To be honest, I don’t shower the car with TLC, sadly my habits of vehicle maintenance are sorely lacking.

But you cannot pin the starter going out on me.

Much as you may want to.

Let me explain.

I come from a family of mechanics.

My dad is a master transmission mechanic.

My brothers and I grew up in his transmission shop.

Everyone is a fair mechanic.

Except me.

Not sure why.

I mean, you can try to pin it on extreme ADD growing up, but its a tough fit.

I can do the easy stuff, oil changes and brakes, maybe even a sloppy tune up, but that is about it.

So I counter this combination of sloppy maintenance and weak repair skills by buying american and only models my father likes.

The reason for that is not to curry favor, but to make sure he will work on it should it break down.

Lets be honest, what most repair places want to charge is a God damned crime.

So having a master mechanic in the family is a good thing.

Especially for your finances.

My morning started out fairly well.

I had some items to take into the office that were too bulky and heavy to carry the quarter mile from the parking bunker.

So I drove down.

However, stopping by Starbucks for a few moments for coffee and an email check sounded good.

It was when trying to leave and get to the office that everything went to shit.

Turn the key, nothing.


Now, I know what a dead battery sounds like.

Multiple clicks and sad sounding weakness.

And I was getting nothing.

So, I called dad.

Sounds like the starter.

I called AAA.

They insisted on sending out a very nice Armenian guy named Moe to check the battery.

It took 20 minutes longer than they said, but I am in no position to bitch here.

And this was after I told them that my mechanic had said starter.

Moe had all the latest equipment.

He had a grand total of 3 diagnostic things hooked up to the battery.

A half hour later, he smiled a gap-toothed smile at me.

“Its your starter.”

Thank you Moe.

So Moe left, he was only in a small pick up truck, and not the tow truck I originally asked for.

55 minutes later, Ceasar showed up.

Watching a gifted tow truck operator work is a serious treat.

I was parked nose in, on a hill, at an angle, on a busy street.

Ceasar had me out of their in under 5 minutes.

Did I have him tow it to his shop? The one he recommended no less than 5 times?


I took it to dad’s house.

I’m negligent, I’m not stupid.



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Posted by on September 19, 2012 in Uncategorized


Do what you gotta do.

There is a term that has become popular over the last few years and I have kind of blown it off till now.

Man cave.

The idea is that a guy has either a room in his house or at a favored bar that he considers his domain.

A place to go and typically watch sports and enjoy the company of other guys.

Drinking beer, belching, rude gestures and obscene stories are often there in abundance.

And there is a reason for this.


I have been in relationships since my mid to late 20s, and I am one of those that gets into it.

Yeah, I know. Say what you like. I do what I do.

The one side effect of being in a tight relationship is that your relationship with your friends suffers, unless you have the skill to keep all the plates in the air.

This is a skill I don’t possess.

So, for the first time in a long time, I find myself single.

Not by choice, exactly.

Story for another time.

So, to keep from brooding, I have begun filling up my time.

The UFC Gym provides some exhausting and much needed workouts, as well as a few bruises.

Ran into an old friend at the gym, and got invited to watch some football.

At the man cave.

I had forgotten.

There is a certain primal thrill to those stupid man things we do.

The dick jokes, hammering the other guys team, all of it.

And you don’t realize how much you missed it until you run into it again.

And the term “Man cave” certainly fits.

Its a primal thing.

Since its illegal to grab your spear and run out and kill things anymore, this is the next best thing.

Some women get that and some don’t.

The ones that do are quiet about it.

The ones that don’t are noisy as hell. Pretty annoying too.

These women are often single or are in a relationship, but never for too long.

And they usually have a lot of city miles, if you get my meaning.

To continue with the same analogy, you need to find an understanding woman with highway miles.

Lets face it, once you are out of your 20’s and 30’s, it is impossible to find a woman with really low mileage anyway.

So find one without ridiculously high miles that has been treated well by previous drivers.

And that one goes both ways.

Guys and girls, we all seem to travel thru life with a lot of baggage.

Some good, some bad, but everyone has baggage.

Its not hard to find someone to be with.

Its just hard to find someone whose bags match yours.

So is it better to settle and be with someone?

Or hold tight, set the bar maybe too high, and possibly be alone forever?

There is no science to it. No right or wrong. Everyone answers that one differently.

Do what you gotta do.



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Posted by on September 18, 2012 in Uncategorized


Dance, monkey, dance.

Just read something funny.

There is a serious post on Facebook by someone who posts nothing but protect life, protect the animals, blah, blah, blah.

And everyone who comments are the same types.

I have often heard them reference life as being sacred.

I agree with that, but not in the soft headed new age way.

But here is the funny part.

The latest post is, “Why are we still doing animal testing, when there are pedophiles in prison.”

And here is why its funny.

The list of comments is long and all centered around a common theme.

That pedophiles, (And most in prison, to quote one) deserve to be tortured to death.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no love for pedophiles.

In fact, I am in favor of torturing them to death.

But I don’t squeal at the mention of how cows are treated at a slaughterhouse. (What the hell did you think goes on there, dumbass?)

Or at the thought of global warming. (And if you buy that pseudo science I have some swamp land you can buy cheap.)

But enough of that.

I am currently baiting a severely soft headed acquaintance on Facebook.

She is like a brook trout, rising to the bait like she hasn’t eaten in years.

It all started with a fairly shitty comment about someone elses performing career.

Its one thing to have an opinion if asked, but when you blurt unasked for, really harsh critiques of others, I figure its time to play.

Dance, Monkey, Dance.

Sadly, I stopped being serious about a half hour ago, a lot of people miss that.

It does make for some serious fun.

People take things too serious at times.

I like to think that I was put here to help show people the error of their ways.

My vicious enjoyment of it is just a bonus.

I think it really comes down to this, just because you have an opinion, doesn’t mean you should go public with it.

Wait for it.

But if you do, do NOT act offended when someone calls you on your stupid shit.

I throw a monstrous amount of shit out there, but I am more than willing to argue about it.

I kind of view all of this as MY house.

We play by my rules here.

Which may explain why this poor little dough-head is getting so upset.

Some people don’t realize that you have to EARN the right to be believed.

Some of us will just blow you off as a little slow until them.

I view these people as overly emotional playthings to twist up as I see fit.

This is the part where I go a different route from most.

As you grow up, whenever someone was ignorant and rude, others would say, “Just ignore them”.

I don’t play that way.

You want rude? I can do rude.

And before you forget.

This is my house.



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Posted by on September 17, 2012 in Uncategorized


Who ya gonna call?

I was listening to a numerologist today that was on the phone to someone, pontificating about their life.

It seems the person on the other side of the phone had just lost their job one morning.

So she went over to her boyfriend’s house to tell him the bad news and be comforted.

She got there just in time to catch him shagging one of his neighbors.

Now if she got hit by a car that would be the trifecta of shitty days.

In situations like this, I am completely sympathetic, but I use humor.

Not so with Numerology girl.

“He’s a 2, you’re a 7, it was doomed from the start.”

The only thing worse than an I told you so friend is a new age friend touting some sort of pseudo science to say I told you so.

I don’t even know this woman. I have been in her presence for less than 5 minutes and I can’t stand her.

Numerology is bad enough, but she is what I call the “High Maintenance Woman.”

Its all there, the arrogant entitlement, the “I’m the expert” attitude, and, last by not least, her cup.

The side of her paper Starbucks cup reads like hieroglyphics.

I have no clue what she is drinking, but I can count 10 separate instructions on her cup.

She’s difficult.

I find that very annoying.

By contrast, my drink has one ingredient.


Well, hot water.

I add the Via instant coffee to it, and drink it.

This is a simple recipe, to be repeated if necessary.

I prefer things simple.

Right up until they get complicated.

Being a smartass when things get complicated is a helpful thing.

Dr. Oz agrees, so its all good.

I never found out what happened to the woman who lost her job and boyfriend in the same day.

And maybe thats a good thing.

Because other than being a sad thing, I don’t care what happens to her.

Thats not being selfish, thats called triage.

I have a select group of friends in my life that I care about.

And I am available for their problems, not everyone elses.

Yes, that makes me a little rude, but it also makes me an awesome friend.

Now, if the sad girl on the phone was a friend of mine, I would give a shit and talk to her.

I would also arrange for some cruel world types I know to go over and batter him till he shits himself as a reminder that infidelity is a sin, with the penalty taken out on his flesh.

Old Testament style.

(Please don’t riot and burn down embassy’s over that line, I didn’t even mention HIM.)

Moving on.

The true bad guy in this whole scenario is Numerology Girl.

She really is a waste of space and an entirely too complicated drink.

Not because I think Numerology is a joke, which I do, by the way.

But because her roll as friend is not to chastise the friend when she’s that low.

It to tell her what an awesome broad she is, and her former boss and boyfriend are assholes and should get some sort of disease that makes their balls fall off.

So, while Numerology Girl is amusing on occasion, however rare they may be.

I am still the one to call when the shit hits the fan.



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Posted by on September 14, 2012 in Uncategorized


Pissing off the help.

I sometimes don’t recognize when the situation goes south on me.

There is a really naive side of me that sails along like a slow child on the merry go round.

And then reality hits.

And yet, when I look back, I realize that I have that type of personality that seems to start trouble.

The art of pissing off the waitress is a subtle one.

It requires a fine hand, one trained for years.

Or it just happens.

The restaurant is a really nice one.

The occasion is a birthday dinner.

The fact that it is for a stunning 43 year piece of ass, made it even better. (Please forgive me.)

At first, I didn’t even notice that the waitress had an issue.

However, when the bread bowl is dropped from 6 inches off of the table’s surface, it is indicator that something is up.

I looked up to see the waitress glaring at me.

My mind begins asking and answering questions.

Have I ever dated this women? While it would certainly explain the animosity, she is too young and is built in the exact opposite of what I like.

Lets face it, being built like a 2×4 is not sexy, not to anyone.

How to play this?

Lets assume its a simple mistake and make her come to the party.

“Hi!” I tend to talk too loud and be way to cheerful when the shitty stuff starts, its a nervous reaction that makes people think I am enjoying it and am even more of an asshole.

“Can I get extra butter?”

To me this is simply a feeling out question. How bad is it?

The response is a sigh, an eye roll and she stomps off.

What the hell?

I the interlude while she was gone, I began to review my actions and trying to pick out what the hell I’ve done to piss her off that bad.

I find myself doing this on a regular basis.

Kind of a recurring theme with me.

And I have come to focus on the push off I gave her.

The push off is when you just sat down, and when the waitress first comes over, you tell her to give you a minute.

And maybe telling her that 4 times prior to ordering drinks is a little excessive.

But I am still kind of confused.

This is one of those restaurants that automatically adds 20% to the bill, so what in the world would she be pissed about.

Thats it! I think I nailed it.

When a waiter or waitress no longer has to worry about the whole hustling for a tip thing, two things happen.

The first thing is that when you remove the need to hustle for a tip, there is a certain amount of “I no longer give a shit” that goes on with some servers.

The other is the somewhat whiny sense of entitlement that happens.

Shit that they used to forgive and brush over in their quest for money.

Now? You are wasting their time.

Pretty much throughout the entire meal, she had this look on her face that was either annoying or disturbing.

And then my mind wandered, and I began to wonder if she really had an issue and I was being cruel.

Perhaps she has a rare form of facial Tourettes Syndrome.

Or maybe she got some botox from a doctor with a shaky hand.

Who knows?

And then I focussed more on the fact that the service blew chunks.

The fact that the meal was about 3 times what it would normally cost made the shitty service sting just that much more.




Posted by on September 13, 2012 in Uncategorized


But I don’t need a new friend.

I must have been a bad person in a previous life.

I must have been some sort of killer or evil pimp or something.

Because I am being punished.

With Leonard.

Just to recap, Leonard is an lonely old guy, about 90 or so, and seems to view me as a drinking buddy to commiserate with over coffee.


I really have little in common with someone born before the Great Depression.

However, that does not stop Leonard.

“You know, they serve free trade coffee here.”

Ah, geopolitical economics, great.

Best to play dumb.

“Do they now?” I sip my coffee and stare blankly.

Time for a Leonard style discussion about Free Trade Coffee.

Here is what I learned:

  • The US is the largest consumer of coffee, drinking about a fifth of the world coffee bean crop every year. ( I am trying to figure out how much of that fifth I am responsible for, and the answer is not pretty.)
  • Free trade means that the coffee bean buyers deal with small farms directly, not dealing with the greedy large farms that don’t pay their workers fairly. (Even a shitty paying job can feed your family, especially in a 3rd world country.)
  • Something muttered about “Eco-friendly bullshit” that I could not make out clearly, but seemed pretty negative.

I am what I like to call a “Narcissist Consumer”.

I am cool with wherever it came from, in whatever circumstances, as long as I get my coffee.

I feel the same way about my Iphone and it is pretty much made by slave labor in sweat shop conditions.

And I am ok with that.

I won’t even make the standard request to not email me, some of you insist on that cowardly bullshit.

At least have the decency to do it in the comment section of the blog.

If we’re going to rumble, I prefer a public setting.

And I know, my viewpoint is shallow and kind of “Cruel by omission.” but at least its honest.

Like emotional water off a duck’s back, I have searched my head and found no conflict.

Now, if you do, by all means, climb the barricades tomorrow with my blessing and make that change.

I’m talking to the man in the mirror.

Michael Jackson said it well, but I believe he was under indictment when he first sang that, so make of it what you will.

I have often wondered what it would be like to have that sort of a conscience.

It looks like a lot of work, and lets be honest, I have a lazy streak by nature.

I know people who do have that sort of desire and drive.

Trying to change the world types.

More power to you, I wish you all luck.

I just want my coffee hot and at a good price.

And I love my Iphone.



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Posted by on September 12, 2012 in Uncategorized


When you need a friend.

A 20 minute political conversation about Franklin D Roosevelt is enough to make anyone a little edgy.

Add to that a buttload of caffeine and you have the recipe for a hostage situation.

It seemed like just another day.

And then Leonard came into my life.

I didn’t ask for Leonard, Leonard just happened.

Like a bad case of the shits.

“You sure got some nifty electronics.”

Its a pretty harmless phrase as far as opening lines go.

But the word nifty should have tipped me off.

Leonard is not just a retiree, hell, Leonard’s son retired 10 years ago.

Do the math, the man farts dust.

Old dust at that.

And he is just mezmerized by my laptop.

Lets take a look.

The hair is white and thick.

Not all old guys go bald, some go bushy.

The hair, the ears, the eyebrows, and of course, the nose.

Everything spews bushy white hair.

And trust me on this one, bushy white nose hair is creepy shit that Stephen King hasn’t even thought of.

And he has a new book.

That he wants to share with me.


I played the basic brush off, avoiding eye contact, grunting replies and just hunkering down into my laptop.

This is the Starbucks version of falling to the ground and playing dead in the hopes that Leonard will sniff my supposed dead carcass and leave me alone.


He forges on with a determination that John Wayne would envy.

The next 5 minutes was what I call “The First Facts”:

  • He was the first president to speak on television.
  • He was the first president whose mother was allowed to vote for him.
  • He was the first president to fly in an airplane.

Then, in a masterstroke of annoying verbiage, he launched into 5 minutes of somewhat creepy shit I did not want to know about FDR:

  • His mother made him wear a dress till he was 5.
  • He was related to 11 other presidents. (Ok, maybe not creepy, but righteous conspiracy theory shit yourself stuff.)
  • He had a mistress that Eleanor Roosevelt told him never to see again, so he didn’t, not till he was on his deathbed. And his daughter helped set him up with the mistress.

And you would think he would just let it go, what with my soul having been drained out of me during the last 10 minutes.

Not so Leonard.

The knock out punch came at the end of it all, when I was just about to pack up and leave, he opened his FDR book to a page showing Eleanor Roosevelt.

I had just taken a large gulp of coffee when he informed me that Eleanor Roosevelt was a MILF. (He must have a grandson)

I managed to spit coffee about 6 feet.

Good morning Leonard.




Posted by on September 11, 2012 in Uncategorized