Broken

Sometimes you hit the road, sometimes the road hits you.

I had to take the ol' Power Ram to work the other day to pick up some cylinders. I was still 35 miles away when I was thinking about what to use to give the windshield a good cleaning when it exploded.

I was glad I had sunglasses on because the glass sprayed all over the cab. It doesn't look that impressive but it scared the hell out of me, especially since I was staring at it when it happened and am still not sure where the guilty projectile came from. It looked like this:



It made me think of a lot of things - especially time. Like, if I hadn't dropped the ice cube I was putting into my coffee mug, I would have left three seconds earlier and that chunk of asphalt would have sailed over me, harmlessly. Isn't that weird? Think of how many things I could have done three seconds faster on Tuesday morning. Shaving, showering, getting dressed, finding my phone. Waking up. Brushing my teeth. Tying my shoes. Anything. But suppose I had done any of those things three seconds slower - perhaps I would have stopped at a different light and got clobbered by a trash truck. Or maybe a bee would have come in my window and got trapped between my face and my sunglasses, stinging me in the eyeball. I bet that would've hurt. Or it could have stung me right on the lip, and I'd've been stuck in the hospital with a talking cucumber. Usta!

At any rate, I just got the windshield on my Neon replaced two weeks ago because it's had a huge crack for almost a year. So if I had to take FOD on my way to work I'm glad it was the Ram. Two windshields in two weeks. I wish I could just take the bus. Do you know how much I could read during a commute like that? I need to figure out how to use the Hemet library so I can start checking out books on disc. the library here is a joke, did you know that? I don't know why. It is the suck.

Time to make plans. Good night, all.

You're a Nary

Good evening! I was thinking again today about restroom etiquette.

Fuck, once again I've typed a sentence that I never thought would escape my fingers. But I really hate editing myself - is sort of subtracts from the experience for both of us.

So - clearly there are some unwritten rules, and I'm sure I can google them all. Just curious if anyone would read this, and even more curiouser if anyone would humor me. In the men's room, don't stand directly next to another guy unless there is no other choice. It gets a little more complex, but that's the basic rule. There's a little saying I made up for the men's room: "When the flood gates are opened, so too shall the wind be broken." You might get it. You might not. It's not all that funny, but when I first thought of it I chuckled enough to rip a fart.

Ladies, if you are reading (and I see no reason you would be), let's say there are three stalls in a restroom. You have just occupied one with the intent of making water, but the gal in the other stall beats you to it. The only sound in the room is her tinkle hitting the water in the bowl. What do you do? I thought of two possible answers: one, you flush the toilet. Two, you find the courage to send your own stream blasting. Soon I will find a voting app to make this a little more anonymous, but you know, we're all friends here. For the most part. But I digress.

I had lots of things to discuss in this post, but I couldn't figure out how they all fit together to make an interesting blog post. I ended up ripping a receipt into pieces and picking whatever was written on the piece of receipt, on which I had written different things in the corners earlier today. So now I'm going to write about... and, I've lost the receipt. Hell. This blog lacks the range of total color necessary to make it consistently interesting. Full time consideration of another endeavor might be in order.

And with that, I introduce you to Mr. Harry Chapin, a philanthropist, genius and all around decent human being which means, of course, that he was killed in a car crash on his way to a charity concert when he was only 40 years old. Because I totally ripped him off in the last paragraph.



And a must see.



I really hope that someday, soon, someone makes a really outstanding video of "The Rock." I've no doubt that it could be done well with the talent that's out there... and perhaps a little guidance from some of us die-hards. However, if you get antsy and want to hear the song, you can find it on youtube but I can't stress enough that you need to KEEP YOUR EYES CLOSED. It is a crappy compilation of pictures of rocks that takes up too much attention but isn't worth it. So here's a picture of a cactus flower I took yesterday.

Wherever Particular People Gather

I got an email about roundtrip flights from San Diego to Dublin for $459. Who's in? Anyone have a friend over there we can stay with for a few days? Guinness is on me. And hopefully in me.

I was so excited on Monday afternoon - there was a lot of stuff I wanted to get done and for some reason I was excited about all of it. I think it was laundry and cleaning out my car, and getting rid of some more clothes. The excitement wore off pretty quick, for some reason, so I started watching the first season of Burn Notice instead. Likes.

Oh, one question... what kind of books do you all go for when you pick something nonfiction? Some of you read that more than anything else, but I never have. I've been getting kind of jazzed about using my brain, which has been just sort of standing around and helping me keep my balance for a while, and I keep thinking of all these things I want to read that don't involve acid or time travel. I'm torn between reading about something current and learning about something I never really retained in history class. Any suggestions? Biographies and autobiographies tend to bore the hell out of me, so let's stay away from those for now. I heard about a book called Wolf Totem that I might try, or maybe something about some period of the Roman empire...

I just started reading Thomas More's Utopia and I'm on page 48... of the introduction. So it might be a while.

I don't have any videos screaming at me to be posted, or funny stories or anything like that, so I'll put up a piece of my drunken, late night whinery from about a decade ago. Enjoy!


Alone beside you
Closeness and distance unrelated
You, looking not into my eyes but past them
At what? Maybe it exists, maybe you just want it to
Perhaps I should stop trying to conform to it or
Perhaps it is conforming to me
Perhaps I will never untwist enough for the seed to take root
In this barren rocky region
Where nothing grows, only stagnates
Withers and dies
But is revived temporarily
Only to begin dying again
When I am alone beside you

Every Now And Then I Get A Little Bit Nervous That The Best Of All The Years Have Gone By

I'm going to postpone my silly music blog and say only this.

In highschool, you are not obligated to share the truth with your peers. You must prove that you are above them. You need to show the admissions department at the colleges of your choice that you are a more desirable student than the others with whom you graduated. In life, it's different. When you discover the truth, you are obligated to share it with as many as you can, lest they lead pointless lives because you were selfish.

For this reason, there will be no peace until we are all one religion, or we are all no religion.

This is the only belief I have that every one of you must agree with, unless you are absolutely without conviction, or are one hundred percent selfish.

Love always,
Matt

He Was A Shooting Star

To Whom it May Concern:

I am writing to you regarding the wrappers of Tootsie Roll Industries’ “Tootsie Roll Pop.” I have been enjoying this confection for many years now, and prefer it to the standard “Tootsie Roll.” The varied flavors of lollipop around the Tootsie Roll center add an undeniably delicious flavor to the traditional Tootsie Roll candy.

My question refers to the wrapper of the Tootsie Roll Pop. I have been saving the wrappers that contain the “Indian Shooting Star,” an individual clothed in Native American garb and wielding a bow and arrow, which is aimed at a star. I have heard for years that wrappers featuring this depiction are more valuable than other wrappers in that they can be traded for merchandise, or another Tootsie Roll Pop. I have heard different accounts of their actual value, but these seem to be the most common. What I am wondering is, how can I trade in my wrappers for whatever it is they can supposedly be traded for? I have been trying to find some sort of catalog that outlines the process, but have met with no success. I have a Betty Crocker catalog which I received in exchange for General Mills box tops, and Kool-Aid points can be used to obtain Kool-Aid merchandise that is readily available right on the side of the package.

I would appreciate information on how I can get my share of whatever it is I have coming to me. I currently have 14,355 wrappers with the “Indian Shooting Star” and 1,611 with part of the “Indian Shooting Star,” which may not be worth as much as those with the entire picture. Please get back to me as soon as possible regarding this issue, as I am planning on moving to a smaller apartment where I will not have space for my shoeboxes full of Tootsie Roll Pop wrappers.


Sincerely,

Matt

Shopping Should Be Fun

I'm about to write a blog about shopping. That's weird.

It all started about 6 months ago, when I bought a suit, went to a wedding and enjoyed both. It wasn't long ago that wearing a tie would almost make me sick. Then a few months later I looked in my closet and realized I hated about half a dozen shirts that I regularly wore to work. I sold them at a yard sale for a quarter each and decided to go for quality over quantity, which is not something that comes easily to me. Once for my class reunion I spent sixty bucks on a shirt, which I hadn't done before or since. I usually go to Target and get 2 shirts and 2 pairs of pants for that money. So now I'm like, "I have terrible taste, and I end up getting stuff that I don't like. And I'm spending less, so I get MORE of it." That's just plain stupid.

Part of the problem is that I hate trying on clothes. For years I've bought pants that may or may not fit properly because no two brands are cut the same, so a 30 length is fine on some but highwater on others. No big deal - I just wear taller boots with those ones. Then the next time I buy 32s. And they're way too long. I think I wear a 31 inch inseam, but I'd have to get all my pants tailored if I want that length and I'm not to that point yet. Also size 13 of some boots is too big, but 12 is too small and most brands under $200 don't make twelve-and-a-half. Size large shirts are often too small but extra large is like a tent. Where did I get these fucked up proportions? I would whine about my right eye being good and my left eye not so much, but I think that's kind of normal. But I digress.

As my blue jeans wear out, or I just get tired of them being too short or too long, I'm getting rid of them but trying not to replace them. I did break down and try on some clothes a few weeks ago, and was able to score one good pair of pants out of four I tried on. No luck on the shirts. They looked good on the rack but not on me and I realized that trying this shit on was the way I'd have to do it from now on. The problem is that while I have the desire to wear nicer things, I don't have the ability to recognize them. I tried on a few things which seemed trendy and realized I can't even come close to pulling that crap off. I guess at 30 I need to focus on dressing like a man instead of a college student or a hick. That sounds a little depressing, but also kind of refreshing. We'll see how this ends up. Where does a guy turn for fashion advice when GQ is way out of his budget? And did I just write "where does a guy turn for fashion advice?" Son of a bitch. I should have got drunk for this one, it would have been way funnier. And you know what's even funnier? I went to open a bottle of wine just now, and all that's left is some white zinfandel that's been in the fridge for at least 3 years. So I went to have a beer instead, but there's only one left and it's not cold. So you know what I'm drinking? This must be the second full glass of white zin I've ever had in my life. It doesn't really taste like wine. And it's not really white.

So enough about shopping and fruity wines - you guys should hear what I've been listening to during my commute for the last two weeks! And at home, and at work... my car sounds like Night at the fucking Roxbury for two hours a day. Yep - 90s dance music. We're talking Real McCoy, Londonbeat, Technotronic, La Bouche, Snap, Reel 2 Real, Ace of Base and - you guessed it - Haddaway.



I'd better take it easy or I'm going to be bumping the Cascada in my Neon. A couple of mornings ago I turned on the radio and listened to regular music for a while - it was weird. Like it had been ten years since I'd heard normal rock and roll, but it was really only a few weeks. It was that morning that I heard this song, which I really liked. It isn't new, but I hadn't heard of her before so I picked up the album and it's really good. Here's the song that got me, from the album "The Story."



I think she's super-duper.

Good evening then, think I'll have another glass and put this poor bottle out of its misery.

I'll Have What the Gentleman On the Floor Is Having

It's been so long since I actually got off work on time that I forgot what a shitty undertaking it is to get on the freeway at 5:00. What a mess. It gave me a chance to realize how attached I've gotten to my little egg-shaped Neon. Besides the outstanding gas mileage, it has a great stock sound system. It blows my truck's stereo out of the water, even with the Power Ram's new Dynamat-mounted speakers in the doors. The noise in the cab is so outrageously loud it would take a lot of watts and insulation to make it any good, I guess. I only mention this stuff because of some of the weird music I have been listening to of late. Don't even ask. It makes no sense.

To business. Fourteen days ago, I was out of the country for the first time in twenty-five years. And I'm not even completely sure I actually crossed the border that time, although I did get a giant sombrero out of the deal. But I digress. It was an abslutely incredible cruise of the eastern Caribbean, and I've been trying to figure out how to share it with all of you in an efficient yet engaging manner. Here goes.

Landed in Fort Lauderdale and took a shuttle that honked a lot but wasn't aggressive. Shared the van with three middle-aged couples going on a different cruise. They envied me but only because I lied. Got to Haddon Hall in South Beach (water so clear you could see to the bottom - hundred-thousand-dollar cars, everybody's got 'em) where all the girls had put their clothes back on because of the cold. Balls. Smoked some hand-rolled cigars with no drugs, drank some rum, drank some beer, watched a kid get the shivers as he got hit on by guys in short-shorts and halter tops. Spent ninety dollars at a bar called Lost Weekend where, unsurprisingly, the beautiful bartenders had never heard of the movie. Wanted to buy a t-shirt but didn't. Bought drinks for an Adult Entertainer who bailed unexpectedly, which is a good thing. Fell asleep around four and missed our checkout time. Went to the dock and saw the boat. It looked like this:



Boarded easily with a birth certificate so real it looked fake. Put a liter of scotch and a six pack-of beer through the metal detector in my suitcase. Went to bed wondering how long it would be before I was sleeping on the balcony. Woke up and played some trivia, didn't win. Looked at pictures, read some Thompson, drank some scotch and played more trivia. Realized I forgot my good pants and tried to get a girl with a hook for a hand to match a tie to my business-casual getup. Looked like a Jack-O-Lantern. Drank some scotch, drank some rum, drank some wine. Went on a 6-hour blackout that started like this:



Got up and went outside to see a pirate ship that was maneuvering to board. It looked like this:



Was pretty out of it by then but am pretty sure we repelled them with small arms fire. Mine not included, which I had left behind thinking it would be discovered by the metal detector. Went snorkeling, kissed a stingray, burned my back to a deep and beautiful red. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of '99, wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it." Had a margarita at Margaritaville, had 6 vodka collinses at the bar. Bought a necklace. Played some trivia. Held an impromptu karaoke session on the stern, deck 9. Ate some free pizza, drank some Guinness, slept for three hours and got off the boat on Roatan. Took some pictures, bought some more necklaces, almost died in a van and rode some ziplines. Saw some guys get teabagged by a monkey. Tipped the monkey. Went to a private beach called Fantasy Island, wondered how many times the driver had heard jokes about "De plane, boss, de plane." Made a joke about De Plane. Floated on my back trying to burn my stomach. Failed. Went to buy a bucket of beer, bought a crate of beer instead. Drank some tasty beer. It looked like this:



Don't know what the drinking age was on Roatan but everyone came back on the gaier side of sobriety. Took our time getting ready and had to race through town to make the last tender back to the ship. It was loud as hell and we thought the others in the van were going to turn on us. It looked like this:



Ate some shrimp cocktail, ate some escargot, drank some Long Islands, drank some rum and wished I had more scotch. Closed the piano bar for the fourth straight night. Nearly got thrown out of the disco because somebody insisted on smoking his fucking cee-gar. Blacked out. Ate some pizza, drank some Boddington's, drank some whiskey sours, threw a flashlight off the balcony just to watch it sink. Hoped the power didn't go out since my flashlight was in the ocean. Woke up on a bus in Belize. Reset my autopilot which doesn't get used much but is still reliable, like a Dodge or a fat girl. Drank some cashew wine, drank some Crown, thought about asking the tour guide for pot. Don't smoke myself but he obviously had good stuff. Hiked in the jungle, floated down the river, didn't get batshit on me and was glad. Kissed a pig while no one was looking, gave it the flu. Ate some prime rib, drank some wine, drank some beer, drank some wine, drank some rum, played some bingo, wished I was young again, remembered I was, drank some rum, called the bank to get my debit card reactivated. Danced with the girl at the desk while I was on hold, because we were both missing the big show down the hall. Woke up early the next day for cartoon theme song trivia, won first place in overtime. Thanked FSM that I knew the Mighty Mouse theme song and the composer of The Pink Panther. Won a 24K gold plastic piece of ship. It looked like this:



It's sort of a blur after this. We went to Cozumel, I bought a bunch of shit, went to Paradise Beach and bought all the the drink specials with funny names. Did the backstroke out to the giant trampolines with my drink balanced on my rock-hard abs. Drank some more beer and got lost in a Mexican superstore. Played a game show where I guessed that a Big Mac might have weighed more than an average American female breast but in my defense I thought it was a trick question. Eliminated early, c'est la vie. Finished the last 36 hours in expected fashion, got off the boat and didn't get me land legs back fer nearly a week. Can't wait till next time.

M