Dared

All right, ladies and gentlemen. I have been officially "dared" to write a nice piece about everyone's favorite photographer: Meridita. Now, I don't really now how much writing in this space constitutes "two pages," but here goes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So the question on the table is why does Ms. Meridita truly "rock." Well, this does not have a simple answer. Let's begin at the beginning.
Meridita: The Photographer
As anyone who has seen her work (and if you haven't, dear reader, I highly recommend you go and check out her work) can tell that she has a knack for it. I believe it was Ansel Adams (though I have been known to be wrong) that said, "A great photographer sees the world not only with his camera, but also with his heart and his soul." I look at the pictures that Meridita takes, and I can see the person behind the camera. Look at her photos of Minneapolis as the sun is setting. You can see that world is a palette.
When she turns the camera onto human subjects, her eye still has a clarity. Look at her self portrait in the broken window. The fact that her head is hidden is not only to hide her identity to the viewer but also shows a keen insight into humanity. The fracturing of our minds into different idenities (with family, friends, etc.) is seen in that photo. Some of her other photos with people (such as her July 3rd party) show the photographer's (that would be her) insight into human emotion, be it love, happiness, or just drunken giddiness. I love photography, but it's clear to me that Meri has a deeper, spiritual connection with it. Almost as if the photographs allow her to understand the world. And that is the true mark of a creative genius.
Meridita: the Person
Meri is a very caring person. As I mentioned before, I was recently struck (or hit) by a car. Now it was nothing serious (just some soreness), but Meri at least cared about what happened. She even gave me the "Sad Puppy Face." How nice is that? But beyond just me, dear reader, one can see that she generally cares about the world. You want proof? Look at the comments she leaves on people's blogs. Look at her own blog. While she may be jealous that her new roommate received roses, she has never really complained about her lovelife, the world around her, or anything like that. If you look at people like myself or Worm, we point out the world's foibles. She, however, only looks at the things that make the world great. A constant optimist (or so it seems) which makes reading her a positive experience (unlike me, as one student told me, because I'm so depressing). I would venture to guess that Meri would give a dollar to the guy on the street. I would also venture to guess that she's the kind of girl who would give a guy five cents if he was short for coffee. She's even kind to old people (something that so many people in this world aren't). She went out to the orchestra hall with a man much older than her. I'm told it wasn't a date, so she was being nice.
Ah, but beyond humans, Meri is quite affectionate with her pets. No doubt you've heard about the Doodle Poodle and the Kitty Companion? Meridita loves her pets, and she takes great care of them. Many people own pets, but they don't really get to know them (for lack of a better term). Meri knows her pets. She knows what they'll do and why. Do you know why your cat grabs on to you arm and licks? Is it love, or something else? She knows.
I am very glad that Ms. Meri reads my blog, because it means that I have had a person with keen insight viewing my opinions and thoughts and giving me her two-cents.
Then again what do I know? I'm just a guy who was dared to give his opinion. I could be wrong.
Oh, and in the future: Don't dare me to do anything.

To Sleep, Perchance...to Dream

My insomnia has come back with a vengance. Beyond the fact that I was incredibly sore last night (more on that later), the wheels in my head were spinning very fast and were quite loud.
There's something absolutely terrible about being awake in the dark. Now, I love that stretch from two to six where the world is dead, but only when I want to be out in it. When I want to sleep, and I can't, that's a whole different ballgame.
So as I lay there last night, I couldn't stop thinking about the most random things. First, however, you may want to know why I was sore (or maybe you don't care). Yesterday, I played tennis with a guy who is a lobbyist. It was very interesting talking to him about his work. It was also embarrassing because the guy beat up on me. I had no footing and no feel for my shots. At one point, I slipped and my ankle was not pleased. Anyway, it reminded me of the lawyers I used to work with on the Tobacco trials. That was one aspect that kept me up last night. I thought alot about the fact that it had been some time since I left that job...and I didn't miss it. At the same time, I didn't really miss the people I worked with either. Yet, I wondered why that wasn't a bad thing.
Now, the other thing that kept me up was getting hit by a car. That's right, I got hit. It wasn't super serious, but my right leg, especially my hip, is really sore. As I strolled (ok hobbled) across the Hwy. 100 Northwest Athletic Club parking lot, I noticed a guy on his cell phone getting in his car. I should have thought about that, but I didn't. I was thinking about my ankle, and my game, and the world. My car was two down from Senor Cellphone, so I walked on the same side. Still on his phone, not paying attention, and starting to back up, Cellphone dude hit his gas to accelerate back and hit me with the corner of his car. This is essentially what went through my brain in the seconds it took for him to hit me and me to go down.
Wow, that was bad. You suck. Work on the backhand. It's amazing what people will hire lobbyists for. What the hell is that? (At this point, the left side of a Audi Quattro hits my right side.) Ah jiminy! Don't fall into the other car. Crap, here comes the ground.
What really angered me, was the response I got from Cellphone guy. He stops, open the door, goes to the back of the car, looks at the corner, then at me, and says, "Are you ok? (I nod yes, tough my hip hurts) Did you damage the paint?"
Ok. not, "Can I help you up? Can I do anything?" Nope. Did I damage the paint. My first thought was, "Get out the tennis racket and hit the car HARD!" I didn't do it. I should have, but I was kinda shocked on two levels: This guy's idiocy and this guy HITTING ME WITH HIS CAR!
Sigh.

The other thing that was utterly fascinating (considering I couldn't sleep) was seeing Jesse Ventura on The Big Idea With Donny Deutsch. This was a repeat as he had been on Thursday night, but a few things struck me about the former governor of this state:
1. He is looking more and more like a retired pirate. All he needs now is an eyepatch, a peg leg, and to talk with "Arghs," and "Ayes". Seriously. He didn't have the hat on, so his totally bald top was shining in the light.
2. He shakes ALOT. I don't know if he's sick, but man, his head was almost like a bobble-head. He would shake like a snake preparing to strike. It was very strange.
(Side note: I think Tom Arnold is on drugs. He exhibits all the signs, and he CANNOT sit still for a second on that Damn Sports show).
3. (And most odd) A great deal of what Ventura had to say made sense. That's right. You heard me. He made sense. He talked about the failure of governments, people, the left and the right, etc. He talked about how people use God as a shield instead of answering the tough questions. He talked about how several members of the government support the War in Iraq "for freedom," but then limit those same freedoms in this country. It was kinda cool. Sure, part of it was that I was (and am) tired, but it showed that he at least understands politics better than alot of people.
When you can't sleep, you look to make yourself busy. You try to tire yourself out. Maybe it's by reading (which usually works for my wife). Maybe it's writing or correcting papers (which I don't recommend doing when tired. You miss MANY things). For me, it's different things. It's watching old movies to feel comfortable. It's reading Shakespeare to rememorize the sillioquies. Most importantly, however, when I can't sleep, I think about what's come before me. I think about students I've worked with and wonder if they are ok. I think about what I've been through, where I've come from, and where I hope go. I think about the next generation after me and whether or not they'll have a world to enjoy.
Then again, what do I know? I'm the guy quoting Hamlet to his cats at 3 in the morning. I could be wrong.

Ramblings for the Evening (9/29/05)

Wow, I'm tired...and I'm feeling a little bit snarky. It's just one of those days, so forgive the tone of tonight's Ramblings. So, without further ado: GET TO THE CHOPPER!
Leo Sternbach Died:
"Who," you ask? I've never heard of this man. Fair enough. You may not have heard of the man, but you know his invention: Valium. Leo Sternbach was the inventor of Valium. He died in his home at the age of 97. Here's my question: The man was sick. He was in pain. Do you think they fed him a bottle of his own invention to "ease his pain"? Or do you think this is another Atkins situation? What am I talking about? Well, Dr. Atkins may have died from a heart attack, not "the fall" down those steps. What if Sternbach was the same way? Perhaps he just decided that all of his shuffleboard buddies were dead, so he took a bunch of the pills to end it all. Maybe I'm just a little cynical.
No Sex For YOU!:
This is both hysterical and slightly worrisome. The law can now decide whether or not sex is ok? Beyond just banning sex for this young woman, there are other problems. First of all: How the hell are they going to monitor this? I've heard of ankle bracelets...do they place something like that on the genitalia and it sounds an alarm? Instead of a Prince Albert (look it up if you don't know), you get a Big Brother.
However, the bigger problem is the desire for "naughty sex". The more you can't have something, the more you want it and find ways to get it. You want to go to a bar? You get the ID. You want to smoke up? You find ways to hide it. You want to have sex in your parents house even though the law says no? You'll find a way. Everyone does.
What's next? No gum chewing! You can't pet the dog more than 3 times! If you break parole, you can't watch the sunrise!
Look, I applaud this judge for thinking outside the box (it really is great), but there's creative, and there's plain crazy.
Kate Moss in Rehab:
Word on the street is that she's so thin from snorting the coke that she can actually glide under doors without opening. Fellow rehabers are now placing towels in the cracks to keep her out.
The BEST Show on TV YOU Aren't Watching:
I'm sorry, but it's true. Arrested Development is one of the most clever shows ever written, but people are now afraid of smart humor. You want proof? More people watch According to Jim. It's a cookie-cutter sitcom, but more people watch it. AD has smart humor, it repeats certain jokes, but not to death (for example, whenever the character Gob is scheming, the song "The Final Countdown" plays in some way). The show stays in reality from week to week. One character had his hand bit off by a runaway seal, and he still has a hook to this day. Heck, there's a new character coming on called Bob Loblaw (say it quickly).
Give it a shot, folks. It's really quite brilliant.
and finally....
Colleges:
Oh students. You're all so worried about colleges. Look, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: You DO NOT NEED TO PANIC! Think about Douglas Adams, kids. The first rule is "Don't Panic!" So you're not ranked #1 in your class. Big deal. That doesn't mean that the University of Minnesota is going to pass you over. You know how you don't get into college? You don't apply. That's really it. If there's a college you really want, but you don't get in on your first try, then go somewhere else, work your ass off, and then transfer. My sister really wanted to go to Columbia. She didn't get in. She got into Barnard. Her first year, she went hardcore and got a 4.0. Then she transfered to Columbia. Long story short (too late), she got her degree at Columbia.
I know that it looks bleak sometimes, but remember, everyone is scared. Hell, I was scared when I was a Senior. I thought, "Oh man. No one's going to accept me...I'll never make it...I'm dumb...blah, blah, blah."
Everytime you think you won't make it, do this:
1. Stop
2. Take a deep breath and hold it
3. Count to 3
4. Let it out
5. Now, realize that your life isn't decided by the college you go to. You have so much more time ahead, so relax.
Of course what do I know? I was the guy who offered to buy drinks for my interviewers. I could be wrong.

Beauty and the Beast

Nature is both amazingly beautiful and frighteningly powerful. She's that girl in high school of which you were afraid (or boy, your choice). Very good looking, but will quickly turn on you if you aren't ready.
Thanks to Jibbers for the photo.

The Wheels on the Bus Go....

Hmm. It seems that my last few posts have been a little...angry. It also seems that now that I've asked for comments and emails, you've all gone quiet. Sheesh. Did I scare you all away or something? Am I blogsaken?
Well, tonight, I will try to be more...poignant. I present:
The Wheels on the Bus
I don't know about you, but there are times, especially when I am uncomfortable, that I just say or think the wrong thing. I know it happens to my wife too and a few others I know. It's strange. What do I mean? Well, here's an example:
A few months back, My wife and I were visiting my parents, and I was outside cleaning up around the house (it was Spring, and the broken branches and such needed to be cleared away). I stepped on what I thought was a solid grate, but it gave away. I fell, but managed to catch myself on the edge. So there I am dangling 15 feet in the air over a dark hole, and all I can do is laugh. My wife, who had been watching me, did the same thing. She didn't move. She laughed. My mother, also outside, was horrified. Why the hell were we laughing? I was for certain going to fall and break something. How is that funny? However, she couldn't move. Now, I got lucky. There was a small chunk of concrete sticking out, and I could push off of it. Thus, I didn't fall. But there are other times when I have felt (or been told) my actions were inappropriate.
When I was in college, my father suffered a heart attack and had to have a triple bypass. That's serious surgery. My entire family returned to New York over Spring Break to be with him. After his surgery, he lay in a hospital bed to recuperate. Now, they told us this part was the "wait and see" part (meaning this is the part where we wait and see if he survives). All I could think about was the song, "The Worms Crawl In." Everyone knows that song.
The worms crawl in
the worms crawl out
they eat your nose
they eat your hat
they crawl in skinny
and crawl out fat.
That just kept running in my head, and suddenly, unbeknownst to me, I was humming it aloud. My mother caught (mothers do that, you know) and quickly kicked my shin. Everytime I think back on my father's heart attack, that's the first thing that shoots into my head. Is it a defense mechanism? People talk about "laughing in the face of danger!" Is that what I did when I almost fell?
As I said, it's not just me. I used to date a girl who was raped. When we finally became intimate enough (or close enough) to talk about it, she told me the details. The thing that stuck in my mind more than anything else (and again, I don't know why) was that while she was being violated, the song "The Wheels on the Bus..." kept going through her head. She didn't know why. Yet, her experience jived with mine, in a sense. It was a simple kids song, as it were, that popped in her head. Guess what I think about whenever I hear that song now.
A buddy of mine told me that whenever he goes to the dentist and is being worked on, he thinks about the song "Whip It (Devo)". He has no clue why, but the second he hears the polisher, the opening notes pop into his head, and the song plays over and over until he's finished.
Another friend of mine is afraid of heights. He has to hum or sing "Habanera" from Carmen whenever he's on a ladder or even just afraid. Now, I love Carmen but hearing that song over and over again when you're working on lights can be...grating. Still, it kept his head in the game, which I what I needed when I worked with him.
As for me, I no longer have just one song. When I feel the silence pushing in on me (usually when I can start hearing the ringing in my own ears) multiple songs push into my head. Maybe it's a song by Moby, or maybe Mahler, or maybe I start hearing songs from the production of Cabaret I worked on. Honestly, it varys. There are, however, a few things that do not ever pop into my head. Hymns, for one, because I don't really know any.
Maybe I'm crazy. I don't know. Still, the heart and mind will do anything to protect each other. Perhaps the brain brings up these songs because we love them. A woman (or man) being violated brings up a memory of a happier time, and, as to paraphrase Shakespeare, music is emotion shared with a crowd. It is the physical manifestation of our feelings. I agree.
Then again, what do I know? I'm the guy at the doctor singing "Moon River" during my prostate exam. I could be wrong.

Friends in High Places

(9/26/05) 6:44 p.m. (CBS) — CBS News correspondent Gloria Borger reports that Michael Brown, who recently resigned as the head of the FEMA, has been rehired by the agency as a consultant to evaluate its response following Hurricane Katrina.

Ok, I really don't like to get political (which is actually the subject of a letter we'll be talking about next week), but this one caught my eye, and I just couldn't let this go.
Obviously, it pays to have friends in high places. Seriously. A former Arabian horse man (fired) who blew the response to the hurricane is back to evaluate its reponse. Huh? That's insane, folks. Imagine an operation is screwed up, and the patient dies. The doctors and nurses involved have the blame put on them, and the lead doctor resigns saying, "I made mistakes, sorry." Now, the hospital brings that doctor back and says, "We want to know where we went wrong. We would like you to come back as a consultant and tell us where the operation went well...and where mistakes were made."
Folks, there's no way that doctor, nor Mike Brown, can actually do that job objectively. He was INVOLVED in the mistakes. What's he going to say? "Well, I find that the National Guard worked really hard at evacuating survivors, but my indecisions kind of hampered everything."
Hell, he's already said that it wasn't him, it was all the local goverment. In fact, he, "told the president 'this is going to be bad one,' before the storm hit."
Seriously, this situation shows it pays to have friends in high places. Seriously, doesn't Bush know anyone else who is more qualified for this? Ask Jeb if necessary. Brown had no qualifications for the job, but now he's back at FEMA. You think the people of New Orleans are happy to hear that?
Brown isn't the only one, however. Dennis Kozlowski, the former Tyco schmuck (and I can't be objective about him, because he stole millions and showed no remorse for it) was told that a few companies want to hire him when he gets out. What? This man committed some serious ethical violations of business...and he can have another job doing the same thing? What happens if he does it again? "We didn't see it coming."
If you're friends with a person in a high place (a mayor, a political figure, etc.) more often than not, you'll have a bone thrown your way when you're in trouble.
Let me make something EXTREMELY CLEAR to anyone who reads this: I am not sitting here and attacking Republicans/Conservatives. I understand that the same thing happens with Democrats/Liberals too (Yes, I remember Marc Rich), but bringing Brown in to look over FEMA when he was part of the screw-up is insane. If he's just answering questions about what he did, that's one thing, but if he's supposed to pass judgement on where the agency screwed up, then he better be on that list.
Then again what do I know? I'm the guy who said that Kennedy needed fewer agents watching him, watched him get shot, was fired, and then was brought back in to figure out where we went wrong. I could be wrong.

Introducing....

A new segment here on Ironic Teachings: Mail Mondays.
We (and by we, I do, in fact mean just me) get interesting mail and comments here at the old blog. I decided that I would share some of those comments or thoughts with you, my dear readers. First, however, some business. I would like to point out that I have a new link under my student section. Many of my readers (as well as myself) are fans of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and other Adams novels. Well, there is a true to life guide, and I am inviting anyone to check it out. It's quite...interesting. So, let's get to the mail.
1. This particular message was left by local celebrity (and self-proclaimed, "D-Lister") Jason DeRusha. I made the comment that I felt important because he had read my blog. Well, he responded (and if you don't believe me, click here):
1. You guys think I'm a local celeb? D-list at best.
2. You guys think I have an intern? I wish.
3. It really is me. Your blog is right above mine on the MNSpeak.com aggregator. I consider us neighbors. I like IT!
Now, Mr. DeRusha may not think highly of himself, but we here at Ironic Teachings think he's great (and not just because we're neighbors on MN Speak's Aggregator AND Slanderous Minneapolis). All we ask, Mr. DeRusha....Can you get Shelby to comment as well? Just kidding. Keep up the good work and thanks for checking us out.
2. This e-mail came from a rather angry Minnesotan. I'm used to it, but my intern (Evil Cat) was quite shocked and was so angry, he ate a bird...seriously.
Dear Ass,
Why don't you go back to New York transplant. We don't want you here.
Signed,
A Fan (I'm using a pseudonym in order to protect anonymity. I'm nice that way.)
Dear Fan,
Once upon a time, the human race had this wonderful gift given to it. It was called humor. Humor allowed us to laugh at things that we knew couldn't be true (or even things that could be true). We knew that people who used humor (often called humorists, or humourists to the Brits) were, in fact, either kidding, or pointing out life's foibles (a real word, look it up). Unfortunately, something has happened to humor: Modern society took it out into the back alley, raped it, and then beat it to death with a lead pipe. Seriously! If people were that thin-skinned, would George W. Bush ever go out in public? Would Clinton? Now, as to your "transplant" comment: I'm sorry that the city I am from is the honest to God center of this planet and that Minnesota is really associated with choking football teams and Fargo, but shouldn't you be glad that people are moving here? We help the economy. Yes, I did previously write about the bad aspects of Minnesota, but I also wrote about the good. Get over it. You live in a cold state, but you have such thin skin. Sheesh. You would think with the Vikings choking so often that you would be used to teasing. (At least from Packers fans, right?)
3. This lovely e-mail comes from a guy I went to high school with. I honestly have tried to keep a low profile, but he found me after reading my comments in USA Today. He then managed to track down my blog. This email came to me from him.
Hey Leab,
Damn it's been a long time. How've you been? I'm good...(He goes on to explain what he's been doing with his life, etc.) I saw that you wrote a piece in USA Today. Good for you! You're wrong, but good for you. People don't want to go to the movies anymore. There is no shared pathos, because we cannot get into modern films. Even Christians couldn't really get into The Passion of the Christ because of audiences, complaints, and a new "sensitivity" to violence. DVDs are better. Get with the future! We all want to be the guys on MST3K (Mystery Science Theatre 3000, for the uninitiated) who make up jokes when the film is bad and make comments about what makes the film good. Nothing more. Nothing less. At the same time, Hollywood gives us nothing we care about anymore. How do I know this? I work for them. (He goes on to explain that he is a screenwriter, but again...anonymity. Then he finishes his email.)
Dear Old Buddy,
Sorry, but you're wrong. There still is a pathos in the theatre. We have a shared connection. We laugh together because we are all in the moment with each other. No one turns and says, "What the hell are you laughing at?" (In a comedy.) Yes, DVDs are easier, because you can stop them for bathroom breaks or food, but you lose the connection of the darkened theatre. Most houses do not have that top of the line home theatre setup that draws you in to the world. You always know you're in your home. If I had seen Crash for the first time in my home, I don't know that I would have had the same experience as I did in the theatre (or theater for most Americans). Besides, years of theatre going hasn't stopped most people from talking during the movie. Happens all the time now.

Thanks for joining me for the first edition of Mail Mondays. If you want to join in, either leave a comment anytime (preferably where I'll see it) or email me at ironicteachings@hotmail.com.
Have a good night folks.

Ramblings for the Evening (9/25/05)

Boiler plate warning: If you don't know what I mean...you're new here.
Wow, so this is what light looks like. Yes, I spent the last few days feeling like our founding fathers...just not as important. So let's get to the ramblings: DROP IT LIKE IT'S HOT!
Life without Power: Other than the fact that I was giving out batteries and lending out flashlights...and dealing with annoying Xcel people (I will NOT forgive you!), it was quite peaceful. I used one of those flashlights that you can wear on your head to read. One of the things that I found the most interesting was re-reading Calvin and Hobbes. I used to read the fantastic comic when I was a kid in the 80s (that's right, I was still a kid in the 80s). I found it very funny then, but as I re-read it now, I realized that there were a lot of jokes that I did not get as a kid. Calvin talks about "paradigms", "human nature", and more. How could a kid understand some of these jokes? I don't think my middle school talked about hegemony. Did any of yours? Yet, Calvin is discussing hegemony in one panel. So, on a hunch, I looked back over some of the other cartoons I used to read. Bloom County was a given. If you didn't know who Gary Hart was, then you lose out on a few jokes. It was overly political. However, there were others that were the same way. Baby Blues is cute, but it's funnier to people who have gone through the whole baby thing (or so I am told). Then again, I still don't get 9 Chickweed Lane. Seriously. Anybody get it?
Other than the reading, being powerless gave me a chance to catch up on my painting. Granted, when the sun went down it became really hard, but the flashlights helped.
What the hell are you selling?:
Ok, the Honda Civic Hybrid ad is about something that helps the Earth, and that's great, but the commercial honestly looks like an ad exec walked into a room and said, "Wow, I just dropped acid, and the world...is so...CLEAR!" Then he or she dreamed up an ad where the people talk in trippy images. It seems to be happening everywhere now. Nissan has an ad where the car looks like it's in a funhouse mirror. And, if it's not looking drug induced, then it's totally about sex. Granted, I don't mind the commercials, but it's just odd. Look at the Tag commercials. You wonder why so many young boys think that tapping that older woman is cool? Look at the commercial where the kid's girlfriend's mom hits on him. Or the body soap commerical where the girls pole dance. Think that tells precocious young minds something?
Hey Kids! It's Time to Talk about the Fuzz and the Sock:

Modern psychologists are now saying that it is ok for kids to believe in people like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. It allows the imagination to soar. The same thing can be said for The Muppets. Instead of telling kids, "No, Kermit isn't real. He is, in fact, a sock with fabric and ping-pong ball eyes," parents are now encouraged to let the kids believe they could meet Kermit. Now, that being said, people still need to know what's real and not real. So the question becomes: (and I know I'm getting away from the stated topic) how do you define what is real?
Kermit is real in the sense that the puppet (and he is a puppet, folks) exists. However, there truly is a hand in there controlling him. So, if you're having a tough time explaining to your kids or friends about puppets and such. Well, here's a cartoon to help explain it.
and finally...
Manners, people, Manners:
Sigh. I know I've talked about this before, but it's such an important topic. People: We are becoming more and more rude everyday. It's unfortunate, but true. I was playing Tennis yesterday (I'm part of a league), and my opponent and I ran a little over time. We had scheduled an hour and a half to play the match, but he (my opponent) has a slow, methodical serve, and we had long rallies. Now, there were two couples who were going to play mixed doubles, and they had apparently reserved the court we were on. They were also desperate to get on our court. Here's the thing: There were four other courts, and they were all open. These people could have started at anytime, but they felt that they needed court 1. Why? Because, "it's right by the windows where everyone can see us." That's right: It was all about being seen by the other people. Here's where the manners come in. I am about to serve. I'm in mid-movement, and one of the guys steps on my court and starts to talk to me. "Hey you!" he shouts. Beyond the fact that his actions are bad for tennis etiquette, he's also stepping into my serve. I have a hard and fast serve (I'm not bragging, it's the best part of my game...perhaps the only part of my game), so if he steps in front of me, I could drill him and hurt him. That would not be good...and it might be costly. I managed to stop my arm, but almost threw out my shoulder doing it. "Hey you!" he shouts again, "Let's flip courts. We're supposed to be here." Thus begins a conversation that takes a dark turn (I admit it's because of me.)
Me: "I'm trying to serve, sir. You need to move off the court."
The man I lovingly refer to as "Rat Bastard": "We're supposed to be here. Move to two."
Me: "We're in the middle of a game in the middle of a match. We'll be finished soon. Please move off the court."
RB: "No. We're supposed to be here. You need to move. Now!"
Me: "Sir, we were here first. We're almost done. PLEASE move so we can finish. Then you can have your court."
RB: "I'm going to get the manager and tell him about your conduct!"
RB's Wife: "You should be ashamed."
Me: "Please move off the court so I can finish. Then you can have the court!"
They move to court 2 and talk loudly about how badly I serve, my fashion sense (What the hell is that. Am I supposed to be stylish yet sporty?) and more. They never stop talking while I'm trying to play. At one point, the other guy sees I am about to win a point and tosses a ball on the court to void the point (Seriously. What an ass!).
Now RB returns with the manager.
RB: "Get him off MY court."
Manager: "Sir (he is addressing RB), they are allowed to finish their match. It IS league play. I will tell you again, please move to 2 until they are done. (Then to me) Did you verbally threaten this man?"
Me: "No way!" (My opponent even chips in a "Not a chance.")
RB and his group move to two but continue to act like children. I finish out my game, which I win, and my opponent goes to serve. This will be the last game. If not, then we have to switch sides, and we (my opponent and I) agree we'll move over. As soon as my opponent goes to serve, RB returns to my court.
RB: "Get off my court. You finished. It's my court now. Get off."
Me: "Sir, please, PLEASE stop. If he wins this game, then we'll have to switch sides. Then we'll switch courts, ok?"
RB: "Well that's not fair to us (He indicates his court). Then we have to switch during our game. No, you should have to switch."
Me: "Sir. I am losing my patience. This is the last time I will tell you: Let us play, then we'll switch. Is that too hard to understand? Why do you want this court so badly? How is it different from the other courts?"
RB: "It's right by the windows where everyone can see us play."
Me: "Sir, to use your line, get off my court."
I walk away to the baseline. RB steps to my court and follows me berating me for "not having the proper respect for someone like me." I have been extremely patient, and I have tried talking to him nicely, but he doesn't listen. Finally, I think about high school students, and I decide I need to "assert" myself. I take a deep breath and say:
Me: "Sir. I've tried to explain this to you, but you don't listen, so I'm going to tell you in a way you'll understand: GET THE FUCK OFF MY COURT, ASSHOLE! You and your skank wife should be warming up on 2. The longer you hold us (I indicate my opponent) up, the longer you have to wait. Now, turn around, slap on some BenGay on your raggedy-ass knees and shut THE FUCK UP! You didn't ask nicely, the manager told you to wait, so LEAVE US ALONE. You and your friends need to be patient. What the fuck is wrong with you? Just wait. We'll finish this game and then either leave or move to 2. I'm sorry that you won't be watched by everyone, but that's too bad. Now, go warm up and leave me the fuck alone, asshole!"
RB and his friends are stunned. My opponent, who knows me pretty well, starts laughing and says, "I want to serve now." RB leaves to the other side, but his court is now silent. We finished the game (I won) and we leave. RB and his gang don't even move until after we've left the bubble.
Now, here's my problem. I have been running into people like this more and more. They believe they are in the right. It's like the bossy woman on my flight back. Because I say it should be, then it should be. RB couldn't wait another few minutes. Instead of talking to me like a regular person, he begins with a command. Look, I work with high school students. When one of them throws a command at me, I just look at them and laugh. Emma can attest to this. One of the things that pissed her off so much was that I wouldn't do what she wanted when she wanted. What happened to civilized conduct in public. I can't blame parents, because they do it too. Old people nowadays are rude too. I love my father, but he still cuts people off in lines, because he feels he should be first (remember the "special" kid and the ice cream?).
Stories like this are all to common now. For example, I'm Mr. Leab, or I can be just Leab, but I will not let students call me by my first name. (Speaking of which: Worm. Remember the "confidence building" Spam? If it's spam, how did they get my first initial? It's not in my profile. I think it might be a person...) I call everyone Sir, or Ma'am if they are older then me. I'm not trying to make them feel old, I'm just showing respect. I believe in "Please", "Thank you", and "You're welcome". Maybe I'm in the minority now. People wonder why our country is de-evolving as it were, it's because manners are disappearing. And no, this is not a Liberal/Conservative thing, because both political parties suck at manners now, so don't even try to make this political. It's totally and utterly a societal thing. Rich, poor, black, white, whatever. Everyone is becoming rude. Even I became rude when I cursed out RB. Doesn't matter if I was justified, I shouldn't have done it.
Then again, what do I know? I'm the guy taking too long on Court 1. I could be wrong.

An Open Letter to Xcel Energy/Northern States Power Co.

Warning: This post contains salty language. You've been warned. However, if you are under 18 and reading this, why aren't you looking at porn or something else you're not supposed to? This is boring stuff kids....
Dear Xcel Energy/Northern States Power Co.,

I have been without power for 36 hours (or three days if you go from when I lost it on Wednesday night. I understand that some people have lost entire houses, and I agree that's very tragic, but here is where my problems with you begin. In order to help you fully understand, I am going to list them:
1. You were here and did nothing: That's right, you sent a truck out to repair downed wires in my area, and your people repaired the main road...and then left. YOU LEFT! My neighborhood is still completely dark. The only reason I can even write this little letter is because the school's library is open. I understand that my little neighborhood is nothing compared to say Andover, but to have a truck here and then not help us is unfathomable. That's like seeing two drowning kids, grabbing the closer one and then saying, "Eh, I'll come back for the other one later." It's inexcusable. If I had the equipment, I could fix the line. It just needs to be reattached.
2. My neighborhood is predominantly old people: My wife (who is gone, so I get to deal with this alone) and I are easily the youngest people in this neighborhood by about 25 years or so. My next door neighbors on one side are 60 year old women. Heck a few doors down from me is a diabetic who can't keep her insulin cold! That's a problem folks. I have been giving out as much as I can. I always keep extra batteries, flashlights, and bags of ice. Usually for emergencies, though the ice is for parties. These people need their power. I don't care that I can't watch TV, or check email, but when the woman down the street can't take care of herself because her medicine won't work, that's a problem. Of course, this leads to my third and biggest problem,
3. Your customer service is the biggest crock of shit ever: Ok, I called you to let you know the power was out, and was thrown to the automated service. With no power yesterday, the same thing happened. Then last night, I called and decided to talk to a person. Here is where you pissed me off. The person I talked to told me that I, "could always go to a hotel," then chastised me for being angry. "NSP is currently sending six teams to New Orleans to help in the relief effort. Because we're short staffed, repair may take longer." Have you not noticed another hurricane is about to hit? What the fuck are you going to do? Repair the lines in hip deep water while rain pelts you? Let me give you a tip: Water and electricity don't mix. When I explained that there were older people in my neighborhood, this person told me that I, "should pay for a hotel room for them then." Again, WHAT THE FUCK? Lady, I'm a teacher. I don't get paid enough money to do that. How dare you suggest that I should take my entire neighborhood to a hotel so they can all share a room. Here's an idea, why don't you open your home and let us use your shower, fridge, and phone.
Perhaps the worst part, however, was when your customer service agent tried to use New Orleans to defend herself. "Sir, this isn't New Orleans. Your situation isn't dire and at least you don't have to evacuate your home." Lady, first of all you really can't compare apples and oranges. That's what this situation is. Secondly, how do you know it isn't dire? What if one of the reasons Ed (the guy who yells at his dog) had to go to the hospital was because his machines weren't working properly. If he dies, can his family sue you for saying that we aren't as important as other neighborhoods?
NSP/Xcel: It is inexcusable for you to have someone on your customer service staff who makes light of a possible bad situation. I already had one neighbor go to the hospital. Do more need to go?
It's not just you, however. I have asked the cops to drive by our neighborhood and been told they, "would try." Gee I feel safe now. On a hunch, I decided to walk my neighborhood around midnight to make sure all was ok. What did I find? Three kids about to try and TP a person's house. The minute they saw me, they booked it. They even left the toilet paper. Stupid kids.
All I ask is something simple: Don't put us off to last. Where is the new transformer that you promised this neighborhood over a year ago? You put that off, and we lose power almost as quick as when a squirrel jumps on a Los Angeles power line. Bring light back to my neighborhood please. There are older people who need to light and power in order to continue living. Or is this your way of adding to natural selection? Do your job and bring back the power.
Then again, what do I know? I'm the guy sitting in the dark in Robbinsdale.

I Can't Find Auntie Em!

Ok, seriously: Last night sucked. Between the storms and my situations there in, it was a bad night. Was my house destroyed? Thankfully no, but it still amazes me how stupid people can be...including myself. So, kids, it's story time with Uncle Leab.
Last night, I took my wife's car to the dealership to have it's warranty-covered work done. Yes, I could do my own oil change, but it's covered by warranty and such, so if it's free...go for it.
Anyway, I'm sitting in the waiting area (this is Iten Chevrolet off of 694/94 West in Brooklyn Center (or is it Park?) when the sky goes black. Not a good sign. First things first, the wind picks up. Then the rain comes and starts to go horizontal. Well it looks like we're going to be hit hard. Hooray! One of the women sitting next to me forgot her child's diaper bag, and the kid is only 6 months old. Like a brave idiot (or just an idiot) I say, "I'll get it, where's the bag?" It turns out that the bag is in her minivan...which is across the parking lot. I count it off. It's 22 cars away from the door I have to run out of. So, I book it.
The first thing I notice is that the wind is really strong, and the rain is making it hard to see. I make it to the card, but I have this funny feeling like I'm being tugged. It's weird. Imagine someone has thrown a lasso over your mid section and is pulling. That's what I felt. I grab the bag, lock the car and start back to the door. Right as I get about a two feet from the door that tugging feeling gets MUCH stronger. In fact, I am now having a hard time moving. It could be the 60-80 mph winds, or maybe I was stuck with a petrifying ray (I choose the former). Luckily, one of the Iten guys saw me and grabbed my arm. Once inside, I handed the bag over. Now, I've just done this woman a favor and gone through a natural car wash as it were with the spinning and the pushing and such, and the first thing out of her mouth isn't thank you, but, "Where are my keys? Give me my keys!" Maybe she was panicked, but oy vey! I still didn't even have my bearings yet. Now comes the stupid people part.
What are you supposed to do in a storm such as a tornado? Move to a safe spot, right? Well, the people there wanted to watch the storm, so they stood in front of the glass! That's right: With a wicked storm hitting the area, they are going to stand in front of the glass windows to watch. Come on people!
The teacher in me (or maybe the annoying know it all) started barking orders at people. No one knew what to do. How do you not know what to do in a storm? I grew up in a city where we didn't have tornados or crap like that, yet I know what to do. I made everyone move to the back where the employee bathrooms were. Thankfully, the manager of the place knew what to do as well, so together we chained the doors and then moved to the back. Still, one guy refused to go. He didn't want to miss a TV program and decided he would sit and wait. Not on my watch, Buster. There was a TV in the back (it was the manager's, but he shared). It was at this point, that the corner of the roof started to rattle. At first it sounded like hail, so no biggie, but then there was a little peek of something. The roof pulled back ever so slightly. It wasn't major, not like Carol House Furniture when I lived in St. Louis (the entire roof of the warehouse was lost in a tornado). Then the lights went out. Luckily the interior of the dealership has a generator. But the second stupid person then came in and said, "I want to watch," and he attempted to open the now chained door to get a better view.
What's even better was that as others were panicking, one of the workers finished my car. So, as the storm died down a little (just before the second one hit), I left. I drove home in the dark (a lot of power out). I saw trees down, cars crashed, buses pulled over that were filled with people. It was crazy. When I got home, my cats were scared, but they were in the basement. I raised them well. The second storm then hit.
This morning I still don't have power (I'm writing this at school.) I didn't sleep well, because I had three furry cats huddled on me thus making it very warm. Great in the winter, not before then. Alot of places still don't have power (like my whole neighborhood for one). Still, so far only one person died, which is, though sad, very lucky. Hit was hit by a tree branch.
All of this, however, has made me think about Katrina and such. Were there people who said, "Oh I have to see this, " and went outside during the storm, only to be swept away? Is that a form of Natural Selection then, or is it just plain stupidity manifested?
If you don't know, I implore you to learn what you are supposed to do in a storm. It's necessary and it can save lives. I didn't save anyone's life yesterday, but they all calmed down when they were someplace safe. Learn what you need to do folks.
Of course, what do I know? I was the guy in the silver Impala racing home at 80 mph in the dark.

Hmm, I guess the father should be there, right?

This is yet another reason why America is embarrassing. We are putting in spectator seating for live births. WHAT?! What the hell is that about? What's next? Will there be hot dog vendors?(who could eat at that moment?) Will there be a board with slo-mo replay of the crowning? What about if you have a large family or divorced family? How do you decide who gets to come in to the room. My father wasn't in the room for any of his children. It really wasn't done then. I just cannot believe that this is where we are heading. How about a webcam? Wait! What am I thinking? We already televise celebrity weddings, right? Why not televise celebrity births? Sure, it could make millions.
Pepsi, in conjunction with Pizza Hut, brings you the birth of Katie Holmes baby! See the doctor tell her to push. Awe at the miracle of birth. Cringe at Tom Cruise eating the placenta to stay young! Stay tuned to see who gets to watch the birth with you. Tonight at 8, don't miss it!!!
I'm telling you this is only going to make things worse. What if someone you invite is late, so they lose their seat? It will be goodbye Best Friend for Life, hello awkward moments in the delivery room.
Maybe I'm overreacting. I don't know.
Then again, what do I know, I'm the guy who was left out in the waiting room. They gave my seat to Carrot Top.

Pair of Aces

This picture is the perfect epitome of my parents. My mother is a lovely woman who is usually composed in the face of insurmountable odds. She's a good WASP. This is what happens when you grow up in a political family (her father, my grandfather, was the Deputy Secretary of Defense). My father on the other hand, though incredibly bright, never wanted to play by "The Man's" rules. Therefore he would decide what was necessary, not what the public thought. Here is a simple photo that shows a couple that has been married for an amazing 41 years. When you look at their story, however, it's amazing that they ever got together, let alone stayed together. It's a testament to the power of love.

My mother, as I mentioned before was born into a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant family. My grandfather was the executive vice president of GM and was Deputy Secretary of Defense. It's very odd, but I have all these photos of presidents and pilots (such as Buzz Aldrin) signed to him. It makes me feel very small. Anyway, she is the third of four sisters. Her two older sisters have both passed on. I have mentioned before that my mother is a genius of the first order. At some point I expect her to get a MacArthur Grant. Yes, she's that smart. Anyway, she's always had to fight to be considered an equal in this male dominated world (I would know, I'm a man).

While my mother was growing up in a pretty well-to-do situation, my father (we all remember the secret agent) was a holocaust kid. Most of his family was killed by the Nazis (Yes, Virginia, there was a Holocaust. Those naysayers are...well...idiots). He grew up in New York and had to travel around alot because his father and mother couldn't take care of him. At the age of 15, he went to Columbia for college. This is a man who, desperate for a place to live while in college, lived behind a boiler in a small room. He, too, was a genius. It was the ultimate buddy movie pairing: My mother was book smart, my father street smart...but I'm getting ahead of myself. Dad was known for two things: He was a heavy drinker who could outdo anyone, and he was a ladies' man. At one point, my father had a rival he disliked very much. This rival talked WAY too much trash talk to my father. Now, my father had this talent, he could look like he was going to walk down a flight of stairs and then take a whole flight in one step. It sounds odd, but I'm told it was amazing. This rival was talking to my father and staring at him while they walked down the steps. Fed up, my father decided to take the last flight in one step, the rival, tried to keep up. Not smart. The rival tumbled to the bottom while my father was fine. I don't think the rival ever bothered my father again.

The story of how my parents got together has passed into legend in my family. The story isn't fully clear, but it's as follows:

Mom had broken off an engagement to a nice preacher's son. He was, "boring," at best. Oddly enough, he called my mother shortly after my grandmother died. It was creepy, to her anyway. Anyway, newly single, my mother wasn't sure she was ready to re-enter the dating pool. Enter Betsy, her best friend. Betsy was going to a party being held by my father and his friends. The invite said to bring a bottle of alcohol, which is genius because most people forget to take it home...not that I would know...er...yeah. So, instead of the alcohol, Betsy decided to take my mother. Once at the party, my mother and father hit it off. He has an acerbic wit which my mother could match. He would quote books only to find my mother correcting him. They were perfect for each other, because they liked the same things and could out talk anyone else in the room. Still, my mother had some reservations about my father. As I mentioned before, he was a drinker. This is a man who once got a grade he didn't like in a class and dared the professor to a drinking game. If my father won, he received a higher grade (such as an A), but if my father lost, he would fail the class. Several drinks later (legend has it that it was two full bottles of whiskey) my father had a higher grade. BUT...he couldn't walk or sit down for two days. He just crawled around his abode puking.

So she had reservations (which were justified). However, my father really liked my mother. So, one night, he took her to the White Horse restaurant in New York. For those of you who don't know, this is a famous place where Dylan Thomas drank all the alcohol that later killed him. There's a plaque marking where he fell down before he schlepped over to the Hotel Chelsea to die. Anywho, Dad really wanted to show my mother that he would change for her, so he ordered (oh I wish I was kidding) 17 whiskey sours (17!!!!). He then drank them all and stacked the glasses up. He turned to my mother, knocked all the glasses down and said, "Nothing will ever come between us again." He then quit drinking. He has the occasional drink, but they are few and far between now. He loved (and still loves) her so much that he willed himself to stop the things she didn't like.

While they were happy, their families were not. My father's parents weren't happy that he was dating a schiksa. My mother's family thought my father was a grifter. Both sets of parents were mortified. It was because of this that my parents eloped. One day, they went to the justice of the peace and got married. No fanfare, just married over a lunch break. They told no one, but were discovered by my aunt Carolyn in a most embarrassing fashion. Carolyn was in town visiting and was at my mother's apartment (unaware that my parents were now living together). She kept waiting for my father to leave as the night went on, but he didn't. Finally, she was told the truth, and she was utterly shocked. To compound things, the cot she was sleeping on that night broke and pinned her into the wall. She was not happy. When their parents found out they were married, their parents were mortified. My mother's father almost disowned her. My father's mother cried. It was not a happy time. Yet, they persevered. Even though people around them said it wouldn't last, and even though their parents were mortified, my parents made it last. For 41 years. It gives me hope in my marriage. Oh, dear reader, there's nothing wrong in my five year marriage, but you never know what lies over the next bend, do you? When my wife and I first got together, alot of people and family members just weren't sure it was going to last. Yet, we have (so far).

I look at my parents now and that despite all the crap they've been through (my father's heart and gall bladder surgery, three kids, the loss of their parents and two siblings/in-laws), they still have this bond that no one understands but them. That should be what people strive for when they look for love: It's not about Prince Charming riding in on a white horse to sweep the woman off her feet. It's not about finding that girl you saw on the train. Love is about finding someone who understands what you are telling them and responds in kind. Love is finding a person who helps you roll with the punches that life will inevitably hit you with during the course of your life. My mother and father are now older people (I even get mail about their senior citizen years here in Minnesota. Why is that a problem? They live in New York). Still they care about each other. They have little in-jokes that only they get. I've watched them walk with each other arm and arm and discuss things that no one else understands. They have a bond that is simply unbreakable.

Let this be a lesson to you, dear reader. Just because the world tries to break you apart, doesn't mean you aren't right for each other. If there is a spark that holds you together, then hold together.

Hopefully this story fills you with a sense that anyone has a chance at happiness. I've probably sounded a little too down recently, and this is my chance to make up for it.

Oh and Mom and Dad, if you ever read this: I love you very much...and no more book jokes please.

Fun with Pilot and Passengers

I'm back. Dammit, what a long day. More and more, the modern airline industry is incredibly frustrating. Once upon a time, flying was a privilege and a new and wonderous experience. Now...well...it sucks. It powerful sucks. Airplanes are slowly and surely turning into buses in the sky. I love to travel, but service, people, and vehicle are turning me away. I'm starting to feel that I need to learn how to fly and buy a crop duster like this one on the left here so I can fly myself. If I hate the service, then I have no one to blame but me.
This is how my travel day went. I am warning you up front: Everything I am about to tell you is true. I wish it wasn't, but it is.
There were no problems at security this time. My bag was sent through the machine three times because the guy was having a hard time reading something (I have no clue what). Fine, no big deal. The real fun began on the plane.
I am sore, and my knee and ankle have been hurting a great deal lately. So I took an aisle seat. I love the aisle, because I can stand up and stretch and move around. From the moment I sat down, I knew life was going to be difficult. First, there was a woman sitting two rows in front of me that was directing traffic for the entire plane. This is a passenger, and she's telling one guy where to put his bags, then another woman to keep moving. It was very strange. I knew she didn't know these people, because the AA (Airline Attendant) quietly told the woman to sit down and stop. Shortly after this, a group of people show up to my row. "You need to move," I am told. (Notice it's not, "Are you sure you're in the right seat?" or "Could we switch?") "Excuse me?" I respond. "My two friends are sitting next to you, and we want to be together, so you're going to take my seat so we can be together." (Again, no "please," or, "Would you mind?") "Sigh, where are you sitting?" I decide to ask. Turns out it's a middle seat...in the back...by the bathroom. "Nope, sorry. I paid my money for this seat, and I want to keep it. See if you can switch with someone else." This does not go over well. First the group swears at me and calls me names. Next (my favorite part) Bossy Lady stands up and tells me I have to move. That's right: Another passenger is TELLING me I HAVE to move. "Excuse me, this is none of your business." This is not enough to appease her. "They want to be together. You have to move. A good person would move. Obviously you're not a good person." Let's remember, boys and girls, that I am VERY tired. I feel drained to the very core of my being after the last few days. I politely respond, "I'm sorry. I paid for this seat, which I chose. I will not move to a middle seat, because they didn't plan their travel correctly." This sets of Bossy Lady, who, while the rest of the plane is boarding stands in the aisle and berates me (She's a Minnesotan, no less). "I will not move," I repeat. Now the AA comes up. "What seems to be the problem?" (I know feel as though this little lady wants to be a cop. "Well, Officer Andrea, these people are disturbing my peace.") BossyLady begins to lay out a story where I am a tyrant who vowed to spill the blood of those who would have my seat. Even the woman sitting across from me is rolling her eyes. Bossy Lady's husband is grabbing her arm and trying to pull her down. I explain the deal to the AA. The response is not what I expect. "You should move," she tells me, "just take the seat." I take a deep breath and show her my foot, then I explain that I have not been asked nicely. "If they had asked nicely instead of telling me to move, I might have. However, because they were rude, I'm not moving. Sorry." Finally, another couple moves and everything works out.
The flight is horrible. There are not enough drinks or food for everyone. They serve the older passengers first, then the younger ones. There wasn't even water. I asked for a glass so I could get water from the bathroom and was told they were, "out." Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't.
We went up and down the whole flight as well. At one point we dropped. I don't mean a bounce, I mean engine noise whines, and we go down a few hundred feet. That wasn't fun.
I hate complaining about it, but it just feels like the passenger doesn't matter anymore. I mean cutting pillows and blankets? That's cruel. The guy who sat next to me tried to sleep on his tray and was told he was, "not allowed to do that." Why? What is it hurting? The food is atrocious. Instead of giving us pretzels or even a bad sandwich, we now have to see which of the four color boxes is on our flight and which food is in said box. We had grey, and the cheese was expired. That's a bad sign.
Oh and the electrical system was, "screwy," according to the AA. Several cabin lights and overhead lights would click on and off during the flight. One woman thought it meant that the plane would crash. She was really scared.
Look, I get that I'm a bad person for not moving. Maybe you agree, maybe you don't, I don't know. That's not the point. The point is that the consumer, who the airlines should answer to, is being screwed. As long as the shareholders get their cut, who cares about us, right?
Then again, as Worm says, I'm just a intellectual rambler.
So, check into that airline before you fly it. Think of it this way: NWA is losing money everyday, cutting pilots, and about to cut more out of its in-flight service. Southwest? Looks fine. They're running very well. Continental? Made a huge turn around. Many industry insiders say that ALL airlines should be run the same way.
Then again, I'm just the ass in 20-D, who won't move. What do I know?

Ramblings for the Evening (9/19/05)

I'm still on the East Coast. Well, let's just get to it, so without further ado: NO WHAMMIES!
East Coast vs. Midwest...Coast:
The thing about the Midwest is that everyone is very reserved. East coast people, not so much. I was over at Home Depot (I may be here to help my family, but I can also help my sister with her housing issues), and I didn't make the turn because too many cars were coming through the red light. The person behind me was not happy. In the Midwest, there would be a honk, followed by a person just muttering to him- or herself. Here, this is what happens:
The person honks several times. Not enough, he gets out of the car and walks up to the driver side. After a 30 sec, profanity-laden tirade (in front of his children no less), he makes a rude gesture and gets back in his car. After taking turn, he is unable to get a parking space, so he does the same thing to the next person who has taken his desired space. Gotta love the East.
How to tell you're tired: (a la Jeff Foxworthy)
You know you're tired if you repaint something twice, because you can't remember what you did before.
You know you're tired if, when you're replacing a lamp post, you try to lick the wires to make them fit (Trust me, DON'T DO THIS! It really hurts).
You know you're tired if you walk into a door TWICE...in one minute.
You know you're tired if you can't remember that person in front of you is called, "Mom."
You know you're tired if you lock a door and then try to open it.
Home Improvement:
It's amazing to me what can be done (and occasionally needs to be done) to homes. Right now, I need to finishing painting my home. My sister, however, has a house that needs a lot of work. Over the weekend, I painted her deck fence, a few parts of the house, the railings, a table, and then fixed the tile in my parents house, replaced a lamp post, and more. The fun (or not fun) part of owning a home is that the "improvement" NEVER ENDS.
Wow, that's all I got. Sad. Shows how tired I am. Have a good night folks.

The Frustration of Flying the "Friendly" Skies

I have said it before, and I will say it again: I hate flying. Maybe it's just America, but flying is now akin to having a prostate exam: just bend over and hope it doesn't hurt too much. Why am I so angry? Well, I had the WORST traveling experience I have had in a LOOOONG time yesterday. That's why I was so tired. I started at noon in Minneapolis and finished at 3 am in Connecticut. Between dealing with annoying (and slightly hand-happy security people (I'll get there), long delays, horrible seatmates and long travel time, what should be enjoyable becomes amazing frustrating. So, here's the deal:

I had to come east for a family emergency of sorts. I don't really want to go into the details but suffice to say: I had to come East. So, with a 3 o'clock flight and no seat, I arrived at the airport early to get setup. From the moment I walked in, I knew there would be trouble. There were only two security lines open and in between them was a man with a camera (from WCCO as it were). He took one look at me, and all of a sudden, Leab had a camera in his face and was being asked questions about Northwest. I answered them honestly: "They suck, this sucks, Shelby sucks (the last I really didn't say), and I'm not surprised NWA is going under. They cut pillows for God's sake. PILLOWS to save money." The cameraman almost started laughing, because everyone else had been, "Super PC and nice about it." That's just not me. With the interview out of the way, I headed into the security line. After what felt like hours (really was around 45 minutes) I put my bag on the conveyer belt and went through the checkpoint. I didn't beep, but I had the mark on my boarding pass that said I needed to be searched. That's right: I was pulled into the little black box and had to open up my bag and be searched by a wand. The bag search wasn't a problem. Granted, they weren't happy I had a bottle wine with me, but they let it go. The problem began with (and I wish I was kidding), "a bulge in my pants." I swear to good it sounds like the beginning of a porno, but it's true. They made me take off my pants. Let me say that again: They made me TAKE OFF MY PANTS. Why? Because I had a mysterious bulge. Once the pants were removed, the bulge turned out to be....my chapstick. I forgot to remove it from my pants, and the guy was suspicious. Maybe he just wanted to see if I was boxers or briefs (boxers, thank you very much), but still, I was pissed just standing there in my underwear. A few seconds later, I was dressed and on my way to the gate.

Ah, the gate. I was in the C terminal, but no too far down. I waited there for hours. HOURS! Damn, it still pisses me off to think about it. 3 o'clock came and went, and they would not tell us why the plane was delayed. Finally, at 4:15, they tell us, "You're plane is delayed due to air traffic control in Newark. Hmm, every other flight to Newark was fine. The weather wasn't a problem, but our plane was half full. As a "convenience" to the passengers of the next flight, the two planes were merged to make a totally full flight. Sounds a little too convenient to me. Finally at 5, we board the plane. I'm in the Exit Row (great for leg room, bad should the plane go down). Unfortunately, I am sitting next to a Sex in the City reject. A short, thin brunette wearing a designer label, Manolo shoes, and a HUGE scowl. It seems that little miss investment banker was on the wait list for first class, but did not get a seat up there. So she had to sit with the rest of the plebians. Halfway through the flight, she began bitching to me about her life. I don't know this woman from Eve, but suddenly I am her therapist. She would not stop talking. I was reading, I was looking over documents, but it didn't matter. The most interesting part (to me anyway) is that she never asked me anything about myself. She couldn't have cared less who I was. I know her husband is a lousy lay, but she couldn't care less that I'm married, or tired, or even breathing.

Finally, we land, and the next part of the adventure begins. I have to get to Manhattan from Newark airport and the easiest way is (usually) to take the train to Penn station. To get to the railway, you have to take the tram to the last stop. It sounds simple, but last night the tram was completely FUBAR. That's right, FUBAR! You see I came into Terminal B, and it is 3 stops west to railway center. Sounds easy. Well, when we got to P4, the second stop, they forgot to announce that one of the trams was busted, so instead of continuing to the railway stop, we started going backwards. Now the car I'm in is pissed. We get off and run across to the other tram (which is now running) and ride back to P4. The tram stops short of the station. We're stuck. I have now missed the first train to NY. Five minutes later, the train pulls up to the station. We get out and have to run across to the other tram to continue on. The doors shut and...we go nowhere. The tram is stuck. The doors opened, and we're told to get out. Three minutes later the other tram pulls back up, and we start to get on it. An older woman moving a little slower is trying to get in my car when the door shuts on her. She's stuck, and that annoying voice is saying, "Get away from the door." She can't! So another rider and I grab the doors and force them open to help her. The conductor (or whatever she is) starts yelling at us. "Stop that! You'll break the tram. She'll be fine." The other passenger and I take a quick glance at each other and pretend we didn't hear her. The door finally opens enough so the older woman can squeeze in. After all this time, I finally get to the railway station.

Part III: Wherein I have a hot, hot, hot ride and then can't find my ride. The train was late. It's now 9:40 at night. Finally, ten minutes late, it arrives, and we board. There's no A/C, and it's a hot and humid night in New York. With a ton of people on the train, we start sweating like crazy. After getting to Penn, I attempt to contact my parents, who I will be driving up to Connecticut. No luck with my mother's cellphone or the apartment number. The plan is that If I can't reach them, I need to go to the restaurant where they were having dinner, then check the apartment. With the subway line I need down for repair, I walk to the restaurant. Tons of sweat is pouring off of me (I know, such a sexy image) as I beat the street. At the restaurant, I am told to wait outside while they check for my parents. Why? Well, between my backpack and my sweating, I would not be good for the pretty people inside. Plus, the waiter tells me later, "a darker-skinned man with a backpack who is sweating profusely kinda looks like a terrorist." Ok then. My parents aren't there, so now I have to hoof it over to the apartment. I don't have keys, so I have to wait outside the building until someone comes out and I can catch the door (takes about 15 minutes). My parents are, in fact, home. It turns out that my mother's cell phone is dead (not battery-wise, but rather the chip inside is fried), and the apartment's phone isn't working. My parents thought I never made it. Now, after a cheerful (SARCASM) reunion, I began the two hour drive to CT.

The drive was...uneventful. There was a deer that was almost hit, two cars chasing each other at over a hundred miles per hour. Oy. Still after all that crap, it was still necessary to be here. I love to travel, but man, I hate (using hate folks) days like yesterday (and this morning). Hope you all have a nice weekend (though I'll write again).

UUUUGGGGHHHH

Ok, I am way too tired to post tonight. Sorry boys and girls. I promise a big full story tomorrow.
For now, think about this:
Local anchor man Jason DeRusha left a comment on my blog. Hot damn I feel important.

Ramblings for the Evening (9/14/05)

Ok, I know: I've been doing alot of the "Ramblings" lately, but that's because so much happens during the day. At some point, I'll do what evey good blogger does and make some sort of schedule. So, with out further ado: SMOKE EM IF YOU GOT EM!
Britney Spears Gives Birth:
This one's too easy. Take your pick.
1. Christians: It was a boy....The Anti-Christ is here, so you should begin preparing.
2. Name that baby: No name has been released yet, so I thought I would throw out a couple names for her and Federline to mull over before choosing. (Feel free to leave your own ideas in the comment section.)
Welfare Check Federline (It makes sense. Her career is over)
Cheeseburger Spears Federline (She did say that was her favorite food, and food is hip now.)
New Orleans Federline (She loves her home state. Why not show pride for its fallen city?)
George Bush Federline (She did say we have to follow him no matter what.)
Justin Gigolo Federline (Like the song. She could call him that way. Every where he goes...)
Confederate Spears Federline (Cause the South might rise again.)
Madonna Spears Federline (She says she wants to be Madonna...)
3. Will anyone really care about her anymore? Seriously?
Delta and Northwest File for Bankruptcy:
I don't know about you, but I'm really not surprised. Now the two airlines can merge into one ginormous (that's for my wife) company, and Northwest can use Delta's mechanics. Problem solved for them. Seriously though, it's not surprising. The question is this: If Northwest goes all the way under, how screwed up will Minnesota's economy become? I've been saying for years: Fix the freaking railway systems. One of the best parts of Europe is riding around on the trains. Same thing in Japan. Come on America, let's wise up.
Chess Teacher Arrested:
Look at this man. Can you seriously tell me that anyone is really surprised that he was arrested for possible child sexual assault? How did he do it? "Pawn to Queen 7....King to Rook 4....My hand to your pants 2....Don't tell your parents 6...."
I mean seriously, his chess students sometimes spend the night at his home. How can you not see this coming if you're a parent. They saw it coming with Michael Jackson. Yet this guy, who's a dead ringer for my buddy Worm (Oh I kid, Worm, I kid. Worm's a handsome guy...or so I've been told by Tara) was just kicking it with students in his home, and no one thought, "Gee...Timmy sure is spending the night over at Bob's an awful lot. Oh well, must be practicing." Oy vey!
Finally...
The Most Evil Cat in the WORLD!:
Ok, he's not the MOST evil cat in the world, but he sure is darn close. Every morning before my alarm tells me it's 5:30, this lovely cat sticks a wet nose on my face. If that doesn't get me up, he goes to his "B-Move" (as my wife calls it) where he gets on my face and tries to suffocate me while digging his front claws into my neck. It's the kind of move that, were he not a cat, would probably be done by S & M lovers (or dominators) everywhere.
Now, if that move doesn't work, this lovely cat (and he is quite lovely, and hopefully will make it into the Bad Cat calendar coming out next year) will then go to the wall and begin picking at it using his claws while meowing. Even if a pillow is thrown at or around him (or even hits him) he will not stop. The sad part is that once I get up and he gets his drink from the faucet (yes, this is all about me turning on the bathroom faucet) he then goes back to sleep WHERE I WAS! He's clever, cute, and conniving. If only he were a woman...oh I kid the female species, I kid.
Well, special guest Sir Winston Churchill, how do you feel about tonight's ramblings?
Ms. Spears' baby still looks better than Prince Charles. That family was definitely hit with the ugly stick.
Thank you Sir for your cheeky British humour, as it were.
Good night Ladies and Gentlemen.
UPDATE
Apparently, the kid has been named Preston Michael Spears Federline. Um, I got nothing.

Ramblings for the Evening (9/13/05)

This will have to be quick as I have a lot to get to, and it's after ten. So...LET'S PLAY THE FEUD!
The Aggregator:
Somehow and someway, my little stupid blog has made it into The Aggregator. MN Speak's directory of blogs. I am utterly flattered, though I don't understand why. You see (and this is not a compliment grab or anything like that) I'm not as funny or poignant or whatever as alot of the other blogs on that site. Slanderous Minneapolis, for example, is on The Aggregator, and they should be. They are very funny. I'm not saying that I don't want to be, because I have received a few new readers from MN Speak, but I just don't feel worthy. It's a confidence thing.
That's it for this evening. Former Mayor Ed Koch...do you have anything to add? No? All righty then. Night folks.

An Open Letter to the White Trash at Alleygators in Plymouth

(If this offends you, get over it. I may not necessarily mean you, but if you think I do, then you deserve that feeling. No suing.)
Dear White Trash,
Oh I am ever so sorry that my friends and I were so overly loud for you. You see, we were just enjoying our drinks and stories like normal people would. That's right, that's called camaraderie. They may have been utterly killed on the volleyball court, but off the court, they were enjoying the stories about "Patch," and even puke and such. Perhaps we shouldn't have been sitting in the bar talking about the times we were thrown up on, but that's what happens when you start sharing stories.
So why do I bring this up to you, you idiotic trailer dwellers? Well, rather than tell my little band of merry men and women that we were too loud, you threw napkins and bottles at us. Then, like high school kids, you pretended that it wasn't you while snickering to each other.
I noticed it first, so I was the one who asked, "Am I supposed to check 'yes' if I like you," then made a mark and threw it back. There's no reason for you to get all defensive and call the manager when YOU made the first move.
If the whole thing is about the fact that it was "Karaoke Night", and we were too loud, then you STILL have no reason to be upset, because NO ONE WAS SINGING. That's right, no one was butchering a Jon Bon Jovi or Toby Keith song. You had no reason to be upset.
When you were asked about your behavior, you acted like you hadn't done anything, yet the waitress even noted that you were acting like children.
If you have a problem, just come over and tell us. We're reasonable people. You can tell we're reasonable, because we didn't, "start a brawl," like one of you suggested.
So here's my proposal: You go back to doing your Meth in the bathroom with your female mullets and "Tickets to the Gun Show," t-shirts, and my crew and I will just continue having a good time and not bothering anyone else. Did you notice that the other tables didn't care? It was just you punks who were missing teeth and had (oh I wish I were kidding) tattoos of the confederate flag.
So the next time you throw a bottle or napkins at me or my friends, you will see retaliation. If not physical, then the kind you hate the most: verbal. We'll use big words you don't understand and call you names. You seem to like calling people, "Gay," so how about we call you, "stupid," or even just, "homosexual," now and then?
Then again, if you're signing Karaoke every tuesday night at Alleygators, perhaps your life is a little boring.
Hope you don't ever breed. Have a nice day.
Leab

Ramblings for the Evening (9/12/05)

Wow. It was a long weekend with a lot of crazy stuff happening. So, without further ado, LET'S PLAY THE FEUD!
Coincidence...or Fate?:
A friend and co-worker of my wife had a hot tub party this weekend. As I drove up there, I was listening to the radio and one of my favorite songs came on: Burning Down the House by the Talking Heads. Great song, go listen to it. Anyway, right as it got to the chorus, I came around a corner on Highway 252 to find two police cars and some sort of automobile that was completely ablaze. That's right. As I passed by this burning car, the radio blared, "Burning down the house!" It was a strange coincidence...or so I thought. As I approached Stacie's house (the co-worker), I noticed Jill's (the Party Girl) car. As I pulled up next to it, the radio started to play, "One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer." It totally fit. And, as it turns out, Jill was a little sauced. So was my radio a prophet...or was it all coincidence? Only my hairdresser knows for sure.
Stacie:
Ah Stacie. She's an interesting character. First of all, Stacie is about 5'9", maybe 110 pounds and looks like she belongs in the 1950s. Secondly, beyond the fact that she's a light weight when it comes to drinking, she has this uncanny knack, when she's drunk, to blurt out something that makes everyone in the room turn their head. Need an example? Ok, one time while we were eating at Nami, Stacie had a little too much to drink. There was a lull in the noise around us (we were in the center of the dining room) and Stacie, who had been quiet for awhile, suddenly blurts out (and I'm quoting here folks), "This one time, when I was giving this guy head..." Immediately every single person in the room (ok, it WAS mostly guys) turns and stares at us. I thought it was great, so I started with waving to the room a la Queen Elizabeth (even threw in a few, "Helllllloooos," here and there). Without giving you the whole story (unless you really want it), I now call Stacie, "Patch," when I see her. Have fun with that one.
Roommates:
Ok, so the lovely Meridita is getting a new roommate, and she wants HORROR STORIES. Now, I am lucky in that I have never had a psycho roommate. My freshman year of college, I lived in a single. Sophomore and junior year I lived alone. During my senior year, however, I did have a roommate, sort of. See Caroline and I did essentially live together senior year (though we had our own places). What I'm talking about, however, is Cecil. I know I've mentioned him before, but it bares repeating. Cecil was (and still is) a dance teacher at the university I went to. The department learned that I was living alone in a house (also known as bliss) and told Cecil he could live with me. I returned from a trip, and there he was on my stoop. So, he lived with me for three months. It was difficult at times (as most roommate relationships can be), but he's still the best roommate I ever had. The best thing was that he kept the place spotless. He was even more of a clean freak than I was (that's saying something). However, the worst experience came when I returned from a night out, and Cecil was on my couch inebriated (of sorts) and watching gay porn. With no homework (and the fact that it was already playing and charged to my cable account), I joined him in watching. I learned two things:
1. Gay porn is even funnier than real porn. Real porn has some sort of plot, gay porn doesn't.
2. Anything is funnier when you're out of it.
That's about the worst thing he ever did.
So I've never had a psycho roommate, but my wife, my sister, and my friend all have. Let's go through each one.
During her freshman year, Caroline lived with an art student, who, for some unknown reason, would start playing "The Girl from Ipanema" over and over again at two in the morning while she worked. That's right. The beloved elevator tune that's really no longer than about three minutes over and over again for hours. HOURS! However, the worst came one night when the student procrastinated too much. The roommate returned to the room at 9 PM and cut cardboard ALL NIGHT LONG during finals week. Never asked, just snip, snip, snip. No wait, sorry, I've been corrected. It was crunch, crunch, crunch.
My sister had a roommate that was literlly psycho. One night my sister woke up, rolled over, and discovered her roommate standing over her with a knife talking about having to "sacrifice (my sister) to her God!" Suffice to say, that didn't go over well. This roommate also stole money and clothes from her.
My buddy may have the worst stories however. He let a friend move in with him, because, "he was desperate." Well, the friend said he had no money, but he would make it up. After a year, the following happened:
1. The friend always had excuses why he didn't have the rent, but he had the money to get drunk every night AND do things like gamble or see strippers.
2. Clothes and other items disappeared from my buddy's closet only to wind up in his friend's room.
3. The friend's girlfriend was given a key (without permission). My buddy comes home one day, drops his stuff, and heads to the bathroom. He opens the door, and there's the friend's girlfriend shaving her body hair off (he pointed to a certain part of the anatomy) with HIS razor. Her response upon seeing him enter? She asked if he, "wanted to help her?"
4. The friend needed to get to an apointment one day and paniced, so he grabbed my buddy's car keys and took off with his car. His note read something like, "Took car. Back later." That didn't go over well and was the last straw. My buddy called the cops and reported the car stolen, then he moved all of his friend's stuff out and called a locksmith. There not friends anymore. Want to guess why?
So to Meridita, I wish you luck. Plus, if the roommate is no good, we'll "remove" her for you. Seriously.
Finally...
My Diploma:
I finished my Master's program in July. So, here it is midway through September, and I STILL DON'T HAVE MY DIPLOMA. Come on, St. Thomas, send me piece of paper. I just want to frame that sucker and put it up on the wall and think about the good times in school....Yeah...good times...or something. When I graduated from college, my diploma was right there. They handed it to me. It wasn't a fake piece of paper. Is this because I didn't attend your full-on, hardcore Mass that you call graduation? I didn't want to pay all the money for tickets and gowns and such. ANNND you held it on a weekday. A WEEKDAY! Some of us have jobs that we don't want to leave. Seriously. I was teaching that day. So, St. Thomas, here's a tip. If you want Grad students to attend your ceremonies, have them on the weekend or make them at night. It's simple. Sheesh.
Have a good night folks.