Category Archives: Shoot, I forgot to add tags again

Geeking Goodbye

This blog post has been interrupted by my evening spent with a friend who is moving to CHICAGO tomorrow. Chicago. Tomorrow. As in, when I wake up in the morning, he will be gone.

I don’t remember when Dave and his wife moved in next door. I don’t recall how we first met. I’m sure we nodded our hellos here and there as we passed on our daily errands. I remember being amazed by their incredibly well-behaved dog, and it may actually have been Oscar who gave me the opening to really talk to my neighbors that first time. For which I am grateful, because they are wonderful people. Jessi and I have planned many sewing projects, although only she follows through. Jessi has hemmed dresses for me. Jessi has given me broth from her batch, made with the carcass left over from my Thanksgiving turkey. Jessi has insisted on driving me to the airport so that I don’t have to take a bus. Jessi has looked in on my cats when I’m on the road. And Dave…

Dave has been my tireless, responsive, and sometimes apologetic ISP for the last year. Dave has been my Mac technical support, most often at home, but occasionally at the office when my own IT team has been stumped. Dave has answered every pesky question I’ve ever had, at all hours of the day. Dave introduced me to Twitter. Dave helped me move my lame MySpace blog over to WordPress. This weekend, Dave got me set up with Google Reader. Between that and my new (temporarily phoneless) iPhone, and Dave’s presence in my home* for his last few days in Colorado, I have been full of geeky happiness. Tonight, we shredded old bank statements, a whole box of them, and giggled the whole time.

Kids, my life is richer for having spent time with you two. Thank you for everything you are.

*Jessi left last week to set up house, and the furniture followed her a few days later. Dave has been wrapping things up on this end, and I wasn’t going to let him sleep on the floor of an empty apartment.

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Bowling, bruising, and bass drums

1. Now that we’re right at the tail end of my bowling league’s “season,” I am finally improving. I’m still not near my personal goal of a 150 average, but I’m gaining on it. However, we’re taking a hiatus at the end of August. Not sure when, if ever, we’ll join a new league. Our best player has had his fill of crowded, noisy, amateur-riddled leagues (self excluded, I’m pretty sure).

2. While bowling tonight, I started to choke. Not figuratively; literally. I’m still not sure on what, as all I had was a slushee which shouldn’t have obstructed my airway, but there you have it. I was coughing (exhale) but couldn’t take any air in (inhale). Gasping and panicked, I tapped Jay on the shoulder. He turned around, assessed the situation, and sprang into action. He immediately got into position to perform the Heimlich Maneuver on me, except for two things: I didn’t have the presence of mind to stand up, and Jay didn’t actually know what he was doing. (NOTE: If you find yourself in a similar situation, it turns out that the Heimlich Maneuver is no longer the recommended protocol. First on the list is “encouraging the victim to cough,” which I was already doing, and second is a series of hard smacks on the back. No, seriously.) Jay made a valiant effort, though, and through the chaos we managed to hobble our way through a successful rescue. Like an old lawnmower, I sputtered a bit and started back up, and then set myself to calming the people around me. I’m okay now, thank you. No, really, I’m okay. Yup, everything is okay. Thanks. No, now I’m just coughing. Regular old coughing. The guy at the next table, who asked three times if I was alright, then said, “I’m a First Responder, so I wanted to make sure.” Well, sir, how about jumping in there when you saw that Jay was winging it? THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN HELPFUL. At this point, oblivious to all that had happened, Jay’s brother (a registered nurse) came back to the table. As soon as he found out what occurred while he was outside, he fell into a pile of apologies. “You were choking?! But that’s my bag! I could have helped! I’m so sorry. Are you okay? How about now? Now? Now? What about now?” Unfortunately, laughing hurts a bit, now that my ribs are somewhat bruised. Being able to breathe at all, though: priceless.

3. Full disclosure: I know this guy. That doesn’t make his drumming any less spectacular. Watch it, and share the link with your friends. It’s under two minutes long. Around 1:20, his arms become a blur.

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Hey, Jackass!

I’m driving down a 4-lane, divided highway. The speed limit along this stretch of road is 65, which means that, under ideal circumstances, I’m usually cruising along at 70–75. On this particular evening, though, I’m still in the very tail end of rush hour. Traffic is moving along, but it’s congested enough to slow everyone down a little.

I’m driving in the left, or passing, lane. There is a FedEx Ground 18-wheeler directly in front of me, and we are steadily passing slightly slower traffic in the right lane. I am coming up on a FedEx Express 18-wheeler on my right (it’s the time of day when all the trucks are heading to the airport) when I see a white SUV coming up fast behind it. Of course, there isn’t enough room for him to move left and thread the needle between YOU FUCKWAD! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU JUST DID THAT!

I hit my brakes. I hit my horn. The driver of the SUV flips me off, then aggressively gestures that I should move into the right-hand lane.

I double-check my speed, and see that this interloper has caused me to slow my speed to 61. I double-check reality and see that the 18-wheeler is still in front of me (well, now it’s in front of the SUV), and there continues to be NOWHERE FOR THIS DILLHOLE TO GO. For the next three miles, this guy is trapped between me and an 18-wheeler. At that point, I’m exiting the highway, and now I’m able to zip into an open lane… right next to this twit… and flip him off, good and long. RIGHT BACK AT YA, JACKASS.

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Helpful Household Hint: sleepitude

Note: When awakened by the hum of distant early morning commuter traffic, it is best to get up and close the window at that time instead of trying to sleep through it and waking every 5-10 minutes until you finally find the wherewithal to crawl out of bed.

On the other hand, pat me on the back for going to bed at a reasonable hour instead of watching the finish of an incredible display of men’s gymnastics. Forget the bodybuilders who are all about form and nothing about function; these boys have it going on. The sheer strength required to pull off their performances is mind-blowing. If you can find video of Justin Spring (USA) on the horizontal bar, or Chen Yibing (China) on the rings, by all means watch it.

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Krazy Jail Time

Setting: Hot rod/kustom car show hosted by Krazy Kreations and Xtreme Collision in Westminster, CO.
Cast of characters: Three pretty gals, and one adorable pinstriper working on a motorcycle in the garage.

M: That pinstriper is cute.
T: Cha, YEAH.
M: Yeah, I thought you’d like him. He looks young, though. Like, you-could-go-to-jail-for-that young.
T: Seriously. Shoot, is he even 18? He looks about 16. I can’t tell anymore.
A: He could just have a baby face.

(looked at more cars outside; now making second pass through garage for some relief from the sun and once again watching the striper at work)

T: I just overheard someone say he’s 21.
M: (Disappointed) Oh, man.
T: (Jokingly) Hey, that’s legal!
A: (rejoining conversation) He’s 21? That’s legal!
T: My thoughts exactly! I should ask him to stripe my shoes.

A conversation followed wherein I attempted to hire him to pinstripe my shoes. He seemed uninterested; I didn’t pursue it further. Pinstriping under pressure is no good, and 21 is awfully young, after all. Perhaps we scared him. Later, while chatting with Scott, a car owner whom I’ve run into a few times, I noticed The Kid was curled up in the footwell of my acquaintance’s car, pinstriping the dashboard. Scott was suggesting that “Junior” should get himself some business cards so that Scott could send more work Junior’s way. Junior explained that he actually lives in Utah, and was just passing through. As my friends and I were taking our leave, I overheard Junior say to Scott, “I’m Bo Huff’s kid.”

Oh, shit. I was just crushing on Jr Huff. Jr Huff who is SEVENTEEN. I’m going straight to Hell.

Photos of my visit to the Hell travel agency, taken with my phone because I forgot my camera, can be seen if you click on Jr’s photo.

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