Category: general

Upgrading the TiVo was an awesome idea. Although, I hate talking about it because it makes me seem addicted to the teevee. While that’s not the case, there are some shows which I am now happier for being able to watch on demand. The Daily Show, for instance, is outstanding, and I never seem to catch it when it’s regularly on. Also, I like recording those sensationalist news-magazines like Dateline and Primetime Live, because sometimes they are awesome. Otherwise, I’d rather be on the computer.

Overcome by laziness and awash in a sea of apathy, I once again made less of my evening than I could have. I wanted to work on the witch, I need to mow the lawn, instead I chose to sit here and write. The grass is long, the witch is not done, and I’m only one lousy paragraph better to show for it. Now I’m sitting here falling asleep and watching the one where Barney is acting sheriff for eight hours and arrests the whole town, that Barney.

You know, I heard an amazing argument in favor of the war recently. The “those people have been allowed to be unchecked savages for too long, and we’re finally taking a stand and showing them we won’t tolerate it.” Whoa whoa, what? I mean, I’m paraphrasing there, but the basic argument is that “these people” (I assume we mean Muslims, or maybe even the slightly more racist, “dusky races of the sands”) are inherently savage and violent. What’s more, we Americans, God-fearing examples of truth and justice, are obligated to swoop in and change them. We have intelligent people in this country who can justify this war as some big “charm school” for the heathens of the Middle East. Rope them wilders, slap ’em on the knuckles with a ruler, and show them the error of their ways. Help them establish a real country where they go to a Baptist church every Sunday morning. Real, intelligent people think this. This, I don’t understand.

You wanna see something really disturbing, check out this website. The internet is gross, I wonder how representative it is of our collective thinking? I really don’t feel motivated, I’m outta here. Dave out.

The debates were on, I watched them. I will write about them later maybe. Intro paragraph over.

Last night I was up late working on my computer, and late-late, not just late. It was about a quarter ’til two in the morning when I heard my cellphone ring back in the bedroom. As with all unexpected late-night calls, I expected some terrible news – so I went back to grab it. I didn’t recognize the number, so I took the phone out of the room to answer so as to not wake up Sharaun. When I answered, there was a very obviously drunk girl on the other line responding to my “Hello?” with “Who is this?” “Who is this,” I replied, to which she responded, “Who is this?!” We went ’round like this for a bit before I finally asked who she was trying to call, at which point she started sobbing and said “I don’t even know.” “Well,” I said, “What number were you trying to dial? Because I’m pretty sure you got the wrong one.” “I know I got the wrong number!,” she sobbed, “I don’t even know who I’m trying to call.” Being as this whole exchange was hilarious to me, and I had nothing better to do while my RAID array rebuilt, I decided to stay on the phone.

“I lost my cellphone, and I need it back,” said the girl, “I’m so effing drunk.” “Yeah, I can tell, where are you now, are you OK?” “I’m at home,” she said. “Well then, I think the best thing for you to do is drink a lot of water and go to bed, you can find your phone in the morning.” “No! I can’t find it in the morning, you don’t understand! I need it now! I have so many important numbers in there, everyone I know! Who is this?” “This is Dave, remember, you called me by mistake and now you’re talking to me.” “Yeah, hi Dave, nice to meet you. This is Katie, and I can’t find my cellphone, can you help me?” “Wait, Katie from Tahoe Joes Katie?” “No!,” she cried, “Not Katie from Tahoe Joes Katie, Katie who lost her cellphone Katie!” I laughed. “Don’t laugh at me, it’s not funny! Everyone was mean to me tonight. Some guy got so mad at me and took me home, all because I wouldn’t have sex with him. How old are you?” “I’m twenty-seven, you shouldn’t hang out with that guy anymore. Be glad he took you home.” “Twenty-seven! I’m eighteen” “Wait, you’re 18?! Where were you drinking?” “At a friend’s house, I don’t even know where.” “I gotta tell you Katie, being that it’s like 2am and you don’t know who you’re calling or where you were, I don’t think you’re finding this phone tonight. You should just go to bed and find it in the morning.”

“I already told you Dave, I can’t find it in the morning! I have to go to work. Can you drive?” “Umm, yeah, I can drive. Well, what time do you have to be at work?” “Three in the afternoon.” “Three?! You have all morning to find it!” “Nooooo!, I can’t, I need it now… important numbers… everyone was mean… guy yelled at me, etc. Can you come pick me up and help me look for my cellphone?” “I don’t think so Katie, it’s kinda late.” “I live? (here she gave me detailed directions to her address, not far from me).” “Listen Katie, when you wake up in the morning, if you remember that you talked to some random dude last night for like 30min about your cellphone, and then freak out because you think you remember giving him your address – just try to remember him saying, ‘I’m not writing any of this down,’ OK?” She laughed now. So far we’ve been on the phone about a half hour.

“So come over and pick me up and help me find my phone.” “I thought you didn’t know where it was, how many places did you go tonight?” “Two. Two houses and then in that mean guy’s car. He yelled at me because? blah blah.” “I know, I know. Well then, your phone can only be in one of three places, just go look in those places tomorrow.” “I can’t, blah blah.” “Well listen, what kinda phone was it? Nokia? Motorola?” “No, it was a Sanyo.” “Oh, no worries then, you can get a new one for like two bucks at Wal Mart.” She stops sobbing to laugh. “How old are you again?” “I’m still twenty-seven.” “Yeah, I remember you told me that.” “Yes. Yes I did.” “So are you coming to get me?” “Uh, no, probably not.” “I need my phone!!! Why did I drink so much?! Everyone was mean to me, my friends left me!”

Oh man, I talked to this poor girl for like 40min, until 2:30am last night. I ended up calling her cellphone for her on 3-way, and we got her voice mail. We talked about this mean guy who wanted her to “go farther than she wanted to,” and I gave her some 27-year-old-to-18-year-old “fatherly” advice to stay away from such dudes. It was a hilarious conversation.

That’s it, I have no more. Be happy with the story, it’s hard to type all those quotation marks and get a conversation down in writing. Dave out.

I wonder what percentage of the food bought and brought into American homes just ends up getting thrown out. I mean, I know at our house we’re constantly throwing away leftovers and stuff that’s spoiled because we bought and never used it. Whole tubs of old chili right down the disposal, a half-eaten hunk of cheese that’s now mold-ridden, a steak that stayed too long in the freezer and is caked with ice; we don’t discriminate on what we waste, we chuck it all. It’s something I’d really like to get better at, if not for the sake of knowing there are people in the world who are sick with hunger, at least for the more American reason of maximizing our food expenditures. It’d be interesting to see if big companies like Wonder have statistics on how much of the bread they produce will ultimately end up, uneaten, in a landfill. I bet it would be pretty shocking.

I hate it when you get a defective coffee cup, you know, one that leaks around the little paper seams? No matter which way I turn the little drinking-hole, some coffee still seems to dribble out from that mysterious breach. Now I’ve got coffee on the keyboard, and all over my hand. Stupid Starbucks, for $1.17 you’d think I’d get a commemorative brushed aluminum mug every time or something. Back in the good ol’ days (and when I say that, I mean what I see on Andy Griffith), a cup of joe cost a cool nickel – free if you were a cop (I would surely qualify due to how often I’m laying down the law). Now I’m paying 25 times that for some beans that were probably hauled down a mountain by barefoot children, Starbucks’ whips cracking at their backs.

Tonight we went over for dinner and cocktails at Pat & Cynthia’s place (oh my, how 70s of us all… dinner, cocktails, and a game of Scrabble). Indian food was on the menu, and it was the yum. Keeping with the 70s theme, after dinner we all slammed several lines of coke and danced until we were sweaty, then went home with each others’ partners. It was a night thick with curry and dirty, unprotected sex. And for the drug users in my readership, I realize that you can’t “slam” lines… the verb just sounded funny.

I saw or read a story once, either on Rescue 911 or in Reader’s Digest, about a guy who got trapped under a his tractor. His wife was away and he lived miles from anyone, so he was basically stuck and left for dead. The story went on to talk about how the guy’s dog saved his life by keeping him from dying of thirst. The dog would run down to a pond, get all wet, and then run back to his trapped master who would suck the water off the dog’s fur. Apparently, the dog did this over and over to keep the guy from dehydrating to death. This went on for something like a week before the man’s wife finally got back home and found him. That’s a good dog right there. Maybe not the ultimate best dog, who would’ve also rolled in mashed potatoes and gravy, but pretty darn close. All the dogs I’ve ever had only roll in roadkill.

Wow, four paragraphs, and not a single one on the same subject. Sorry for the randomness, at least I wrote. I can’t believe that my wife read the blog… verbotten!

Dave out.

At my funeral, if any of my friends get up and speak about me, I hope at least one of them opens with, “Dave was one of the funniest motherfuckers I’ve ever known.” The “one of” part is optional, of course, in case I was just that funny. Really, what an honor – and the expletive at a funeral, who cares? No disrespect to me really, I like people that know how to get a laugh. So when I die, I expect ya’ll to get out your best eulogy-writin’ pens and keep the jokes coming.

Just got done with a late-night conference call to Shanghai, a three-hour event that found me eating dinner with an earpiece and microphone boom in my ear, on mute, listening for my name so I could respond with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question, can you repeat?” It went well though, I mean, how couldn’t it – it’s that same hated presentation I’ve been griping about for months. The same one folks, again, one more time. I balanced my time between barely paying attention and working on my website, which seemed to work out OK. I am so dedicated.

Today Sharaun went out and bought me some new clothes. Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. She’ll do this every once in a while, in some attempt to “update” me to the latest “cool” look. I don’t really mind this, other than I feel like people look at me and see someone who’s dressing based on advice read in “How to Dress Hip for Dummies, 2004 Edition.” She’s a master at scouring the clearance racks for $4 jeans and $2 t-shirts, of which there are usually quite a few in my hopelessly unique and misshapen height-to-girth ratio. Anyway, because the alternative was execution by pistol, I tired them on for her tonight – with surprisingly sexy results:

My lord! Look at that snappy-dressed gay feller! Have you seen my trucker hat?

Cargo pants and a flask full of Jack. Let’s go clubbing. Put on some Dave Matthews.

Bootcut jeans, some kinda logo’d tee, and a bunch of grapes. Oh God get me out of this makeover.

I was extremely happy when I came home from work today and hit the bathroom. Not because of my impending bowel movement, although that does offer some minor joy, but for the copy of the California 2004 Voter Guide I saw on the floor. Sitting on top of the Maxim I bought for my last flight/stay in Taiwan, and the GQ Sharaun bought because Justin Tenderlegs was on the cover, was an SAT-test-booklet-lookin’ document that promised to tell me all about the latest Indian gaming referendums that I can vote on come November 2nd. Oh, and the reason I was so happy? Because it being in the bathroom meant Sharaun must’ve brought it in there, which means she mighta been interested in it, which means maybe she’ll read up on stuff and vote.

As if helping to determine our country’s next leader isn’t exciting enough, I get to vote on 16 confusingly-written “Propositions.” Why don’t they write these things for humans? I’m a friggin’ college graduate, and I can’t really understand some of this. Where’s the “definition of terms” section telling yokels like me what this politic-speak is trying to say? What is a “compact,” and how do you “negotiate the amendment” of one? This “non-partisan” review of the props is pretty much written in the common tongue, and helped me a little more.

Hey, you guys see what I see? An entry mixed with media! That means I don’t have to write as much, I mean, one picture is worth at least one paragraph? right? I sure think so.

Dave out.