scripturient

#253 In which our hero throws a high-stakes party

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 00:04:00 +0000

When The Scientist was 11, her parents planned a big birthday party for her. She was allowed to invite as many kids as she wanted; so she ended up handing out 30 invitations.

One person came. The next-door neighbor.

This was crushing for an 11-year-old, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’ve probably heard this story half a dozen times, whenever a birthday--anyone’s birthday--rolls around. And even though she jokes about it, I really think there was a lasting effect on her. So much so that when we started talking about a party for her 40th birthday, I got a little nervous myself.

At this point I should admit that I’m a lousy planner. I’m much more of a “Hey! Let’s go take the kids to the park and have a picnic!” sort of guy. So even though there was this pressure to throw my wife a great birthday party, I hadn’t really given it a lot of thought. To make matter worse, we had a week-long camping trip a week before her birthday, and there was a lot of planning involved with that… so I didn’t even begin to think about it until we got back.

The Scientist’s best friend, M., volunteered to help in any way she could. And she helped mostly by sending me email that said, “Um, hey, are you doing anything about the party?” To which I lied and said, “Well, oh COURSE, I am!”

A week out I was trying to think of a theme, when it struck me to do a Tiki/luau sort of thing. That sounded fun, and it was something that I might actually be able to pull off in a week. So I sent out e-vites to everything I could think of. Then I had a guy at work whip up a printed invitation.

The good news is that The Scientist didn’t want a surprise party. She was very clear on this. NO surprise parties. Which was good by me, because I could give her a stack of invitations and have her invite her own friends.

The key here, remember, was to have a LOT of people at the party. Well, after several days of handing out invitations and emailing people, I hadn’t heard back from anyone. Not a single person. This is the point where I started to crap my pants a little. All the more so, when my wife and I had this conversation around Wednesday:

THE SCIENTIST: People are going to come to my party, right?
ME: What? Of course!
TS: Because my last birthday party didn’t work out that great.
ME: People are going to come, don’t worry.
TS: Good.
ME: Besides, that wasn’t your last birthday party, surely. You’ve had a party since you were 11.
TS: No, I haven’t. I’ve never had another birthday party since then.
ME: …

So there it was. She had a party at 11 years old, and it went to hell. TWENTY-NINE years later, she was going to try it again.

It was critical that I didn’t fuck this up.

So I got on the phone and started calling people. One guy asked if he could bring his new girlfriend; to which I said, “Hell yes! Have her bring some friends, too!” I emailed people and begged them to come. I invited the neighbors, something I hadn’t planned on doing at first.

With the number of people coming still up in the air, I soldiered ahead with the things I could control. Namely, food and decorations. I found some tasty-sounding recipes online, and printed them out. I was a little unclear about the difference between a “tiki party” and a “luau,” but I figured screw it, I’ll just pick and choose what I liked.

I got a five pound pork roast. Jerk wings. Salmon. Macadamias and pistachios (are pistachios a tropical nut? I have no idea). Roasted corn. And a metric assload of fruit.

Then I went to the party store and holy crap, that’s my new favorite place. I thought I might be able to find tiki-head plastic glasses, but instead I found everything I could have wanted, and more. I walked down the aisle, stood looking around for a minute, then went back and got a cart. I got a tiki head platter, tiki head shot glasses, paper wall decorations, a big plastic mask, grass skirting for the table, a CD of hula music and other little odds and ends. And leis, of course. Lots and lots of leis. I definitely spent more than I should have, but the party had to rock.

About Thursday, I started to feel a little better. Several people had confirmed they were coming… there would be at least six or seven people there. That’s better than one.

Also on Thursday, while I was surfing around looking for other ideas for the party, I came across this: a pineapple palm tree kit. I thought it was awesome, and instantly knew I wanted to make one for the party. But I wasn’t keen on paying $69.95 for it, and besides, there’s no way it would be delivered on time. But as I looked at the thing I thought, “I could make that! I bet it’s nothing more than a piece of rebar bolted to a board.” So I went out at lunch and got a piece of rebar. Then I went over to the craft store and bought a couple plastic ferns. I am not at all a handy guy, but optimism was high that I could pull this off.

That night I banished The Scientist from the basement as I bent rebar and bolted it to a board I had laying around. The concept was solid, I thought. Now just to execute.

So, Saturday morning comes and I put in the slow-cooked pork. I whip up the orange mustard sauce that goes along with it. Then I’m sorta at the point where I don’t have anything to do until closer to the fact. So I take a nap.

When I get up I prep the yard: tiki torches in the ground, extra chairs, a cooler with ice and cans of soda. M. comes over and helps me cut fruit. The Scientist takes the girls upstairs and promises not to peek until I call her back down.

I drag my rebar/wood centerpiece out of the basement, along with the eight pineapples I brought for it. I trim the first one and muscle it through the rebar. It seems to work, more or less. One thing I hadn’t planned on was the pineapples being so juicy… because now I had a puddle of juice on the table. I start to worry that it’s going to be a huge mess before everything is said and done.

I impale the last pineapple, and top it with the plastic ferns. And goddamn if it doesn’t look great!

Then people start to arrive. I am hardly prepared at this point, I still have to make the punch, go get the cake, shred the pork and put out the salmon. Not to mention put up the decorations. But it’s only the neighbors, and they go hang out in the backyard and play cornhole.

I call down The Scientist and she is floored by the display.

As am I. Honestly, I damn-near put my shoulder out of joint patting myself on the back about those damn pineapple palm trees.

Then more people start to show. Actually, a lot more. By the time I’m pouring the four (!!) bottles of rum into the punch bowl, there’s about a dozen people milling about. Most eagerly awaiting the chance to dive into the punch.

I finally change into my flowered shirt, and join the party. People devour the pork, put a hurting on the fruit skewers and make short work of the chocolate-covered strawberries. The revelers also do damage to the Lomi-Lomi Salmon, which is a raw salmon salad with tomatoes and onions. I didn’t expect most people to try it, let alone go back for seconds (and thirds).

Lots of people bring their kids, which is fun. The Scientist had bought some cheap toys at the dollar store to keep them occupied, and for the most part, I think the kids (all of them, not just ours) were entertained and surprisingly well-behaved.

The rum punch was a big hit, and it knocked nearly everyone on their ass. It was STRONG. But that’s how it’s supposed to be, I guess. Come 11 o’clock or so the neighbors have cleared out, as have most of the people with young kids. All that’s left is our circle of close friends. Being that the booze flows even more freely, the f-bombs and friendly ribbing shifts up a notch or five. The Scientist is pretty drunk, as is M. As they both work in an IVF lab, there’s lots of talk about semen and hairy coochies and other unsavory topics. But we’ll all friends, so I little raunchy talk doesn’t phase anyone.

No-one pukes, which is a huge bonus. One woman looks like she came pretty close, but was able to rally and hold it back.

In the end, there were around 25 people there. The Scientist deems it a huge success, and declares it to be much better than her last party. Which, to be honest, hadn’t set the bar very high.

For myself, I’m just happy that my wife had a good time. She lamented afterward that she didn’t have time to talk to everyone she wanted to--the sign of a well-attended party. We both sported mild hangovers the next morning, but again, well worth it.

But now, I have to figure out how to top this party with the next. Oh well, I guess I have another 29 years to figure it out.

Tiki God says, “Good party, mon.”

###

#252 In which our hero discusses how he likes a little coffee with his sugar (HAHA! I’ve never heard that one before!)

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 14:09:00 +0000

Here’s the thing… I like my drinks sweet. I prefer piña coladas over beer, Kool-Aid over water. And, I like my coffee with lots of sugar. Is that such a crime? Well, at more and more fast food joints, it apparently is.

Starting about a year ago, I noticed that McDonalds had taken the sugar packets off the condiment area, and put them behind the counter. This was about the same time that they started heralding that they’d put the cream and sugar in your coffee for you. Which, on the surface seems like a convenient thing, especially if you’re going through the drive-thru. Now, I don’t eat at McDonalds a lot in the morning, but I’ll occasionally grab a sausage biscuit on my way to work. And with this greasy bit of heaven I enjoy a small cup of coffee.

Now, in days gone by, I’d just say “give me a bunch of sugar, please” and the drive-thru drone with grab a big handful and everyone was happy. Well, someone in upper management apparently figured out that if they gave out one less sugar packet per customer they’d save a gajillion dollars a year or whatever, so suddenly they weren’t so generous with the sugar.

And they don’t even want to give you sugar at all anymore, instead innocently asking, “how many sugars would you like with your coffee?” And, as previous mentioned, I like my coffee really pretty sweet, so the conversation usually goes like this (these are all real conversations I’ve had in the past year):

McDonalds McEmployee: How many sugars?
ME: Um… 10, please.
MM: (pause) Did you say… ten?
ME: Yes. Ten.
MM: Okay, I was just checking, because most people don’t want that many and I was just checking to see if I heard you right--“
ME: Yeah, yeah, I get it.

MM: How many sugars?
ME: Ten, please.
MM: Whoo! You like it SWEET!
ME: Um, yeah.

MM: How many sugars?
ME: Um… eight?
MM: Wow! It’s not just the caffeine for you, but the sugar, huh?
ME: Eh, yeah, I like it sweet.

Now, why should I feel like a second class citizen just because I want a bunch of sugar in my coffee? Seriously. If an obese person came up to the counter and ordered four Big Macs, would they say, “Wow! You like to EAT!”

I think not.

And yeah, maybe I should just be bold about it, and say something like, “That’s right! Ten sugars for my small coffee, mutherfucker!” but I find myself sheepish about it every time. Like I’m some sort of sugar junkie looking for a fix.

Next thing you know they’re going to start limiting the amount of sugar they provide. Limit 4 sugars per customer. At which point I’ll probably have to start bringing my own sugar. Or start demanding more than my allotted quota. I’ll suddenly be that pain in the ass customer who has to custom order everything. I’ll probably end up with some spit in my coffee.

But at least it will be sweet.

###

#251 In which our hero posts the first of what will undoubtedly be a long string of Watchmen-related entries.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 02:02:00 +0000

I’m a big fan of Watchmen.

If you’re not familiar with this graphic novel, then follow the link to the Wikipedia article, which gives a thorough introduction to the story. Or, better yet, run out to your local comic book store and pick up your own copy. With the movie coming out in early ’09, they’re sure to keep some in stock.

In all fairness, I warn you now that I assume that anyone who bothers to read this blog is already familiar with the story. As such, I’m not going to make any effort to keep it spoiler-free. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The Watchmen comic book was originally published in 1986, so it’s not like it’s anything new. Shortly thereafter, talk began of turning it into a film. In fact, several famous directors began work on it… and they all petered out in the end.

And understandingly so. Even though it was originally published as a 12-issue limited series, the scope of it is immense, intimidating so. It has been said that this single comic book story forever changed the way comics are regarded. Now, that might be a bit of hyperbole, it’s not like suddenly post-1987 that comics are regarded as true literature in this country; but there’s no doubting that Watchmen is in a league of its own. It’s so dense, thematically and visually, that it really takes a couple of readings to really appreciate it. Being that I was only 17 when I first read it means that a lot of it went over my head. I think it’s a testament to the storytelling that when I read it now (in the collected graphic novel format, of course, my single issues safely bagged and boarded and set aside) it still holds up amazingly well; in fact, I suspect I enjoy it more now.

Yeah, I’m a fan.

So, back to the movie. I remember reading a bootleg copy of a script proposal in 1988 or so. It was written by Sam Hamm (a name that’s easy to remember) and someone who was no stranger to comic book movies.

The script sucked.

Mr. Hamm apparently is of the group of people who think the original story in the comic is unfilmable, so he chucked everything except the characters and created his own story; one that VERY loosely followed the original plot.

Being that I’m such a fan of the comic, I secretly wanted to see it become a film. I had assumed that it would be an animated movie, since that seemed like the easiest route to create a film that’s faithful to the comic. And, every couple of years, I hear something about the movie switching directors or a new script being shopped around… I didn’t really expect it to ever happen.

Then… it was announced that this Zack Snyder guy was going to make the film. I never saw 300, his big directing claim to fame… but I heard it was good and it was loyal to the comic. I took a wait and see attitude, since the project had fallen through so many times before.

But, a cast was announced and little bits and pieces of the production were released to the Internet (including some very convincing sets) and it seemed like this film might actually happen.

I was excited, of course. I mean, what fanboy can claim in good conscious that he wasn’t thrilled to see one frame of Rorschach in the 300 clip?

You know you were. But I was still tempering my excitement. I was excited to see Ang Lee’s Hulk, too, and that, of course, was a gigantic steaming turd of a movie.

Then Snyder released images of the cast in their costumes. I was impressed. They were updated from the comic book costumes; but I’m okay with that because if we’ve learned anything about comic book movies it’s that the spandex costumes generally don’t translate to the big screen very well. They captured the flavor of the original costumes without looking completely hokey.

But, we still hadn’t seen any real footage of the film, and we hadn’t seen Dr. Manhattan at all. Being that he was a glowing blue naked guy, the chances of him looking stupid seemed high. I was still holding out any judgment until I saw something real.

And then, the trailer was released.

Holy. Shit.

How blown away were you, you ask? Why, let me tell you, second by second, how blown away I am.

0:23 Jon Osterman in the Intrinsic Field Chamber. What’s he holding in his hand? Janey Slater’s watch, of course. Awesome visualization of what happened to him in the comic.

0:31 Owl Ship! And it looks great!

0:40 Silk Specter! Her costume is a pretty big departure from the comic, but I have to say I like it. Sexy.

0:42 Nite-Owl kicks some ass while busting out Rorschach!

0:44 Blake takes a big fall.

0:46 Ozymandias. I’m a little disappointed that they cut right to him after the previous scene. I mean, no-one who hasn’t read the book gets the significance of that, I guess, but it still feels like an unnecessary giveaway.

Speaking of Ozymandias, his costume looks like the biggest departure from the comic. And I’m not sure why… the comic book costume looks like it would have translated without a lot of fuss. But, we probably will see Veidt actually in costume only a small fraction of the movie, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Looks like he’s standing in front of the wall of monitors in his Antarctic fortress.

0:48 Osterman begins to reform himself! This seems like a detail that, while visually really cool, could be glossed over due to lack of time. It’s exciting to me that they’re going to include it.

0:52 Rorschach’s capture. Can’t wait to see this.

0:54 I can’t quite figure out everything that’s going on with Silk Specter’s costume. Am I seeing her nipples here?

0:56 Dr. Manhattan! And here I was worried that we wouldn’t see him until the movie actually came out. And he looks awesome!

1:05 This is the “Guess what? Not really a kid’s movie!” moment as the Comedian burns some surrendering Vietnamese alive…

1:07 … and likes it.

1:19 Jeez, okay, I was wrong, I get it, you ARE going to show Dr. Manhattan! I don’t need to see him fully naked in the trailer!

1:29 Rorschach fighting Jacobi? Another level of detail I wouldn’t have expected.

1:30 Veidt about to kill his “attacker.” For some reason I really dig this move.

1:32 Huh, what’s going on here? From the snow, I’d guess this is Nite-Owl’s reaction to Rorschach’s final demise. But he wasn’t there in the comic, and if he were, I don’t think this is how he would have reacted. Hmm, troublesome.

1:33 And if you didn’t get it that this isn’t a kid’s movie… here’s Dr. Manhattan blowing up a retreating Vietnamese soldier.

1:40 Rorschach speaks! This isn’t had I imagined his voice would sound… but then again, I realize that I don’t know what I expected his voice to sound like. The comic makes a big deal about how monotone his voice is, and there’s a little more inflection then I would have guessed. And how do you even approach that, as an actor? Your only reference is that when he talks in the comic his word balloons are more jagged than the other characters. Not much to go on. Like many other things, I’m willing to let this slide until I see how it plays out in the movie. Also, I have to add: really ballsy move on Zack Snyder’s part to include Rorschach’s voice in the trailer. This is potentially something that will really polarize the fanboys, so getting it right out there from the beginning is a bold move.

1:44 Speaking of Rorschach… the way his mask changes? Again, now how I had imagined it, but damn cool.

1:46 Holy shit… the glass fortress on Mars? Are you kidding me? Is there anything you’re going to leave out of the movie?

So yeah… I’m pretty psyched about this flick. I only hope the actual movie lives up to the images we’ve seen so far. Don’t fuck me on this, Snyder!

###

FANCY DANCY

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 13:57:00 +0000

I'm generally not a "OMG! This video is soooo the awesome!" But this just makes me happy.

###

IT'S ON, LAWN!

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 15:20:00 +0000

Yesterday I seeded the entire back yard and the side yard (plus a few spots here and there in the front yard that were bare), spread starter fertilizer, then watered the ever-living hell out of it. So, if the "lush, full lawn" copy on the side of the Scott's bag isn't complete hyperbole, I should start seeing grass in a matter of days! Or maybe a week or two. Honestly, I didn't read the bag that closely. Then I threw it away. But! The point is: grass! And more importantly, no more digging or grading or mucking about with the lawn.

I hope.

###

#250 In which our hero imagines the prospect of a flood-free yard.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Thu, 10 Jul 2008 18:09:00 +0000

Since I last updated the yard situation, definite progress has been made. I was concerned about getting the grading right, since if the water didn’t run toward the newly-installed drain, then it’s not really going to help the flooding situation, y’know? Fortunately, Mother Nature helped out in this regard, by making this one of the rainiest summers this decade.

Seriously, the rain we’ve gotten is just stupid. Whenever I contemplated getting back there to rake, it would pour buckets, make the backyard an impassable quagmire. So I’d wait a couple days. Then, when it dried out a bit, I’d go back there and do what I could.

The problem is that there’s a lot of clay in my soil, so unless things were bone dry (which they haven’t been in about two months) it was like racking cookie dough.

But, the good news is that this constant rain give me plenty of opportunity to see if the water was moving like it should. And it wasn’t. So I shoveled and raked some more. Still got lots of standing water. Finally, The Scientist and I pretty much at the same time figured out that we weren’t going to get the water on the side of the house to drain all the way to the street. So we needed to add another drain.

Fortunately, since The Scientist was wise enough to insist on a clean-out near the downspout, I was able to simple cut that flush with the ground and add a drain cap to it. Instant drain! Works great, too.

Then, I realized that we were getting a lot of water that was getting stuck between the big drain in the back yard and the little drain up front. I made the command decision (against the wishes of The Scientist) to add yet another drain in this trouble spot.

Here’s the thing: I don’t ever want to screw around with this drainage bullshit ever again. And since the yard is torn up already, now’s the time to do something like add another drain. If I waited until the grass was restored, then I’d have to dig up turf and reseed and it would be an ever bigger pain in the ass. This is the argument I presented to my wife. She remained unconvinced.

Her fear was that since I was cutting into the professionally-laid pipe--and I am manifestly NOT a professional--I’d leave a gap that dirt and silt would get into and we’d have blocked pipes. A legitimate concern, I conceded.

So I carefully cut into the existing pipe, carefully added the drain pipe then, just for good measure, blasted the shit out of it with expanding waterproof insulation foam. I’m certain that it won’t leak.

And since I finished the second drain (we know have a total of five drains surrounding our house, in case you’re keeping count--and that doesn’t include the existing drains in the window wells, the French drains in the back and on the one side, nor all the perforated pipe now connecting everything together in the back yard) we haven’t had any real water problems!

There’s still some puddling, but I’m hopeful that will go away once I finish with the topsoil and actually get grass growing again.

Which brings you up to date.

There’s a truckload of topsoil sitting under a tarp on my driveway because, of course, about an hour after it was delivered it started raining and didn’t stop for two days.

But the forecast is for clear skies the next couple of days. My plan is to lay all that topsoil, then seed by the weekend, at the latest.

And hope it doesn’t all wash away before something, anything, takes root.

###

#249 In which our hero writes another Father's Day letter to his dad.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 13:54:00 +0000

Dear Dad,

It’s Father’s Day again. So far it’s been a pretty low-key event for me. My wife has to work, so I’m home with the girls. They gave me their gift early: a great t-shirt with the girls’ photo on it giving me the thumbs up. “Thumbs up for daddy!” they told me. They also made a gift in day care… a paper popsicle with “Your a great Pop!” written on the stick. I appreciate the gesture, if not the grammar. Wrapped up with it were three freezy-pops, which are now in the freezer. Macey asks every couple of minutes if they’re ready yet. When I tell her they aren’t, she says, “But I can’t wait!”

Y’know, when I write these Father’s Day letters, they always seem so sad. I mean, of course they are, I miss you still; even 15 years after your death. Actually, the sadness seems intensified lately when I think of how my children would have loved being around you, and the joy you would have taken in them. Because they are cute and well-mannered (and as a life-long teacher and principal, you would have especially appreciated that)… but most of all, they’re really funny. Like you were.

So, instead of letting this become another melancholy rumination on how I miss you, I think I’d relate some of the funny things I remember about you.

The first thing that comes to mind is something that now, looking back, I think is hilarious. Even if at the time it was nearly cruel.

We had just watched The Exorcist on TV. I must have been around 10-years-old or so, and really, what the hell were you doing letting me watch a movie like The Exorcist at 10? I remember sitting in your lap and hiding my eyes at the really scary parts. Good Lord, this movie scares me shitless as an adult, I was beside myself as a kid. Anyway, after it was over I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. And most likely talking to myself, as I often did. So I didn’t hear you sneak up to the (closed) bathroom door, then you suddenly flung it open and screamed like a monster and grabbed me. I fell to the floor in hysterics (and not in a good way). I seem to remember you trying to comfort me afterward, as if you felt bad about scaring me so badly. Which I’m sure you did.

This may have been the defining moment in the evolution of my sense of humor. Because now, as twisted as it seems, I still think scarring a little kid after watching a horrifying movie absolutely hilarious. And, it seems, so did you.

Something else you used to do--and you used to do this all the time--was to come into the house and give me what I thought of as your “principal face.” It was the stern, unsmiling face that said, “Mister, you are in big trouble.” And sometimes, I was. But sometimes, I wasn’t and you were just messing with my mind. Which, again, I find really funny. You came in the door, zapped me with the principal face, and I had a momentary freak-out trying to remember exactly what I did that you found out about, and why I was about to get busted.

Of course, I tend to mess with my kids’ head too. But, I must admit, not with the finesse and skill that you employed.

But really, your sense of humor wasn’t about specific bits--it imbued everything you did. And this, more than anything, is certainly what influenced MY sense of humor. Because I’m funny.

And so are your grandkids.

Thanks for that, Dad.

###

#248 In which our hero concludes his tale of backyard trouble, sort of.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 03:11:00 +0000

It’s been more than a week since I last posted about the yard work. In that span, the job was completed. Well, sort of completed. And by “sort of” I mean “not even fucking close to being done.”

It makes me tired to even consider relating all the details, but basically, it went down like this: our contractor got to about this point in the project:

Then he told us that he was probably going to have to charge us more than he estimated. Mostly because it patio was a complete monster, and he hadn’t anticipated that. And we get it, The Scientist and I aren’t completely unsympathetic… the guy’s a small businessman trying to make a buck in an industry that probably cuts pretty close to the break-even point at the best of times.

But then it turns out that he wanted to charge us a LOT more than the estimate. And when he came calling for money the backyard wasn’t in much better shape than you see in the photo above. He explained that if you read the contract we signed, he agreed to spread enough topsoil to cover where the patio was, and where the sidewalk was. But, the problem is that he destroyed my entire backyard in the process of removing the patio. He spread about a 10x10’ section of topsoil, and apparently considered his work done. Which is bull-to-the-shit, of course.

Anyway, what it all boiled down to is if we wanted to go to war with this contractor… and the answer is no. The Scientist and I are both sick to death of all the water issues we’ve had with this house, and we don’t really have the time nor inclination to try to bully a contractor into half-assing another weekend worth of work on our property.

Soooo… that means that I need to go back there with rake and shovel and level out the dirt, then spread the remaining topsoil. Something I’m really not looking forward to. Not to mention grass seed, fertilizer, watering… ugh. Like I said, it makes me tired just thinking about it.

###

#247 In which our hero continues a woeful saga

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Sun, 01 Jun 2008 14:07:00 +0000

So last weekend rolls around, and a decent-sized crew shows up at my house around 10am. This is very encouraging, and I'm hopeful that these five or six guys can blow out the rest of the work. And since it's just Saturday, we have an entire day left in the weekend. Good news all.

Since last they were here we had a little rain so, not surprisingly, there's some standing water in my backyard.

But nothing to get excited about. Especially not with half a dozen guys ready to work, right? Well, nearly as soon as they arrived, the majority of those guys, including the main contractor we're dealing with, got back into his truck and drove away. They left two young guys.

To be fair, I know next to nothing about landscaping or laying pipe (heh) and maybe it is a long, complicated process... but man, it sure doesn't seem that way. The trench had been cut, all that remained was to dump some gravel in the bottom, assemble the pipe, and back-fill it, right?

Well, these two dullards spent a long time standing around looking at the trench. Then spent even more time standing in the trench. I mean, it's only 30' or so of perforated pipe, and the pipe is sitting right there on my lawn, so stick it together in the hole already, huh?

At one point The Scientist wandered out to check on the progress. Seeing the two lackeys in the hole with mostly completed pipe she casually asked, "you're still going to put in that clean-out, right?" To which they both enthusiastically said yes. Half and hour later, I came out to find they down on their hands and knees in the trench with a hack saw taking out a chunk of the pipe. "Is that were the clear-out is going?" I asked. "Oh yeah," the head flunky answered. "It'll be great to have this here. Keep you from getting clogged." Right. I'm not a complete idiot, hack saw. I see you forgot about it and are retro-fitting it now.

After the nap The Scientist and I packed up the girls to get them out of the house. When we finally returned, the site was empty but, despite all earlier indications, it seems like a fair amount of work was done.

The big trench between the house and the neighbors was mostly filled in.

And there's the clean-out! A little high, maybe? The cap is only pressure-fitted on, I assume it will be cut down to a more reasonable length later. By me, if no-one else.

The giant pile of material on my front drive is finally dwindling.

These jokers did manage to trash the neighbor's flower bed a bit. Not horribly, but I was hoping to maintain good neighbor relations through the process.

But this was all done on Saturday, leaving all day Sunday to finish up. Hurrah!

Then... Sunday morning came. Then it was 10am. Then it was 11am. Then it was 11:30 and I finally called the guy. Are you coming over to my property today? My contractor apologized and said he wasn't trying to leave us high and dry, but he had a big job that had to get started today, and he was consumed with that... but he would send over a crew later. And are you still planning on finishing this up today? I hope to, he said.

By 3:30pm when still no-one had arrived, I got pissed. I called again, to basically say what the hell?

More apologies, more assurances that the work would get done. The five minute conversation went from "I'll try to get a crew out there still today" to "Well, I'm probably not going to be able to get anyone over there today" to "I'll definitely have someone over there tomorrow." He told me that the job he was on today was bigger than he anticipated, to which I reminded him that I didn't really give a shit about any job other than my own. "I'm trying," he replied.

So anyway, some work was done on Monday. There's lots to do yet, and starting today it looks like the rain in rolling in to stay for several days.

Hope these guys don't mind getting wet.

More to come.

###

#246 In which our hero continues the discussion of his backyard--or what's left of it.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Fri, 30 May 2008 10:39:00 +0000

When last we spoke, the contractor had muscled the cement patio and sidewalk out of the backyard and side of house, respectively. That took all of the first day, more or less. Since the guy doing the work had budgeted two hours to finish the removal, well, let's say I was concerned.

That afternoon as he was cleaning up he said he'd be back at "about the same time tomorrow." Of course, he originally told me he wanted to be there at 8:30am, and didn't show up until 9:30am.

The next day, he didn't get here until about 10:45am. Now, to be fair, I have to say it was Memorial Day weekend, so it was probably a nightmare to pick up equipment, etc. If I ever have big work like this done again, I won't schedule it over a holiday. This guy probably lost an hour trying to get one of these:

THE TRENCHER! He unloaded this angry-looking machine and carefully rolled it around into the back yard. After some staking of lines and measurement, the trencher started to dig, well, trenches.

After sufficient dirt was dug up and piled on the remains of my grass, he started to lay out the perforated pipe.

This is the stuff that's supposed to really cure the water problems. In addition to the pipe, we're having two large catch-basins installed (the one at the back of the property line is shown above). This pipe/basin combo is supposed to suck up all the surface water AND help the saturated land dry out faster. I hope they work. Because if they don't, the next step is to build an 8' levee all the way around my property.

And here's a photo of my wife pressing her boobs against the window.

The trenching and layout of pipe took the remainder of the weekend, including Monday. We also had a significant amount of material (gravel, dirt, topsoil) delivered to (read: dumped on) the driveway:

And that's pretty much where we're at. The contractor told us he thought he could bust out the entire project in a long weekend, but clearly he could not. Part of that was the surprisingly thick patio, and part of it was that he had trouble getting some of his crew to work on Memorial Day.

Something he didn't bother to tell us when he bid the job was that he has a regular Monday-Friday job. Which means he can't work on weekdays. Which would have been fine if he really did finish the job on Monday... but again, he did not. So all the crap you see above has been sitting in our driveway for the week.

I'm a little pissed about it, but his work up to this point has been solid. And he did come in at $2K less than the next highest bid. I guess you get what you pay for. But if I can save two grand and have to deal with not being able to get my car in the garage for a week, I can deal.

Now, there's talk about rain this weekend. If this guy can't or won't work in the rain... then that's another issue. He'll be back tomorrow. Can't wait to see what time he gets here.

To be continued.

###

#245 In which even more money is thrown into a pit specially designed to accept said money.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Wed, 28 May 2008 02:27:00 +0000

The latest round in improvements in the money pit that we call home began last weekend. The Scientist and I decided to just bite the bullet and hire a guy to do what needs to be done in the back yard.

The basement waterproofing system works just fine; but the new problem we have is that when it rains really hard the window wells fill with water and we get leaking around the glass. So, we hired a guy to pull out the broken cement patio, install drains, and grade and landscape the yard.

Here's the back yard before work began:

Here's another photo showing the big problem with the patio:

See how there's a good four inches of slab above ground near the camera, but back by the house it's sunk below the level of the ground? So much so that the former residents built a stupid little cement ramp to the sidewalk? Well, since the patio is angled back toward the house, all the rainwater beats against the foundation. Not good. It had to go.

These photos were taken moments before the landscaping guy showed up with this:

When we first had this guy out to look at the property, I was concerned that he would have to do all the work by hand. It's a really tight fit between my house and the neighbor's fence, and I didn't think he'd be able to get any heavy equipment back there. As it turns out, I was wrong:

Guy can drive some equipment, I'll give him that. He got right to work tearing up the slab, and for about 10 minutes it looked like he'd make short work of it:

Then, we ran into trouble.

This cement slab is apparently the king of all backyard cement patios. The landscaper said he'd never seen such a thick slab before. I guess most patios like this are thick on the edges, but much thinner in the middle. This slab was a solid four inches thick throughout, and reinforced with rebar.

This wouldn't have posed a huge problem, except that when the landscaper went to pick up the equipment from the rental place, the skid steer-mounted jackhammer he rented was broken.

He tried to muscle it with the Bobcat, but it quickly became apparent that the patio was going to win that fight. So he had to run over to Home Depot to get a hand-held jackhammer.

That did the trick. When they started jackhammering was about the time the girls and I went down for our naps (this might have been an issue for amateurs, but the girls and I are pro-level nappers). When we got back up, the back yard looked like this:

The accursed patio was now broken and defeated in my driveway:

The landscaper had scheduled two hours to remove this thing, and it took nearly all day. So we're already behind schedule and over budget. Good start to the project, huh? And the back yard's quite a mess:

Little did I realize just how bad it was going to get.

More to come.

###

WORK SHIRK

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Mon, 19 May 2008 17:31:00 +0000

When I eventually go into Lily or Macey's classroom for Career Day and some snotty-nosed kid asks me what it takes to be a good copywriter; I'm going to tell him this:

"Think of something you don't care about. I mean really, really don't care about. Something that never even entered into your consciousness before. Maybe it's the Snail Darter controversy; maybe it's hair replacement surgery. After you've got it, sit down and write a 16-page brochure about how amazingly awesome that thing is. If you can do that--you have the chops to be a legendary copywriter."

I, myself, will probably never be a legendary copywriter.

###

JOKER HOAXER

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Tue, 06 May 2008 02:42:00 +0000

Macey wants to know, why so serious?

###

#244 In which our hero and his lovely wife do something amazing.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Mon, 05 May 2008 15:17:00 +0000

Last Friday The Scientist and I went out! Without children! And met some friends! Out! This is something that we’ve done individually plenty of times, but honestly, I can’t remember the last time we went out together. It was a lot of fun.

My wife orchestrated the affair by calling me on Wednesday and saying, “Hey, do you want to go out Friday? I have a babysitter lined up.” So that was that.

A short time ago I became aware of a restaurant called “Melt Bar & Grilled” which specializes in grilled cheese sandwiches. Being that The Scientist and I both enjoy grilled cheese sandwiches, we wanted to try it out. Actually, when I told her about this place her reaction was, “Holy shit. We HAVE to go there.”

The only hitch was that it was clear across town. Now, Cleveland has this odd east side/west side thing where people don’t like to cross the river. We don’t hold any prejudices against the west side, other than it’s far away. And as soon as we step foot out of the door sans kids, the clock is ticking. In the past we’ve always stayed close to home, just so we could maximize our time. But again, grilled cheese. So we went.

On the way over I called some friends, told them we’d be on their side of the river. They agreed to meet us out and suddenly it was a party!

Melt is a tiny place. And it was already packed when we got there. However, arrived at a good time, around 6pm. Any later and it would have become a big pain in the ass to secure a table for seven. We had a drink at the bar while we waited for everyone else to get there.

Now, Melt also has an extensive beer selection… which would matter if I was a beer drinker. Which I’m not. But, they did have a hard cider on tap, which was nice. The Scientist had her heart set on a Snakebite, which is half cider and half beer (usually Harp--this is very different then the shooter we called Snakebites in college). The bar didn’t have Harp on tap, but they did have it in bottles. The bartender acted like it wasn’t at all a pain in the ass to make this thing with half cider on tap and half bottle beer, which she then stowed in the ice.

A word on this bartender. She was petite and kinda cute, in a heavily tattooed and pierced way. In fact, it seemed like it was mandated to be tattooed and/or pierced to work there, judging by the employees we saw. Our bartender wore the lowest-cut jeans I’ve ever seen in the flesh. She also had some tattoo I couldn’t quite discern on her hip running south. The combination of the two resulted in me starring quite intently at her crotch. Not that I meant to, but my eyes were drawn to it. “What the heck is that tattoo?” I thought. “Also, did I just see labia?” Obviously there was some serious shaving going on, which prompted the same old always-rejected request of my wife. I felt a little dirty about looking, but my wise wife reminded me that it was most likely calculated to generate a bigger tip. Which, now that I think about it, backfired bigger than hell because we transferred our bar tab to the table when we were sat… and unless The Scientist left some money when I wasn’t looking, I don’t think we tipped her at all. Oops. We suck.

Anyway, once everyone was there we ordered and eat an obscene amount of bread and cheese. But good Lord, was it good. At this point I was on my second pint of cider, and The Scientist was on her second Snakebite.

And here’s where I realized that sometimes I’m a bit over-protective of my wife. We hadn’t eaten anything since lunch when we got there, and the first drink was hitting me kind of hard, and I was sure it was affecting my wife ever more. Judging by her rising voice and level of silliness, I can say this with some level of confidence. By the time we had both finished our second (with food this time, thankfully) I figured we should both be done… me because I was driving, and her because… well, because I’ve seen what happens when she partakes too much.

The idea was floated of going out to another bar for more drinks and I, well, I turned into a bit of a dick. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. “Nah,” I said. “I say we hang out here for another half hour then head home.” Of course, when I went to the bathroom I was overruled in absentia. Apparently, the conversation when something like this:

THE SCIENTIST: Okay, where are we going after this?
OTHER REVELER: Um, I know this nice brew pub close to the highway…
TS: Great! Let’s go there.
OR: Well, I don’t want to upset Craig...
TS: Pfft! He’ll be fine. Let’s go!

But I’m glad we went. It was a nice place, and considerably quieter than Melt. It was nice to sit and talk and laugh too loud and annoy the diners around us. But we didn’t have time for more than a cup of coffee and pie before the clock expired and we had to get back to relieve the babysitter.

We should do stuff like that more often. Even if we have to cross a river to do it.

###

TEA SPREE

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 10:48:00 +0000

About a month ago I was cleaning off my dresser when I came across an individually wrapped tea bag. I don’t remember where I got it or how it got on my dresser, but there it was. It might have been a remnant from my brother-in-law’s gift basket when we flew out to California for his wedding.

I’m not a big tea drinker, but I have read good things about green tea. So, I usually keep a box of green tea in the cabinet, and when I have a hankering for something hot, but can’t be bothered to make coffee, I have a cup of green tea. I like to think that the benefits of the antioxidants and whatnot in there makes up for the generous amount of sugar I use. But anyway, this mysterious tea bag is “Good Earth Teas’ Original Sweet & Spicy.” On a lark, I decide to give it a try.

And holy Lord, it is the most delicious tea I have ever had.

I cannot get over just how fantastic this tea is. Man! Naturally, I want more of it. So I hit my local grocery store. They don’t have it. I go to the discount grocery next door. They don’t have it. So I go to the Whole Foods, which is a little out of the way. They don’t have it.

I start getting a little desperate.

So I look it up online and, like everything else in the world, you can have it sent right to your doorstep. So I do.

A couple of days later I’m meeting The Scientist and the girls out for dinner. I’m early, so I run over to Wild Oats which is completely out of my way, but close to where we’re eating. I don’t expect them to have my tea either.

But they do.

Elated, I buy a box. Then, a couple of days after that, the tea I ordered online arrives. But here’s the thing: at the time, I was consumed with getting more of this mélange-like tea. I could have just got a single box of tea, but there were considerable savings if I bought multiple boxes.

Thus:

I got six boxes. Seven, if you count the one I bought at the store.

The tea is still delicious, but… well, it appears that now that I have an ample supply, it’s not quite at delicious as it seemed at first.

Does anyone know if you can freeze tea?

###

#243 In which our hero looks at high school photos, part 3

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Wed, 16 Apr 2008 13:01:00 +0000

Sorry for the radio silence lately; it's been busy at work and, as you know, I only like to blog on company time. So, here's the final batch of HS photos:

Craig,
"87"
To a great guy with a terrific personality. Remember all the fun times during our senior year and good luck in all your future plans. Oh, I forgot I'm suppose to tell you. Keep the fuzzie naval, it adds to your character. (just kidding)

Love,
Marie

Here's another one that confuses me. Fuzzy Naval? That must mean something, but I have no recollection whatsoever of the context. Given my preference for booze that tastes like candy, you might think it was a drinking thing, but I'm pretty sure it's not. I guess it might have something to do with my actual naval, but damned if I know what Marie might actually have seen that.

Interesting aside: Marie was always a pretty straight-laced girl; we sat next to each other for a couple of classes and she had a dry sense of humor. But at the five year reunion, she showed up and was all slutty looking! It was such a bizarre 180 turn that I didn't know what to make of it. People change, I guess. I'm not saying that she was slutty, just that she dressed that way.

Craig,

To a good looking, sensitive and funny guy. You've been a good friend that I'll never forget. Have fun and good for the rest of your senior year. Keep in touch.

Love,
Kelly

"Good looking" ? That's awesome! I didn't get a lot of comments like that (in fact, including Kelly's I got one comment like that) so that's a nice little ego boost. Kelly was that super quiet and shy girl that never really talked in class. I sat next to her in a couple of classes, and chatted with her. She was really nice. Her sideways message is unique in all the photos I received.

Craig,

To a really sweet and careing guy who can always make you laugh no matter what kind of mood your in. Good luck in the future. Keep in touch.

Love,
Debbie

Another girl in my class. We didn't really hang out in the same circles. She probably had to work to think of something to write. Not sure why she would ID me as "caring." But that's better than "asshole-y."

Craig,
"87"
You're a great friend with a good sense of humor. You always bring a smile to my face.
Remember all of our crazy times in highs school. We've had some really good times. I wish you the best of luck in the future.

Love,
Debi
P.S. I'm still watching out for thunder-storms.

Ah, Debi. Had a huge crush on her our junior and senior years. I thought we would have been an excellent match, boyfriend/girlfriend-wise. Debi, it seems, did not concur. Unlike most of my crushes, I actually tried to do something about this one. Never coming right out and saying, "Hey, you want to date?" of course, but I did take her to lunch, once. But, she only had eyes for an upperclassman named Mike. And he wasn't that interested in her. Oh the humanity!

Also, the thunder storms thing? No idea.

Craig,
You leave me speechless! What can I say!? We've had some pretty wild & crazy times together that I wouldn't have missed for the world! I can't believe we're finally seniors. Never forget the great times our class has shared and hope for more int he future.

Luv,
Lisa

And the final crush of the season (and another redhead, to boot). However, in this case, Lisa and I actually dated for a time. A very brief time. I can't even imagine what a dork I must have been... because I had been crushing on Lisa for some time, then she actually agreed to go out with me (hopefully not by checking the YES box on a mash note, but I don't really remember). I was over the moon. But, this relationship probably lasted all of a couple weeks. I think we kissed maybe once or twice. She pulled the plug, of course.

Years later we made out at a drunken college party. I don't remember much of it. Had I thought that I might have had a snowballs chance of hooking up with her at this party I wouldn't have drunk as much as I did.

So, that's it. Kinda a pathetically small number of photos, huh? I like to think that since my graduating class was small (around 100) that percentage-wise, I'm not that lame. Right? Not that lame? No? Oh well.

###

#242 In which our hero looks at high school photos, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 03:12:00 +0000

Right back to the fun:

Craig,

Well sweety, this is it. We are going to be forced in to the real world. God help us... and the real world. Thank you for all you've given me. You've been one of the main influences on my life and I know I will always remember your quick wit and honest humor.

Thank for being there and don't forget those wonderful moments of high-school. Thanx for being you.

Love ya,
Michele

Michele are I spent a lot of time together in HS. That said, I don’t know if I was one of the main influences in her life… maybe I was and just didn’t realize it at the time. I wonder if she looks back and still thinks that? Everything in high school is so d r a m a t i c, but years later it all seems so minor. To me, at least. But Michele was a good friend. If I could travel back in time I would tell her never to date my friend Eric, because I knew at the time it was a bad, bad idea. But I kept my mouth shut and it ended badly, as I knew it would. Sorry about that.

Craig,

This isn't easy trying to think of what to write. Your friendship has meant more to me than I think you realize. I can always count on you for an honest opinion, even if it's not what I want to hear. I respect you for being so honest. We've had some great times in the plays, EPIC is questionable, but what do you expect... I really don't need to wish you luck with your presonality and "CHARM" you'll be successful in whatever you do. I only thank you for the memories and hope there will be more to come before this year is over.

Love Ya,
Susan
"TOOTS"

Boy, I thought posting these photos would be a lark, a little ha-ha weren’t we all so shallow in high school? sort of thing. But when I re-read these, and some of the clearly heart-felt messages written on them, I’m starting to feel like a bit of an asshole.

Susan and I were pretty good friends in our senior year. We were co-editors of the school newspaper (“The Epic”). For a time, Susan really wanted to date me, but I knew it wouldn’t work. And for perhaps the only time in my life I put aside any potential for, ahem, “physical gratification” and stuck with just being friends. Because being boyfriend/girlfriend would never have worked, and probably would have ended in tears. I don’t know what she’s getting at with my “CHARM,” but I choose to take it as a compliment. And I don’t remember what the “TOOTS” thing was either. Did I actually call her “Toots”? Good Lord, I was queer.

Susan was the main contact for the first 15 years of high school reunions, so I got to catch up with her every five years. She’s married, has kids, never left town. She seems happy, and I’m happy for her.

Craig,

To a real sweet guy that has a great personality. You have been a real special friend to me ~ Don't forget all the great times we've shared ~ Good-luck in all you do!

Love,
Missie

Thank God, back to the meaningless platitudes! Nothing to question or feel guilty about here. I don’t remember sharing any good times with Missie, really; unless she’s talking about field trips or whatever. And I would remember, because I wanted to share “good times” with Missie (if you know what I mean) in the worst way. Me and every other boy in the class. But, if I remember correctly, ended up dating an older guy from our arch-rival high school. Maybe even marrying him? Can’t remember.

Craig,

To the sweetest boy in our class. Remember all the good times our class has had. You're a very talented person and I know you will always succeed. Good luck in the future and in everything you do.

Love, Carol

Carol was a really nice person. We sat next to each other in several classes. That’s really all I can think to say about Carol.

Craig,

To a really special guy that I've had alot of great times with. Remember our affair in 6th grade + Camp Fitch. And of course the one acts. Good luck in all you do. You deserve the best + I know you'll go far. Please stay in touch.

Love,
Dionne
"87"

Dionne was my first girlfriend. And I use “girlfriend” in the loosest sense… this was only 6th grade after all. We talked on the phone, went to a couple of dances together (driven by my father) and finally kissed. My first kiss, I believe. It’s hard to remember such an innocent time, when kissing was a big deal, and tongue kissing (!!) was going “all the way.” The Camp Fitch she mentions was a camp on Lake Erie that my class went to for something like four days. It was in the dead of winter, we stayed in cabins (boys in one, girls in the other, naturally) and high school seniors were our chaperones. Here’s the two things that stand out most in my memory about Camp Fitch:

One night someone crapped his pants. And instead of chucking the evidence out into the woods or just stuffing it in the trash can, he left his nasty underwear in the shower. This was reported to our senior counselors, and they made us all strip down to our underwear and stand in a line while they checked the brand we were wearing to the “tainted” underwear. One kid was horribly upset and burst out into tears because he was wearing the same brand, even though the evidence was nowhere close to his size. I think they finally found the culprit, or at least a convenient scapegoat, and made him hike into the woods and bury his stinky shorts.

My other memory (and oddly, also poop-related) was the bus ride home. It was something like three hours. I had to go to the bathroom before we left, but for whatever reason I didn’t get the opportunity before we had to load up on the bus. I had to poop SO. BAD. I was sweating bullets the whole way home. I remember that Dionne was really made at me that I didn’t sit next to her on the bus. But I was afraid to, just in case the worst case scenario played out. But the story has a happy ending: I made it back without incident, bolted into the middle school and took care of business before my folks came to pick me up.

I suspect Dionne’s memories of the trip differ from mine. She probably was thinking of us holding hands around the fire while people told ghost stories or sledding down some serious hills. Sadly, our innocent romance didn’t last much longer after Camp Fitch.

One more batch of photos to go!

#241 In which our hero looks at high school photos, pt. 1

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 04:20:00 +0000

Last summer when I was home for Mom's birthday party, I went through some of my old high school stuff that Mom still had in a drawer. Typical junk... HS letter in football, National Honor Society pin, yearbooks, etc. I also found a stack of senior pictures. And, being the lover of schadenfreude that I am, I figured I'd let you, my faithful readers, share in what is sure to be a very uncomfortable group of comments.

Here's the first six off the top of the stack, in no particular order.

Craig,

to a real crazy guy who has a funny sense of humor. (Thanks for all the rides you gave me.) You have a great personality and you will go places with a personality like that. Remember all the fun times during this last year & good luck in the future.

Love,
Teresa

Well, that's nice. Seems pretty typical of HS picture comments. A little too typical, as we will see. Also, unlike some of the photos, I remember what she means with "thanks for all the rides." I drove to school and Teresa walked, and as I drove right past her house on the way home, I'd often give her a ride.

Craigy,

You are one sexy guy! No seriously, you're a super person & a great friend. I value these past 2 yrs of our friendship. We've grown so much closer. During this time, you've helped me to realize a lot about myself.

I love you!
Judy

Case in point of not remembering what a comment means. Judy and I were friends, but honestly, I don't remember us being that close. The thing is, I grew up in a little town (there were 100 people in my graduating class) so everybody knew everybody, and had for at least seven years. So while Judy and I were friends, I don't know that I ever helped her discover herself, or what-not. I guess maybe I had a greater impact on her than I realized but... jeez, I don't think so. And if we had really grown that close, she would have known that I wouldn't appreciate being called "Craigy."

Craig,

To a sweet guy who's alot of fun. Enjoy band to the fulliest (haha). Good luck in all you do-you deserve the best! Keep in touch.

Love,
Shirley

Oh boy. This is an embarrassing one. Shirley S. was a year older than me and I had the biggest crush on her (guess I had a thing for redheads ever back then). We were in band together, and I'm sure that's the only time I ever spoke to her. I'm frankly amazed that I worked up the nerve to ask her for a senior picture. Also, the first "keep in touch" of the lot; but certainly not the last.

And notice how the photo looks wrinkled? That's because I carried it around with me in my fabric Velcro wallet for years. Good Lord.

Craig,

to a great guy that I love to be around! You always know how to make me laugh! These years in H.S. have gone by so fast. Best of luck in all you do, I know you will do great!

Love,
Dina

These high school girls certainly were liberal with the "love," huh? If a fraction of the girls who said they loved me in their HS photo really loved me in HS, it would have been a very different experience.

Craig,

There are no words to describe you. You're a nice guy with a great personality and sense of humor. I hope your future brings everything you want.

Love,
Jenn

Have you figured out the common thread yet? Seems like everyone in HS saw me as a great friend with a great sense of humor and a great personality. Not dating material, Good God no, but I love having you as a friend!

But I have to say that Jenn's "I hope your future brings you everything you want" feels like the most sincere thing anyone wrote on their photo, and maybe the nicest.

Craig,

You are a real sweet guy, who you can always have alot of fun with. Remember all the fun times. Good luck your senior year. And ~~goo~~Best wishes for the future.

Love,
Kandy

Ah, my sweet Kandy.

I didn't crush on anyone in high school like I did on Kandy. I had it bad. And somehow, to this day I have no idea how, I managed to get her to agree to be my date to both the 8th grade prom and our Junior prom. Because of this, I feel like I was this close to actually living the dream and having her become my girlfriend.

This is a colossal fabrication my mind plays on me, of course. Kandy was always out of my league... I think she started dating a guy in college shortly after we went to prom together. Probably minutes after prom. And, as you can tell by her generic comments on her photo, she didn't harbor any deep seated feelings for me. She maybe appreciated it that I didn't try to grab her ass during the slow dances, but that's probably as far as her feelings for me went.

But I could be wrong. Note how she started to write "good wishes" and decided, mid-stroke, to send me "best wishes" instead. Bad composition skills or hidden desire for my bod? I choose to believe in the latter.

So anyway, that's the first six. The stories will most likely get better, and the embarrassment greater, as we go on.

###

ART START

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 03:25:00 +0000

Lily likes to draw. And while she's only four, she sometimes busts out these drawings which I think are really good. Really good meaning that I can tell, more or less, what they're supposed to me.

Yesterday she was drawing and informed me that she was going to make some dinosaurs for me. This is the first one she drew:

Clearly, it's awesome. Our conversation when something like this:

ME: Wow, honey, that's great! Look at all the spikes on his back!
LILY: I know! He's very spikey.
ME: What's his name?
LILY: I don't know. You name him!
ME: How about "Spikeasurus"?
LILY: Yeah! I'm going to draw another!
ME: Great!

Then, about five minutes later, she brought me this:

ME: Wow, honey, that's... wow. That's something else.
LILY: He's very tall!
ME: Yeah, he sure is.
LILY: What's his name?
ME: Boy, I dunno. How about "Dongasurus"?
LILY: Yes! That's the perfect name, daddy!
ME: Sure it is. Go show that to your mama.

So yeah, remember me when you're filling out your ballot for father of the year.

###

#240 In which our hero reminisces about his misspent youth and the man who attributed so much to it.

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 14:36:00 +0000

As geeks across the globe already know, Gary Gygax died last week.

His legacy, of course, is Dungeons & Dragons. Every article I’ve read in the past two weeks credits him as the “co-creator” of Dungeons & Dragons (along with Dave Arneson) but Gygax was, and always will be, D&D to me. Maybe it’s the exotic ring to his last name, or the unusual Y and X; I mean, doesn’t that sound like the name of an evil wizard? Tremble before the might of Gygax the Grievous!

I got into D&D when I was around 12 or 13. I don’t remember there being a big event, like I was first introduced at a friend’s house and became hooked for life or something like that… D&D has just always seemed to be there. I remember going into Walden Books at the mall with my dad; while he looked at the latest historical paperbacks, I’d always check out the D&D section. Walden had a shelf dedicated to D&D: all the hard cover books, plus countless flimsy modules with enticing names like The Keep on the Borderlands, Ghost of Lion Castle or The Lost Island of Castanamir. I’d be sucked in with their amazingly cool cover art and promises of adventure.

At some point dad finally bought me the Basic Set (in the red box). I devoured it. While I had played all the kid games you’d expect (Monopoly, Life, Risk, Uno, etc.) I had never seen anything like this. I guess I was predisposed in my thinking to want to be a romantic hero, sword flashing, slaying dragons and saving the damsel in distress. Even though at 13 it was more about killing the monster and taking its treasure than saving the fair-haired Lady.

I spent more time studying that rulebook than any of my textbooks. I went though it with a yellow highlight to mark what I considered the most important passages. My friends would later make fun of me because nearly the entire book was highlighted.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (AD&D) came out about this time (in the blue box) and I devoured that, too. At this point I actually had a group of friends (well, two others) to play with. I was almost always the Dungeon Master, a role I relished. I spent hours upon hours drawing maps on grid paper, seeding dungeons with monsters and treasure, and trying to write an engaging story about the adventure. Granted, these stories almost always began with the heroes meeting in an Inn over flagons of mead; being contacted by a mysterious benefactor to go fetch some magic artifact (which was always hidden deep in a monster-infested underground dungeon), and being rewarded handsomely at the end, IF they survived. Which they always did, because I was a softy with my players. I wanted them to be heroes, not corpses.

As time wore on I got involved with some new friends, our mutual love of the game bringing us together. This group was more interested in story that just grinding out EP and, most importantly, one of them liked being DM more than I did. So I finally got to play. I finally got to be the hero I had been dreaming of. So I created a character who was a… Thief.

It seems odd to me now that I chose a Thief. I mean, why not a Fighter in shining armor? Why not a Magic User? (Well, I can answer that last one--Magic Users suck at the lower levels; it’s not until you get to level 5 or so that you have any spells worth a damn, and you still can’t wear real armor.) But something about being a Thief appealed. I could sneak around, pick locks, notice things other players couldn’t. I was part of the mysterious Thieves’ Guild, and even had a secret language, the Thieves’ Cant. And I could wear decent armor and use good weapons. I was known as “Strike.”

Strike and I saw a lot of action. Failed a lot of saving throws (I sucked at rolling the dice). Took a lot of damage, but somehow always managed to live to fight (and pick-pocket and backstab and climb sheer surfaces) another day.

I even took the thief thing a little too far, shoplifting several of the hardcover D&D books from my beloved Walden Books. This was during my shoplifting phase, which ended in disaster. Thank God my parents were supportive, and not the kind of people who bought into the media-fueled stories of kids going off the deep end due to playing “satanic” games like D&D. Because it would have been a short jump between identifying my D&D character as a thief, and realizing that their son was stealing things in real life. I certainly never made it to the Mazes & Monsters level of involvement (“I am Pardue, and I am a holy man”).

Funny aside, one of the guys I played with in high school recently emailed me to apologize for killing my character at the penultimate moment in what was probably the last campaign we played before leaving for college. I, of course, remembered the moment clearly: we had just vanquished the last bad guy, and it was just he and I in the treasure room. He was playing a Thief, which means I probably wasn’t playing Strike at that time. I don’t remember what character it was, but I do remember that I had a lot invested in him. It had been a long and grueling summer, and this was it, our final reward. I started to eye the treasure, planning on how the gold (and associated experience points) would give my character a must needed final boost when he used the full might of his backstab ability to drive a dagger deep into my back. It actually burst out of my chest, if memory serves. Wow, was I pissed. It was in character, being that his Thief was evil (or maybe just neutral-evil), but that did nothing to calm my outrange. I remember that the DM and I talked about me coming back as a Revenant, but for one reason or another our group never got back together.

I went on to play some D&D in college (it helped that my DM and I went to the same school) but I eventually grew tired of D&D’s rather obscure rules. Frankly, I never cared much about the game play, it was all about the role play. It never made sense to me that as armor became better at protecting you, the armor class number went down; until the best protected fighters had negative numbers. I would have been really happy if everything could have been converted to a simple percentage roll. I guess that would have done away with some of the cool dice, and I wouldn’t have wanted that.

I discovered some other games in collage that made more sense to me, most notably Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay. Great game. I think I was drawn to the storytelling aspect in Warhammer, which always seemed stronger than in D&D. Naturally, I put in my time playing tabletop miniatures (Warhammer and Space Hulk), horror roleplay (Call of Cthulhu, ‘natch), science fiction (Traveller) and more. I eventually got out of role playing altogether… not by any conscious decision, I just got busy with other stuff. But I’ll tell ya, I’d jump into a WFRP game in a heartbeat, if I could find a group of people who had the time to commit. Actually, some like-minded friends and I talk about it from time to time, but I think we all really know that it’s not going to happen. Not, at least, while I have two kids under the age of five.

But in my youth I played--and played a lot. It was Gary Gygax’s name that I saw on the stuff I loved, over and over again. He was (in my mind, if not in reality) the single driving force behind not just the game I loved, but the wonderful worlds I got to walk around in on Friday and Saturday nights.

And I’m not one to say that Dungeons & Dragons changed my life or molded me into the man I am today …but it did help. Gary Gygax and the game he created gave me an outlet, a way to funnel my creativity into something (arguably) productive. I made up people and places and creatures and entire worlds… and I really never stopped. I make up stuff today as part of my job. Of course, now I’m making up headlines to help sell car tires or making up promotions to get you to sample the latest flavor of sports drink or whatever… but I’m still exercising my creative muscles. And thanks in no small part to Gary Gygax, my creative muscles are strong and up to the task.

And unlike that kid of 13 pulling an all-nighter to finish an adventure, now I get paid to be creative.

Thanks, Mr. Gygax.

###

WORK JERK

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 14:46:00 +0000

I've been thinking about my job a lot lately; my career, actually. Nothing I'm dumb enough to post publicly, but it's been on my mind. Ugh. Big thoughts. Make my brain hurt.

Here's a video that you may or may not find amusing. I find it hilarious, because it's true. A hack. An egomaniac. That's me.

###

HATE STATE

noreply@blogger.com (craig) — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 17:20:00 +0000

Last week I had encounters with the two kinds of people I most hate in the world. And, lucky me, they both happened at the time.

I was at the grocery store picking up a prescription. There were two people in front of me, and the transaction seemed to be going slowly. Not horribly slowly; I was absorbed enough in my own woolgathering that it didn’t really register as slow. But, apparently, all time stopped for the lady behind me.

Now, I hadn’t been there that long, but apparently I had stepped into line as precisely the correct moment to avoid a line. Because three or four people quickly queued up behind me. The pharmacy in my grocery store is next to the employee time clock, and just as the first woman in front of me was finishing up, a manager came on duty and clocked in. Now, I’m not sure how anyone would know he was a manager; he seemed to be dressed in the same khakis and blue shirt as everyone else, but the woman behind me instantly knew what he was. “Excuse me,” she said to him. “Can you get someone else to ring at the pharmacy? The girl there seems a little… slow.”

Now, this girl did look a little slow to me, as in dim-witted. And when, I have to ask, did they start letting just anyone work at the pharmacy? At one point my prescriptions were only handed to me by actual pharmacists. But now, it seems like they just let any register-jockey man the desk.

Anyway, the manager, a fresh-faced young man in a freshly pressed shirt, was eager to help out this lady, so he went over to the pharmacy window and addressed this only employee who was typing things into a computer. By her equally dull-witted expression it was clear that she, too, was just a lackey, and not a pharmacist.

Now, I didn’t catch what he said to her, but I’m assuming it was something to the effect of, “Hey, can you stop whatever you’re doing and start ringing out some of the people in this line?” And I didn’t hear what she said to him, but I heard the rest of the exchange loud and clear.

FRESH-FACED MANAGER: Okay, put it this way, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.
APATHETIC EMPLOYEE: You can’t tell me.
FFM: Yes, yes I can.
AE: No you can’t. You can ASK me, but you can’t tell me!

But, she got up from the computer and moseyed over to the register. This is kind of person I hate #1. The person who openly hates their job and, by extension, everyone they have to deal with as part of their job. One assumes that she was told that speaking directly to the public would be part of her job when she was hired; maybe she could try not to be so contrary about it. I mean, everyone hates their job at some point, but Jesus, it’s your JOB. You get paid to do it. Just fucking do it.

But, as much as I dislike the woman now “serving” me, I hate the woman behind me even more (she is kind of person I hate #2).

As soon as the manager and this dumbass employee get into it, she starts huffing and puffing behind me. “Unbelievable!” she says, just loud enough for the people directly around her to hear. “Unbelievable! If I talked to my boss that way, I’d be fired in a minute! Unbelievable!”

This is the kind of passive-aggressive harpy who never confronts the object of her scorn directly; she only mumbles about the situation, hoping that the people directly in front and behind her will take the bait and initiate a bitch-fest. She’s hoping that I’ll chime in with “I know! You just don’t get good service these days!” or some such shit.

The really crappy thing is that this kind of person usually pipes up when the person behind the counter is doing the best they can. Like they have some crazy return and refund they have to coax out of their computer; something that only comes up once in a lifetime. In these situations I like to say something really cynical to the huffer and puffer; like “I know! How dare she not know those beans were 36 cents a can, and not 38! The nerve!” Sometimes they get that I’m making fun of them, sometimes not.

But, back to this pharmacy situation, the lady behind the counter wasn’t doing the best she could; she was barely doing anything at all. So I just kept my mount shut.

And once again wished I could shoot laser beams out of my eyes.

###