Today, in the Potbelly line, my friend and ex-boss Travis asked me about the upcoming change in location for Clare and me. Would we be staying together? How would that work? I answered honestly that I did not know. I know we are not breaking up, but the future is anyone’s guess. Then I heard him say, “Well, does she matter to you?*” Travis is not a man known for his tact, but this question was straightforward in a way I did not expect.

My mind’s eye immediately turned to my mental Batcave. Campily decorated computers tickered out tape, buttons flashed and gears turned. Thinking happened. I never considered the question seriously. I mean, of COURSE she matters to me. But as I always must, I wanted to mull over all meanings. Is my life — in the rational, mundane, day-to-day sense — really effected? Beyond having to do my own household chores, will I really notice a change?

Despite myself, the short time we still have together in the next few months has mostly been spent at separate workstations, plugging away at personal projects or pastimes. I get up and go to work. When I come home, we hem and haw over what to have for dinner and what to watch while eating. That will rapidly become internal monologue.

So, in the Spartan industrial sense, I guess… no, she doesn’t matter that much. We have both always said that romantics though we may be, it would be silly to say we could not live without one another. We could. We prefer not to. When she’s gone we will both adjust. One could say, she does not matter.

But no! I won’t say that about this woman who has been my most perfect companion for the past 6 years, who has borne my idiosyncracies and pushed me to become a man of whom even a cynic like me can be proud. She doesn’t MATTER? How can someone even ask that?

Asking whether something matters, what does that even mean? Does acting in theater really matter? No, but I love doing it. Does Clare matter? No but I love doing… you get the idea. What kind of question is that?

Even in the darkest moments of men complaining, I have never heard the most jaded man say (in any seriousness) that his woman does not matter. A car, a career, even the world at large: these things can be dismissed. But no man could say that his woman (his partner, his spouse, whatever) does not matter. Clare matters to me very much, regardless of my ability to live a life without her.

All these things churned in my mind, as my forehead knitted my eyebrows into sweaters. I shook from my rumination long enough to see Travis looking at me expectantly.

“Or is it just the school thing?” Travis prompted.

“Sorry, what?” I asked.

“I said, ‘What, is she mad at you? Or is it just the school thing?'”

“Oh. I thought you said… No. It’s just the school thing.”

Fifteen years ago.

I was just 15, starting along a path which is only now revealing itself to me. I don’t remember what caught my attention exactly, I remember only the uncomfortable chair in the high school library, the doubt and insecurity and the strangers’ eyes trying to discern my purpose for sitting there.
(more…)

I hate my butt.

Make sure we are clear about the subject here. I have a relatively fat-free, strong, round, mammalian mesomorph gluteus. Like most ape-men, my fat cells avoid the limbs and clambor toward the temporal climate of the torso. So, as much extra baggage as I have, I could only coloquially be considered a “fat-ass.”

No, my loathing of my posterior region is not aesthetic in nature. While I am partial to the baggier style of clothing, even through my sagging jeans one can proclaim the ferrous alloy aspect of my “buns.”

“Well, what then?” you may well ask. “If you’re so enamored with the pleasantly curved cheeks of your manly yet pouty rump — as are we all, you beautiful bastard — then why the whinging?”

I will elucidate, never you fear. In truth, while my shapely buttocks are seemingly unaffected by gravity, forever perched on that pinnacle of pert and perky perfection, they do shelter a hidden secret. Though no one but me could ever know this*, they are in fact… flawed. And this imperfection, while concealed from the adoring public, conspires to remind me of basic entropic principles. Even this monument to the masculine ideal is slowly crumbling.

* Unless, of course, if I were to extoll the horrible truth. On a public website, for example.

What follows could be described as Too Much Information, by almost everyone. You have been warned.

(more…)

Girl, 11, will be Britain’s youngest mother | the Daily Mail

The girl smokes 20 cigarettes a day despite being eight months’ pregnant. She conceived aged 11 when she lost her virginity to a boy of 15 on a drunken night out with friends.

A drunken night out with friends. Losing your virginity at 11. Twenty cigarettes a day during the pregnancy. That baby’s going to come out looking and sounding like Tom Waits after a week-long bender in Tijuana.

Warning: The rest of this post is highly vitriolic and filled with harsh language.

(more…)

This morning, I woke up slightly before my 7a.m. alarm. When this happens, I roll over and press up against my girlfriend. Her skin is always slightly warmer and softer than mine, so she makes a fine body pillow. Some call this behavior “spooning.”

The issue with “spooning,” as the Swiss refer to it, is that human beings have arms. Two, to be precise. And the specific issue with my “spooning” is the my arm from wrist to elbow crook is significantly longer in length than my girlfriend’s ribcage when lying on her side. So my arm can either interrupt her sleep and sneak up under hers, or just rest gently on her hip or thigh.

I chose the slightly more courteous but uncomfortable position, one arm pinned under my head, elbow pointed up as though I were scratching my back by reaching over my shoulder and the other on display at the promontory of her hip.

It is important at this time that you have a clear visual.
(more…)

Steelbuddha: I just thought of a funny conversation that someone could have. “I’m having a Rhinestone day.” “What’s that?” “It’s a day where I would rather watch Rhinestone back to back for nine hours than actually work. Do you hear what I’m saying? I would rather watch Sylvester Stallone. Sing. Country Music.”

Czeltic Girl: Oh, it’s definitely a Rhinestone day. Hell, it’s a Steven Segal Film Fest day.

Steelbuddha: No, no. You’re not understanding this. Watching Steven Seagal films at least involves violence, and occasionally nudity. Rhinestone culminates in Sly Stallone singing country music.

Czeltic Girl: Yes, but I’d rather watch Sly try to sing than Segal try to act.

Steelbuddha: Wow. I underestimated your pain tolerance.

Czeltic Girl: So many do.

I attempted to write this into a funny story, but I find the screenplay version to be so compelling as to render any retelling feeble. So, I now present The Weirdness of my Workplace – Part One.

INT. OFFICE
[An over-designed cubicle seen from the entrance. A man’s back is silhouetted against the glow of a computer screen. From off-camera someone speaks.]

Voice of TM: Hey buddy, what’s happening?

Man at Computer (SB): (closes tab of non-work related item and hurriedly removes ear buds) Hello? Oh hey, nothing much. How are you doing?

TM: Fine, fine. Listen, what size shoe do you wear?

SB: Um.

TM: I know it’s a weird question.

SB: 12-13, depending on the shoe, I guess.

TM: Cool. Can I borrow your shoes?

[cut to SB’s face. Voice-over of internal monologue.]

SB (voiceover): Why does he want to borrow my shoes? Is this some kind of prank? Maybe he needs them for a photo shoot or something. But this guy is known for having lots of different cool pairs of shoes; why does he want my cheap-ass skate shoes? I really don’t mind lending them to him, but my feet have been pretty sweaty lately. But we know each other pretty well. Jesus, what do I say?

SB: Sure, I guess. (looks at TM’s feet)

[cut to TM’s feet. He is wearig only dark socks. Cut back to conversation.]

SB: Why don’t you have any shoes?

TM: I loaned them to JV.

SB: Oh. (pause) Why… exactly did you do that?

TM: Well, I wasn’t going to need mine.

SB: Ah. And why did he?

TM: He tore the soles of his this morning and considering the weather, he needed to have shoes to go get some replacements. My plans to run errands were cancelled, so I let him borrow mine.

SB: So, then… why do you need shoes?

TM: Turns out the weather is looking a little better, and my plans are back on.

SB: Oh, OK. Well, I hope they fit.

TM: Yep, thanks!

[JR’s head pops up over the cubicle wall.]

JR: Seems like a pretty flimsy excuse to support your shoe fetish, man.

[Cut to black. TITLES: The Weirdness of my Workplace.]

Dick Cheney misses bird, hits fellow hunter

“Serves him right,” Cheney was quoted as saying. “You pathetic fleshlings are vulnerable to weapons that cannot hope to penetrate my exoskeleton. Even your attempts to use an electro-magnetic pulse to stop my cardiac-unit have failed in the face of the evil that animates my cyborg corpse. TREMBLE!”

Cheney then peeled back his lips to reveal a double-row of burnished titanium teeth, took a sizable bite out of a nearby puppy and began complex sexual intercourse with a Whirlpool washer/dryer unit.

Link proliferated from Davezilla.

Carina wanted me to hear this Italian pop song to get my opinion. My one-line review was “I feel like this song should be charging me $4.95 a minute.” Carina then explained that the translated lyrics amount to a man apologizing that he won’t take his lover in a manly fashion because she is only seventeen. My review stands.

Vorrei Ma Non Passo – Tiziano Lugli

non·ver·sa·tion (nnvr-sshn)
n.

1. Spoken discourse resulting in nothing substantive.
2. (Sometimes unctuous) Pleasantries exchanged to promote the illusion of concern, friendship, or respect, usually followed by a request or body language which pleads reciprocation.
   How was your weekend? Good, I need you to…
3. The majority of communication at one’s job on a given day.