Doggie Pictures
Ok… while I appreciate all the great names you guys have come up with (i.e. “meenee tow kawa no bukuro”, “cat” & “shit missle”), I thought I’d help you, help me… a little better.
Here are a few pics to derive some inspiration.
« August 2003 | Main | October 2003 »
Ok… while I appreciate all the great names you guys have come up with (i.e. “meenee tow kawa no bukuro”, “cat” & “shit missle”), I thought I’d help you, help me… a little better.
Here are a few pics to derive some inspiration.
So, it has come down to this. The debate is over. Weighing the pros and cons have been outweighed, and all indications of failure point to my corner. That’s right; Cory and I got a dog.
Actually, the way I phrase it in my head is: Cory got a dog, and I don’t mind. This way, my defeat on the whole dog issue is only perceived from others, and not from within my own sanctuary.
Seriously though, you wouldn’t have been able to resist either. I was duped. There were no decisions or choices to be made… one look at his sad eyes and I knew he was our dog. No ifs ands or buts about it.
He is a 4-month-old Basset Hound. And he needs a name because I don’t care much for the name he was given at birth: Morgan. And besides, he doesn’t even know his name yet… that, or he’s deaf. Either way, a name change wont bother him one bit. Cory likes the name Morgan, but I feel that due to the circumstances, a compromise is owed. So help me out here, wont you? Because if I can’t come up with a good name for this lovable sack of skin and ears, you will be doomed to hear my bitching and complaining for at least the next three weeks (until I get used to the name Morgan).
Who would win in a fight… the Almond or the Cashew? If I were a betting man, I would place my money on the Cashew. To me, it only seems reasonable that the better tasting, more refined nut would win.
Sure the Almond has a few advantages; for instance, the Almond has had quite a bit more exposure to different surroundings than the Cashew. I mean, you would be hard pressed to find very many nuts that have seen the inside of as many cereal boxes as the Almond has. Plus, the Almond has Honey in its corner… and we all know what a formidable foe Honey can be. It is this assorted exposure that makes the Almond such a well-rounded nut.
But it is the Cashew that takes the can. Without a doubt, its sweet, salty, smooth texture can’t be beat. And if I had to, I would bet that the Cashew could beat the piss out of the Macadamia… even if it does have Chocolate on its side.
I once knew a man who took four days off of work because his wife’s cat died.
I think I may have stumbled upon a new diet. Not the kind where you have to deny yourself food. More like a regimen. Last night I ate chips and guacamole for dinner, and a lot of it. And that was pretty much it (other than the watermelon I had for dessert). And today I feel like a bazillion dollars. I worked out like a champ. I haven’t skipped a beat all day.
Who’d have known?
I’ll let know how much lean mussel I’ve gained in 6 weeks. See you then.
… and so ends another beautiful weekend. Today was chockfull of fun. Let me tell you a little about it. There was the predawn wake-up, the usual endless discussion about what we should do, followed by some sort of egg creation of mine on my new $24 non-stick, non-scratch skillet, and of course a trip to the grocery store. You know, today wasn’t supposed to require any thinking or planning. Today was supposed to be a beach day, and a beach day requires about as much forethought as a goldfish might have stored up in its little brain.
“Hmm, what should I have for lunch on the beach today? PB&J or turkey?”
(down at the beach) “Oh shoot baby, you forgot the watermelon”
“That’s ok, I’ll walk back to the apartment and get it. (one minute later) Problem solved.”
You see? Simplicity. But no, it had to be gloomy today and spoil my plans for not making any plans. Stupid sunny California. Damn September-gloom.
Enough of that. Let me tell you about the Open House that Cory and I visited today. It was around 3:30 or so when we were coming back from grocery shopping (where we bought an $11.31 watermelon) when I thought it would be fun to show Cory a town home I had driven by on Saturday that had a For Sale By Owner sign posted out front. Well, lucky us, not only was it still for sale, but we arrived amidst its debut Open House! With another couple already inside, we found solace in that we would not be the only prey for the owner to stock once inside. So we gathered the courage, parked the Camry, and walked directly through to the side entrance (undetected) to take a gander at what this little place had to offer.
To my surprise, this place was absolutely stunning. In a word, immaculate. Brand new hardwood floors, 2bd/2ba, vaulted ceiling in the living room (>25 ft), loft, 2 car garage, blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. Ok. Get the picture? It was very, very nice. Cory and I both thought so, but we wiped our drool so the owner couldn’t tell. The lady showing us around was quite the saleswoman. She was chattin’ Cory and I up like an old pro. Something told me that this wasn’t her home that she had been living in for the past 20 years. Yeah, she was in it for the dough, probably a con artist or a carnie or something. As we toured the house, she mentioned that the furniture (which, by the way, was probably worth more than the house) would be negotiable to the new owner. A "near steel" if the owner bought everything.
I began to lean more towards carnie.
All in all, the place was gorgeous. Cory wanted to buy it on the spot. So did I. I had to remind her that we weren’t in the market for a house, and that all my ski masks were still packed away under our bed with all our winter gear. So if we wanted to afford this place we’d either have to wait till winter or one of us would have to flip the mattress. Before leaving, I took one more look down at the brochure in my hand: $462,000. Need I remind myself that this was a town home? Meaning: $150/month in home owner associate fees. Meaning: Not detached from another home. $462,000. Need I remind myself that this place was not even on the beach, and that it was East of the 5? No. I didn’t need any reminding. This is S.D., and I knew all that before parking the car.
In my humble opinion, there are few things finer than enjoying a large, steaming cup of caffeine, whilst racing at 80 MPH on the freeway in the wee hours of the morning, with your favorite album turned up so loud that you can't even hear yourself singing at the top of your lungs.
Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae.
The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm.
Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by
istlef,
but the wrod as a wlohe.
Fcuknig amzanig huh?
Coming back from lunch break, I can always expect the Messages button on my phone to welcome me back with a blinking eye. Without fail, I will receive a high volume of calls during this 1-hour break. These chicken-shit-lunch-callers (as I’ve dubbed them under my breath), will call between 12 and 1pm, KNOWING very well that they’ll get my voicemail. That’s why I’ve come up with the ingenious idea of disabling my voicemail while I’m at lunch. That way, these chicken-shit-lunch-callers can call all they want… but with no voicemail they wont be able to tag me as it, and they’ll be forced to call me back if they want any credit for calling at all.
Well, I never made it in to work today. Surprised? Nah, me either. But it’s not my fault. You see, I had full intensions of going to work today. So much so, that I turned down a ride from a few friends that were heading downtown to catch a movie and lunch (amongst lots of other really cool things that I hear happen down there). I told them that I was going to hit up work for a few hours…
Anyway, I won’t defend myself here. If it’s any consolation to you schmoses that had to work today, it was cloudy today – all day.
But besides the clouds, today was great. I got my 30k mile tune-up on my car taken care of. Thank God. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure that if I had driven that thing any further a hub cap probably would have fallen off. Or maybe the mirrors would have frozen in a crooked position. Or worse yet, the gas cap might have gotten jammed and I wouldn’t have been able to refill my tank. Disturbing to think about… I know. Well, for whatever reason, I’m just glad those mechanics did what they had to do to keep my car running tippity-top.
Whilst I awaited the return of my car, I decided to make a visit to the lovely Oceanside movie theater. Approaching the ticket counter, I realized that the pickings were gonna be slim. And slim they were. It was 1:40 PM and there was only one choice, “The Order”. Hmm, The Order. I hadn’t heard of it, so I asked the ticket-gal if she had a synopsis of The Order. I was alone. The Order was the only movie playing within an hour and a half. I used the word synopsis. “Asshole” is the word that I’m sure came to her mind.
After shuffling through the pile of crap behind her, she approached the glass window separating us with a sick look of annoyance smeared across her face. Ticket-gal then flipped through the pages of the 3-ring binder, holding it as she were showing a six-year old a picture book, such that I could signal to her when I found the page I was looking for. “There it is” I said. By this time I knew that I was going to have to watch this movie… no matter what the description was. In fact, I didn’t even read the God-damn synopsis because by that time a couple had walked up behind me. “Ok”, I said, assuring her that it had met my standards, “I’ll take a ticket”.
“$6.75 please”, she sighed. Shit. I looked into my magic folding-wallet and only found 5 singles. Shit. Shit. Shit, as I remembered that movie theaters usually only take cash. All that for squat. I was just about to turn and run away when I plopped my credit card onto the counter and slid it to her under the glass wall, as if it were a bribe and maybe the management wouldn’t see it. It worked. I don’t know if she accepted the bribe and just wrote down my #s for her own personal use later on, or if the theater actually took credit cards. I didn’t care. I was in baby.
Two hours later I walked out of that theater a much dumber man. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure that I lost a few IQ points just sitting through that movie. Oh well, I guess I should have followed my gut instinct and read that synopsis after all.
It’s Monday morning and I haven’t gone in to work yet. I think I’ll eventually go to work today, just not right now. Right now I think I’ll walk to the Village Buzz and grab myself a cup of my favorite cloudy-morning drink… a large latte served piping-hot with a friendly smile.
By the way, for any of you tattletales out there… I am not playing hooky. This morning was pre-planned. Yep. Submitted and approved upon, with provisions put into place last week to ease any confusion or worries in the absence of yours truly.
A whole couple of hours for myself. Sweet bliss, what am I waiting for?
Sometimes I wish I lived in San Francisco. I don’t know why, but there’s an allure to SF that I just can’t seem to shake from my head. I blame it on all those stupid movies that (without fail) depict SF as such a hip-cool place to live. Why do they do that? Must everyone live in a 5,000 sq. ft. loft overlooking the bay? Why can’t those movies show SF as an overcrowded, over priced, hobo-infested shit hole? Maybe if we made these kinds of movies we could discourage all those candy-asses who dream about moving to SF (why are you looking at me?). Then the streets wouldn’t be so crowded, the housing prices would drop, and the hobos would pack-up and leave for Canada.
....
Sadly, it wouldn’t be San Francisco anymore… and even I wouldn’t move there.
It’s pre-8AM on Sunday morning. I’m up because my back told me I wasn’t allowed to sleep any longer. I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure that my back is mad at me for hitting golf balls yesterday. Oh well, you win some… and then you usually loose the rest. You know how it goes. Unfortunately I can’t tell if my back is mad at me for hitting golf balls or if it’s mad at me for taking such a long break from the last time I hit golf balls. Argh, do I, or don’t I hit balls again today?
Enough of that.
Last night Cory and I joined the gang in Encinitas for a cook-out. We were late (passed out in a trance at the beach), so it was just the others doing the cooking-out part. Somebody there had made these tasty little morsels of pork cutlets that were to die for. Mucho props to you if you were that person. Maybe we can swap recipes (I’ll give you my peanut butter with banana & honey recipe).
After the pig-out session, we headed south on the 5 to La Jolla in search of The Perfect Piano Bar. If you’re taking notes, The Perfect Piano Bar is not the name of a club, that’s the description of a mythical place in which a big group of friends could gather to hear some of their favorites sung by a skillful pianist, without fear of talking over the vocalist, with lounge-type couches, cheap drinks, and really great bar food (actually, this last criterion is optional, but o-so-good). If you just read that last sentence, *shhhh*, don’t give away the surprise ending.
Our first stop was a place called “At the Cove”. This was supposed to be the place. In fact, it was supposed to be the place so much so, that we didn’t have a contingency plan (Busted, caught with all my eggs in one basket again. Doh). Needless to say, this was not The Perfect Piano Bar. To be fair, there was a bar, and there was a piano, but perfection includes a room that doesn’t make you feel like you’re listening to elevator music in an elevator.
Next stop, Jose’s.
Now, I know that I’m not very experienced when it comes to hunting down a piano bar, but something struck me as being odd when somebody suggested that we try Jose’s. I tried to picture it: A dimly lit room, a piano in the corner, purple crushed velvet pillows on the couches, and tequila body shots with the loud crunch of chips and salsa and Mariachi Band interludes. No. But not wanting to be a poor sport, I followed the pack. Sure enough, Jose’s had all the makings of a great Mexican-food-restaurant-bar-and-cantina, equipped with a fully-stocked island bar, lots of TVs, the wonderful smell of carne asada, and the crunch of fresh tortilla chips. But no piano.
Off to The Valencia Hotel’s lobby-turned-piano-lounge-at-night.
Now, The Valencia had all the makings of a great piano bar. There was an animated pianist (with a piano), there were couches, and if I’m not mistaken I do believe I saw somebody chowing-down on a pint of Ben & Jerry’s at the bar. This was my kind of place. After some light discussion, a few shoulder shrugs, and a couple of minutes of awkward hesitation, we all decided to stay and have a few drinks.
As our sever made his way around the group, I took notice that there weren’t any menus. No delicious greasy mozzarella sticks or fried mushrooms. But I hey, I didn’t mind, because as I mentioned before food is optional when it comes to searching for The Perfect Piano Bar. (... I wonder how that guy snuck in his pint of ice cream).
We all stayed for a couple of sets and a few drinks before eventually leaving for Moondoggies. All in all, I’d say that The Valencia was a good piano bar. The drinks were a little pricy, but we were in La Jolla after all. If the Travel Channel were to ask me to rate The Valencia as a contender in their quest to find The Perfect Piano Bar, I would probably not rank it in my top 10 list, but don’t be surprised to find it in my favorite 25.
I went to the Padres game last night. They played the Diamondbacks. I had 3 parking passes and 14 tickets. The parking passes were for Section G, front row. The tickets were for a private skybox, press level. I invited everyone I know. I had two takers.
Now, maybe it’s because my friends aren’t “baseball people”, or maybe because I only had an hour and a half notice to round up the troops, but it seems to me that one should be able to give away tickets of this caliber. What’s even more remarkable is that these aren’t my tickets (meaning…I don’t pay $$$ for a little carpet-lined concrete and glass box up in the heavens of Qualcomm Stadium). What does that have to do with anything you say? Well, that means that before these tickets were gifted to me, there was another entire group of people who were offered these tickets… with no takers.
At the game I wondered why no one was interested in going to a ball game. I mean, isn’t baseball one of America’s favorite pastimes? I opened another Corona before pondering this question any further. As I sat in the skybox on the couch facing the wall of glass overlooking the field, Corona in hand, my eyes wandered over to the two takers that had joined Cory and I. Two Britts. Ah, the irony. Before me sat Paul and Karen, a couple of Britts in Yankeeland, enjoying the night away.
So, I’ve come to ask myself the ultimate question: What sucks more, the Padres, the game of baseball, or my friends?
New friends need not apply.
It was around 4ish this afternoon, at a barbeque function, when I witnessed one of man’s finer traits... his ability to accept a foolish bet, even at his own expense.
While sitting around enjoying an ice cold beverage in the garage of his home, this guy, let’s call him “Shane”, was challenged that he could not eat eight Saltine crackers within 1 minute & 20 seconds. With his manlyhood at stake, young Shane would not dare affirm this false presumption that he couldn’t perform a task, which by all means seemed ridiculously simple.
After boasting for several minutes about how he would finish in less than one minute, Shane accepted the challenge and armed himself with eight of the saltiest Saltines you’ve ever seen. How do I know they were so salty…?...well, from the look of Shane’s face upon failure, it seemed as though the extra salt from the crackers he was choking on were being rubbed onto his wounded ego.
After discussing a different technique (two crackers at once this time), Shane graciously accepted his failure and wiped his face as he made his way out to the barbeque grill. Defeated in his own garage. “Maybe they didn’t notice”, I’m sure he thought to himself. But from the taste of my burned chicken, I’m guessing he knew we noticed.
It’s 1pm and I’ve accomplished none of what I had hoped to accomplish today (except I DID partake in a painful jog down the coast… but anything painful shouldn’t count). What exactly did I plan on doing during this glorious Monday-holiday? Well, to start out how about… ANYTHING. Or maybe… SOMETHING. Alas, my dreams of golf were run over by the train that kept me up all night causing me to sleep in. My hopes of playing in the sand and surf were dampened by my nemesis Mr. Cloud.
But I’m not giving up yet! No sir. I’mna strap on my flops and hit the pavement with enough fortitude and latte in my blood for all us to have a good time.