Tuesday, February 27, 2007
As a result of my compulsion to imbibe, I have taken Steps to combat the problem. It goes like this: A bunch of people gather around a table, or in a circle of chairs, and they relay their stories and listen to others relay their stories about the horrors--and sometimes comedy--of Addiction and the ways in which they deal widdit. Oftentimes, coffee is served. To-day, there was cake. (I ate some frosting and nothing else.)
The table at which I was sitting included about ten people, both men and women. A dude showed up late and pulled a chair from the corner, and sat down. I glanced at him and then did a double-take. The guy looked EXACTLY like my Grandad. Which was odd, you see, because my Grandad has been dead for nigh upon 15 years. Something like that.
The similarities were amazing. Simply amazing, and I kept stealing glances at the fellow to see if, maybe, I had overestimated his doppelgangerness. (It's a word. Seriously. Okay, maybe not.) Every time I looked at him, he looked more and more like my Grandad. Except he had hair; albeit it had the essence of a toupee.
What was it about the guy that looked so familiar? The eyebrows, first. Arched and thin, they were my Grandad's eyebrows on another man. (That sounded bad, for some reason.) He wore glasses and they were perched atop a somewhat-bulbous nose. Again, doppelgangeracity. (It's a word. Mos' def.) Then what? Well, the eyes were the same, too. This is too easy to pass up: My Grandad's eyes were on another man. (Now that definitely sounded bad.) They were the same size and shape; kinda squinty, a little simian. The guy stood up to get some cake and coffee.
The similarities ended. His was a pear-shaped body whilst my Grandad's body had been athletic his whole life, right up until the end. More dissimilarities: The guy, Allen--and his age was incredibly tough to gauge, though I'm usually pretty good at that, but he had to be in his 60s--fancied himself a ladies' man, I think. Of any age. He was scoping, scoping, scoping the entire meeting, be they in their 20s or be they in their 40s--he was giving them the once-over. And twice-over. And the ole up-n-down. I found it funny.
"Grandad," I was thinking, "you tomcat, you!" I had to bite the inside of my cheek once or twice to keep from smiling.
You know? On second thought, maybe the guy was checking out the women--being so blatant about it--because he noticed me looking at him. I assure you, Al the Grandad Doppelganger, I'm not into same-sex incestuous necrophilia; call me crazy. Now that? That was really bad, and I apologize.
But it's amazing, sometimes, when you see someone who is the spitting image of someone to whom you are close, like a family member or a good friend. You tend to attribute your loved one's personaliy traits to the stranger and it is thus more mind-bending when they are--obviously--nothing like the person whom you know. Or have known.
Any doppelganger stories out there, in Cyberland? I'd love to hear about them.
That's all. As you were.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Lovers shall enwtine and seperate; babies shall be born and sprout teeth; flowers shall blossom and wither. Britney Spears shall enter and exit rehabilitation 22 times. Like a cartoon, calender pages shall fall and clock faces shall spin.
Not to be too dramatic (too late) but the fate of the world--as we know it--just may hinge on your solitary decision...no pressure.
It is around six o'clock in the morning on Sunday. Should this 'blogger, A, greet the world with a wide smile and cook some eggs and drink some OJ and stay awake or should this 'blogger, B, finish drinking his creamy coffee and stub out his cancer stick and commence--again--counting leaping sheep?
(Or, C, should he read the couple upstairs the riot act for rousing him from his deep slumber at 3:27, thus rendering a refreshing, uninterrupted night's sleep a moot point?)
Choose wisely, young Star-Stabbers; choose wisely.
* I know what you're thinking, kemo sabes: By the time the final votes are tallied, the outcome will have already been determined. I'll either have gone back to bed or I will have stayed awake. Exactly. I did say that this was a primer to the Primary, right?
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
I opened my eyes with some effort. They were gummy and dry. The sleeping pills that I'd taken the night before had not had the desired effect. Sure, they'd knocked me out, physically--I felt like I had gone 10 rounds with Tornado Pete--but that damned dream had returned. If anything, the pills had made it worse, more vivid.
It had been the same dream: Walking corpses, skeletal trees, malignant black skies, yawning abysses, hellfire...the usual nightmare fare. Again, in the dream, it had been as if I were the only human being left on the planet. Alive, that is. The one human being alive. The rest had been eaten, torn asunder, swallowed, regurgitated. They'd tried to talk to me--perhaps to warn me?--but their mouths had been sewn shut and their eyes had been cauterized. Flailing they'd walked, turning only in my direction through their sense of smell...or feel.
I lay in my bed, my sheets tangled at my feet, and I panted back to regular respiration, the sweat icy on my chest. Lobo slept soundly, kicking his paws at his dream-rabbits and softly snuffling barks. I envied him, the bastard. It was 5:27 in the morning; there would be no more sleep for me.
It was one of those days in southeastern Michigan in which it seemed as if Mother Nature had forgotten her pills. Her schizophrenia was dialed up a notch, it seemed. There's a saying that the old-timers like to say, as if they were the one to coin the phrase: "Don't like the weather in Michigan? Wait five minutes." Funny, huh? My knees hurt from hearing it so many times. But, in this case, the saying fit the weather to a T.
Six inches of snow had been dumped in the region earlier in the week....
The gauzy mist was back. Bringing with it the creatures of the night.
Most people can't (or won't) see the creatures. They fool themselves into believing that it is nothing but fog, that it is but a time to drive more carefully and watch--with peeled eyes--for bipedal pedestrians. Oh but I know better.
Oh but I know better.
As I prepared to sprint to a doggy "Comfort Area," I muttered underneath my breath to Louie, "This is but the beginning, Canine Lou. This is but the beginning. Today there is mist. Yes but to-morrow shall be Armageddon. Gotta go poop?! Let's go!"
And so we sprinted to a poop-drop and Louis did what he needed to do and but--oh!--I heard throughout the shrieks and the caterwauls of the Creatures Unimagined. Growing closer. Yes, always growing closer.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
I was going to poke good-natured fun at myself and complain jokingly about the clothes that I haven't folded after washing (even though it has been over three days) and the messy state of my apartment and my somewhat-troubling addiction to pornography and the euphoric brain chemicals that are the result of placing my mind and eyes firmly in the gutter....
But, before I could even stroke a single key--yes, I said "stroke"--I noticed that Britney Spears was bald. Wait; let me back up, there, and see if I typed what I had intended to type.
Please hold. --Eagles "Life in the Fast Lane," Muzak version--
Back. Yep. Oops-I-Did-It-Again (her Native American name) is going with the Curly look. (Actually, I think she copied off of me.) Bald. Bee-Aye-El-Dee. Bald. Did I mention the fact that that cute little vixen from seven years ago now has none of her blonde locks left? Rather, she has a cue ball for a head?
Now, listen, some people can pull the look off. I, for example, think that I make it look pretty decent. Men, in general, carry it off better than women. Women with darker complexions carry it off better than lighter-complected women. Lighter-complected women with sharp chins and sharp features carry it off better than lighter-complected women with doe eyes and a slightly-undercut chin. Dear Britney is in the latter group with regard to the Chrome Dome Continuum. Why did she do it? I have a couple of theories:
Theory Number One: She has lost her mind. Not having much of a brain with which to start, it was a relatively short descent. Perhaps the fame got to her. Perhaps she longs for K-Fed. Perhaps she has syphillis and has begun the Madness Phase of that oh-so unfortunate disease.
Theory Number Two: It is common knowledge that she has recently checked herself into a rehabilitation center. I fully support her; addiction can be a bitch. Following that thread, I purport that Britney has absolved herself of her tresses as a symbolic gesture. Fresh start. Everything is new. Thus, why not shave the head? That makes absolutely perfect sense to me. Then again, I'm slightly insane.
She was also in a tattoo parlor when her "shocking new 'do" was discovered by the gasping Publik. Maybe she was getting a fresh-start tat on her right butt cheek. Time will tell as the story plays out, is news and then becomes played out. Wow.
(I included a picture of my clothes, just for the hell of it. Eventually, I'll fold them. If I can get over the shock of seeing Brit-Brit Bald-Bald.)
As some dude named Barry Knowles, from aintitcool.com, said: "Brutal." That one word sums it up perfectly.
I have a strong stomach, I always have. Tonight, whilst watching the flick, something happened that has never happened to me before as a result of watching a slasher/horror/thriller. I actually gagged. Sure, Leatherface was peeling an unfortunate fellow's face off, accompanied by squishy, tearing sounds, but, good God. I'm never affected like that! Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age. It goes without saying (but I will) that "Chainsaw" gets two thumbs up from me. Any movie that can elicit a gag from me must have something going for it.
I don't think I've ever seen a more sadistic, violent movie. It kind of worries me, in a way, this trend towards increasing violence in film. Does our living in an anxious society perhaps embolden moviemen and writers? Is it a collective unconscious that continues to push the bloodlust higher? It's bad enough that we, as a society, are okay with these types of movies. What makes it worse is that computer graphics and special effects are otherworldly, now. They make it look so real. I don't know. I'm torn. (Kinda like the biker dude by the chainsaw.) I like watching movies like this (for some ungodly reason) but I also worry about the younger generation. This envelope is going to continue to be pushed.
The more things change...in the end, we're going to be back in the arenas of Rome, the Public only satiated with real-time, human acts of carnage.
Here. See me fly my hypocrite flag: I'm going to buy "Hostel 2" as soon as it comes out.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Your heart, that is. Perhaps you and I both need to get our minds out of the Gutter O' Lust, me especially. Today is a special day...for card manufacturers and florists, that is. Valentine's Day, to me, seems completely unnecessary. Why should there be a day designated during the year for lovers and couples and people who care for each other? Should not every day be thus? Do I seem bitter? Or do I raise a valid point? Is it a point that has been raised many times before by people who express said point much better than I? Probably.
Maybe I am bitter. Maybe I want that special someone in my life to whom I could demonstrate my love with a good dinner and perhaps flowers and/or a box of noodles. Maybe I'm bitter and lonely. No and no. But it would be nice to spend a night with a lover rather than spending the night alone on the flea-riddled couch, checking out the latest on the Spice Channel with a box of tissues and a container of butter.
I joke; I kid.
Here's how my Valentine's Day has gone, thus far: At 12:07 this morning, a girl who I'd been seeing recently sent me a text message that read, "Happy Valentine's Day ;)". Now, the bust-up had been rather vitriolic and I hadn't talked to the woman in about four weeks, so I didn't really know how to interpret this message. At first, I took it at face value--She hoped that all was well and she was wishing me a happy day. But then I noticed the ";)" which made me think that it was a sarcastic offering, basically saying that I was a dweeb and she was not and she had someone and I was alone. Whatever. I didn't care. So I responded, "You too." Bam! Not half a minute later, she sent a text saying, "Thanks are you still mad at me?"
Was I still mad at her? Was I ever really mad at her? Basically, it was just bemusement and a sense of bafflement with the way things had ended--not red-hot anger. There had been some anger, but really not too much. Basically, there had been relief. So, anyway, I let her hang for a bit, as I took Louie outside and then I came back in and wrote the most unemotional thing that I could: "I'm over it. Going to bed. Take care." That was good, to me. I had things to vent to her, but I figured that there would be no point in doing so. Plus, I had liked her quite a bit...I was sorry that things had ended so immaturely. I went to bed. There were no more texts from her.
Psycho-Pop-Adam: I think she's feeling lonely. And on such a special special day! [wipes tears from eyes] I reckon there weren't all those men to fill my position, as she had stated. What comes around, goes around, chica. 'Tis Karmic, if nothing else.
I woke up this morning to my 69th day of sobriety. Ironic, isn't it? The most romantic day of the year and my sobriety corresponds accordingly with the slang number for an incredibly-popular sexual position! My life is blessed. Seriously.
Unfortunately, though, I had to go to court. (See above snapshot.) I got clipped for speeding on January 10th--an offense, coincidentally, that was inadvertently caused by the above woman's inability to get out of bed in a timely manner, thus causing me to be late for an appointment, thus causing me to speed, thus leading to a ticket--and I went to court today to try to reduce the fine or reduce the points on my license or at least get something accomplished. I was in and out of there like a crack-whore polishing off her last blowjob of the night. Fast, in other words. And absolutely for naught. The points remained, the fine stayed stiff and now I'm lugging around six points on my license after four or five years of perfection.
And so I was grumpy as I drove home on the slippery snowy streets of metropolitan Detroit.
And but then I thought about it. Rationally. There was one offense on my driving record that I could not really remember. I'd gotten two points for speeding in Royal Oak on Labor Day. I thought back with more ferocity and then--eureka!--I remembered.
'Twas Labor Day and I'd been late for a disc golf session. I'd had about five or six beers in me, so I wasn't paying as rapt attention to the road as I usually do. I'd sped through a construction zone and--lo and behold--a cop had seen it from his spider hole on Marias Street. He'd pulled me over and he'd known that I'd been imbibing--I'd told him, somewhat honestly, that I'd had a couple--but he'd let me off, telling me to leave the car and walk home. So, to recap, even without being drunk, I would have been in deep shit. Here in Michigan, if one is caught speeding in a work zone, one's points and the fine are doubled. So, yeah, I was lucky, in retrospect. I won't even go into how much shit rolls downhill for drunken driving. (I wonder if they double the fine for drunk driving in a work zone, too? Probably. Gotdamn! Yet again, I was lucky.)
So, today, realizing that I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouf, I immediately ceased my grousing and thanked God, and set about determining just how to celebrate my 69th day of sobriety on this oh-so blessed day: I'm working on being a contortionist. =)~~(=
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
"This is like one of those studies from Harvard that tell us that kids are drinking more [alcohol] in high school, isn't it?" says Harry Greely, as he sips a cappucino in one of the ubiquitous Starbucks that pepper the rainswept city. He gestures towards his open laptop, humming on the table. "If I happen to leave the house without this baby, here, I feel like I'm walking around naked. I need to go back to my apartment to get it. Hell, yeah, I'm addicted. What else is new?"
According to the study published, in the 25 to 35-year-old age group, 58% of the adults polled said that they were on the Internet at least 5 times a week, doing everything from checking their emails to surfing for highly-suggestive adult material. Internet usage was found to be even more prevelant amongst the 15 to 24-year-old age group, particularly in high school age teenagers.
"It's a real problem, it really is," says Regina Vanderwal, the principal at Ratahooga High School, in the suburb city of Hollah, 20 minutes southeast of Seattle. "People always talk about the dangers of underage drinking and smoking, but this is getting to be just as significant a problem. Whereas children used to go outside to play, now they spend inordinate amounts of time inside, on the Internet, either playing online games or checking their emails or screwing around with their MyPlace accounts. I tell you, if this continues, we're going to be a nation of multicolored slugs."
Slugs? Maybe. Maybe not. But a local doctor in Hollah agrees with the principal.
"Inactivity. That's what worries me," says Doctor Allen Pratfawk. "The time that people spend skating on the Internet--and I am really focusing on the children, here--by definition takes away from the time that they could be outside exercising, or playing, or at least soaking up the vitamin-rich rays of the Sun. And, as we all know, with inactivity, rates of other health problems soar, as well."
In 1998, the percentage of people with a home computer who had access to the Internet was 39%. Today that number is 78%. The numbers continue to climb.
"It's crazy," says Thom Thoom, a self-described computer illiterate. "We have all this natural beauty outside--the mountains, the lakes, the wildlife--and all some people seem to want to do is search for porn and look at emails and post naked pictures of themselves on the Web, for everyone and anyone to see. Crazy. Live a little, people! Don't let life pass you by."
Sunday, February 11, 2007
They woke me up.
"Oh oh oh oh!"
I'm typing this with my dick.
I could get used to this.
PS--This guy pisses me off. He's been doing her for the last 45 minutes. Bastard. ;-)
Saturday, February 10, 2007
(Hell, at least I'm not living in New York right now! One area, off the lake, has gotten 8 FEET OF SNOW...within five days. Jesus.)
What was I saying, again? Oh yeah: My point is that I am more than comfortable with Michigan winters. I wish that I could say the same for Louie. Sure, he loves to prance around in newly-fallen snow. And he's a fan of the new smells that come with snowfall; apparently, they are muted, in a way, because he is always stopping to swipe at the snow with his paw and bury his nose in the ground, emerging, grinning, like Tony Montana in "Scarface," with white sugaring his snout. But...
Here in Michigan, we use rock salt to combat the snow and to keep the roads clear. I'd never thought about the ramifications on a doggy's tender paw until last winter, when I was walking The Lou and he'd stopped all of a sudden and, looking up at me with his eyes wide and his ears back, started to whimper and mewl like a kitten/puppy. Yes...he'd caterwauled. He'd held his front paw up, like he'd been trying to Shake, and looked at me as if to say, "Dad? Dad?!" I'd been filled with pity...and confusion. "You were fine just a second ago...what the fuck happened? You all right, kid?" He'd just looked at me and mewled. Eventually we started off towards the apartment and, though limping heavily, he'd been right as rain in a few minutes.
Curious. Later I told the girl who I'd been seeing at that time about what had happened and she'd said that the rock salt was bad on the doggies' paws. I had not made the connection. Color me dumb. (That color is mauve.)
So, it continued this year. I've been trying to keep Lou on the snow. It works better, that way. Earlier this morning, I took him on a walk to the mailbox. It's down the road a bit, in the parking lot of a business office building. He got halfway through the lot and then sat down, holding his shaking paw up and looking at me and mewling. I tried to take his paw in my hand and he tremblingly put his mouth around my hand. Lou doesn't bite. I (hopefully) trained him early and often about that. And I could see that he didn't want to bite my hand; that he was just in piercing pain. I tried to put myself in his shoes...paws. Rock salt eats away snow. And it reacts, chemically, to snow and ice. Put that on a bare appendage--say a foot or a paw or a penis--and I think that it probably feels like acid, an increasingly-potent burn. Ouch. Now I see why those tools who dress their dogs up do what they do. Have you ever seen dogs in boots? (Kinda like Puss in Boots, but real-life and with a dog?) Maybe those boots really work. Looks lame, though.
So, anyway. We made it to the mailbox, Lou limping heavily, and I deposited my mail into the box and I deposited Lou into my arms and I carried him back across the parking lot. To passersby, I probably looked thilly. Question: Do you think I gave a shit? No. Nope. It tears me up to see my boy whimpering like that--so pathetic--so I will lift him up and carry him, if I must.
I need to workout anyways. =)
Friday, February 09, 2007
And so begins the explanation of the trials and tribulations of a handsome African-American woman named Lisa V. (is she in AA?), who coordinates projects to earn her living. See, what happened was that she was checking her account online, you know, the one that's tied to her Visa debit card, and--lo and behold!--she noticed a withdrawl of $800! She found that to be odd--she didn't remember withdrawing 800 bones--but, as it was late at night, she simply went to sleep and figured that she would check on her account--ONLINE!--again in the morning.
Imagine Lisa V.'s chagrin when she woke up--and checked her account online, the one that's tied to the debit card--to discover that, not only was that primary $800 withdrawl still showing, but also--like Mickey's brooms--it had three clones! When all was said and done, Lisa V. was responsible to the tune of $3200! As Pink Floyd sang on The Wall, "This. Will. Not. Do!"
So Lisa V. called her Visa Helpline, disputed the charges, and, through the Grace of Visa, was able to impregnate this sad sob story with a burst of Justice. Whee! And, verily, she does a happy jig at the end, her heavy breasts swing to and fro.
Here's my point: I don't give a fuck, Lisa V. But I was forced to watch. The reasons are twofold: One, my mouse-to-hand coordination had the audacity to move over Lisa V.'s little rectangle atop my home page. That shit happens. I should have moved my mouse quickly, as if burned, and gone about my business. But I couldn't. I was transfixed by both Lisa V.'s homespun handsomeness and also by my morbid curiosity. What had happened? I wondered. How had someone gotten her personal information? That matters not. What mattered was that I was hooked, and nonplussed--bemused?--that I was hooked.
Here is how that advertisement succeeded, on many levels: One, it popped up with very little effort on my part. Two, it relayed to me, anecdotally, that Lisa V. was able to check her account online--convenience--the one that's tied to her Visa debit card--multiple accounts; fine name dropping of Visa; ultra-convenience. Three, it features a down-to-earth pitchwoman; we can relate to her normality. She's not homely and she's not too pretty; she has good features--her handsomeness and her voluptuousness--and she has features with which many of us struggle--her weight and lack of fashion sense. Basically, she is the Everywoman, warts and all.
Here's how the advertisement failed: I don't want to have to give a shit about Lisa V.'s problems! I don't want to have to care! But I do--I am a simple human, with basic human emotions--and so, yes, I do. But this heavyhanded massage of my fragile emotions by VISA make me want to spit fire and howl at the moon! (!!!) Damn you VISA! Damn you to hell for making me care! *sniff*
That's all. Good day.
P.S.--Life takes Visa.... Argh!
Thursday, February 08, 2007
It's not right to speak ill of the dead, but I have to say that, while watching her TV show on E!, I came to the perhaps-obvious conclusion that she was one of the stupidest and most immature people on the planet.
I also have questions of her marriage (?) to her lawyer, Howard K. Stern. It's not like I spent nights awake wondering about this but do you really think that he was in love with her? Or do you think that his lawyerly mind was salivating over her particularly-vibrant Green skin-tone? To me, it seems like a Karmic "Pleased to meetcha." Anyway.
She and her breasts will be missed, but we'll always have Playboy.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
The title may make you think of a tell-all sex book about a former presidential candidate who French-kissed his censoring wife in front of thousands of people at a campaign rally, but, no. I'm talking about the other kind of gore. Blood and guts. Hoo-ah!
I watched "Saw 3" last night and, I have to say, I liked it considerably. The first one, as is usually the case, was the best one--in my estimation--but this one was good, too. There were a lot of twists and turns in the plot (albeit I think the writer was trying too hard to be "twisty," as it were) and the Gore Factor was off the charts.
Does that make me a less-than person to admit that I am more-than comfortable seeing intestines and decapitations and amputations? Naw. I think not. But it does say this: One, movies are becoming more and more about torture and sadistic pleasures and bondage and, two, desensitation is very real.
Remember hearing stories of people, while watching the "Frankenstein" flick back in the 1930s, fainting dead away? And nurses being on site? Over what, exactly? A tall shambling dude with crissy-crossy scars? Come on, folks. Welcome to the 21st century. I think some of those people would die of heart attacks if they saw some of the shit we watch today. I know this for a fact: There'd be a whole lotta vomiting goin' on.
So, anyway, back to "Saw 3." Jigsaw, Jigsaw; where for art thou, Jigsaw? Jigsaw is there, but Jigsaw is very ill. His brain tumor is giving him the business and so the jig is almost up, as it were. His underling, Amanda (hot in a self-mutilating, unbalanced whore kind of way), is being groomed to take the reins. Emotion is her Achille's Heel, though. I don't want to give away the story, but, suffice it to say, she did not listen closely enough to the wise master, Jigsaw, and much havoc was wrought.
You know what I like about the "Saw" movies? There ain't no happy endings. Everyone dies. Or do they? My bet is that there will be a "Saw 4" shortly. There's one character--maybe--who is left to carry on the mayhem.
If and when you watch it, keep your eyes open for these three four-star scenes: The scene with the naked lady, the scene with the medical student, and the scene with the judge and the pig carcasses. The only time I really got somewhat queasy--as I ate my pork-laden pizza whilst watching--was the scene in which these little (huge) piggies went to the market and the judge was the unfortuante recipient.
Happy viewing! ;-)
Postscript: In the previews, I saw a trailer for "Hostel 2." Uh-oh. "Hostel" was one of the most sick (in a good way) movies I've ever seen. Please, though, no more Japanese chicks' eyeballs. Please. I beg of you.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Here's the story. My cell phone battery has been giving me problems, lately. It doesn't really hold a charge too well, so I've found myself, increasingly, jabbering on the 'phone whilst it is plugged in to its charger. The most convenient place to put the charger is on the halved glass table right when one walks in the front door. So there it sat, charging, and I called my mom to tell that, like her, I had too had a cold and would not be able to donate blood. (We donate blood together, when it's time--I know, family bonding gone awry.) We chatted for a spell and I shifted position to get more comfortable while I was talking. The next thing I knew, I heard a "Tcheeeshz!" sound and my ass was six inches lower to the floor and my legs were hanging against the side of the table.
Hopefully it doesn't cost to much to replace the glass square. On the plus side, no dogs or humans were harmed in this enactment and I finally got around to sweeping under the table, something I've been meaning to get to for a while. And, too, it shattered into reasonably-large pieces o' gli-zass, which made it easier to clean up. One thing that worries me, slightly, is that that is the place where I keep all my shoes, so, hopefully, in the next week or two, I don't pull on a pair of shoes--though I shook all the pairs out--and slice the bottom of my foot open, thus bleeding to death whilst Lou-Dog looks on with disinterest. Time will tell.
Time will tell.
P.S.--I completely blame my mother for this mishap. (Inside joke.)