Friday, February 27, 2009


DVDs, magazines, strip clubs--whatever.
They'll hurt'cha. Seriously. Do not close your ears to this nugget of wisdom. They'll hurt'cha.

Your brain, your sexual organs, your wallet...whatever.

Case in point: I just tried to open a DVD entitled "Top-Heavy Orientals," and I sliced my thumb with the knife. Now. Whose fault is that?! The pornographers, that's who. If they hadn't filmed, I'd never have bought. Do you see?

Pornography is evil. The Debbil is pulling the strings, mos' def.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see what the blood was all about. 'Cause you know: an Asian woman with a rack is a delectably happy occurrence.


If you have analog, you have to get digital TV or at least a converter by some date some time around now, at least here in the United States of Aggression. That's fine, for me. I have already had digital cable for the last two or three years. I'm golden. I doan need no steenkin box to watch TV. I've been paying for TV for a while and I'm quite content to continue to pay for TV. Call me flippant with my greenbacks; I'll not argue. In fact, I may clap you on the back and order you a Coca-Cola.

This, the anecdote that follows, however, irks me, somewhat. I set up a four-to-seven appointment for today with Comcast, the local cable provider, so that they could send a technician out to run a couple new lines (with boxes) to Naomi's bedroom and Meagan's and my bedroom upstairs. That way, we could all watch MTV or the Weather Channel or the Discovery Channel or ESPN from the comfort of our respective beds. (I'll wait whilst you call me and mine sloth-like.... Okay.)

Anyway, I just got a call from the cable guy--I didn't catch his name; it was Joe--and he informed me that he, and all the other techs in the southeast Michigan area, were suffering from a severe lack of material provisions. They just didn't have the remote controls. Or the friggin' power cords. I had to verify that last nugget of information. "Now," I said, "when you say power cords, what are you talking about, exactly? You're not talking about the cord that, like, plugs into the back of the box, are you?" He informed that, yes, those were the wires/cords in question. "B-but--" I started. He said that he knew, he knew--he sounded pretty embarrassed about it--and he further said that he was a contractor, working out of the Royal Oak office, and that he and the other techs were somewhat shocked this morning, when they'd lined up to get their materials, that the HQ didn't have the flat-out basic materials with which they could do their jobs. I nodded my head in agreement. "Yeah," I said, "I know. I work for the the gas company and I am all-too-familiar with the...illogic...of big companies."

"Yeah," he said. "I just wanted to call you and let you know the situation. I mean, if I come out and install what I can, we'll have to be out again to finish the job. And you'd be charged twice."

"That ain't good," I muttered. He agreed that it was, in fact, not good, and he said that he'd talk to his supervisor and rectify the situation--they'd come back out when they had the necessary tools/equipment.

***In-blog edit: I have just spoken with Joe again and he had his supervisor, some heavily-accented Polish guy named Andrew, call me and set up an appointment for tomorrow from between twelve and three. Dang. That's quick work. Now, how the fuck am I expected to excoriate the company, all bloggy-like, when they smooth over their self-generated ruffles so damned quickly?! I mean, I'm not even done with the post, yet! Anyway, all is well that ends well...and maybe I'll get a voucher or something out of all this exceedingly-horrific inconvenience. (That was sarcasm--though a coupon or a voucher would be nice.)***

In other news, I'm going to have Meegie--she volunteered--look over the router I bought so that we can have internet both downstairs and upstairs. She's good with figuring out computer-related issues/things; she's much better than I. She'll have us rockin' and rollin' in a New York heartbeat! =o)

Happy Friday, everyone! (All three of you!) May your days off from the workweek be filled with both safety and fun! Peace to ya.

Sunday, February 22, 2009


There are different kinds of "non-cleanliness." Since we've been shacking up together, I have found that Miss Meagan and I inhabit seperate but equal modes of non-cleanliness. I have found that I am pretty damned anal about things not being in the places in which they should be. Things like: coats over chairs when we have a newly-installed coat rack upon which to hang them, clothes that could be folded and put away remaining in laundry bins, blankets not folded and the bed not made...etcetera. These are small, seemingly-insignificant things, sure, but I find that my mind is more at ease when the house is clean and picked up, clutter-free. I reckon I am anti-Clutter. That is not to say that I am completely Tony Randall-ing up in this bitch, but I do like things organized, I maintain the axiom that there is a place for everything and everything should be in its respective place. And when I catch myself being hypocritcally clutter-y, I try to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

Meagan, on the other hand, is completely clean. (And when she gets going on a cleaning spree, watch out. She'll go--all Energizer Bunny-like--for hours.) She wholly dislikes dirt and grime, while I can let things go for a long long time before I finally get off my ass and break out the mop and Scrubbing Bubbles. Exhibit A: the bathroom. Maybe it's because I don't wear my glasses as much as I should (rarely if ever) and so I conveniently don't-see the dirt and the grime and the pubes and the tobacco tar stains that accumulate slowly but steadily in the place in which we all evacuate the innards and wash ourselves clean. When Meegie breaks out the cleaning supplies and obliterates the accumulation, I am beside myself with glee. It is far more comfortable, for me, to wash my skin and shit and pee in a room that smells like daisies, a room in which the countertops and porcelin gleam with the light of a thousand suns. But. I'm lazy, I guess, when it comes to combattling (new word) grime. It just doesn't get under skin as readily as some other people's.

Maybe it's the career I have chosen that makes me so oblivious to dirt. An hour on the job--hell, even before we leave the yard--and my hands are greasy and dirty and my clothes are besmirched with terra firma.

This lasse-faire attitude, unfortunately, leaks into my responsibilities as a dog owner. I read things that my sister writes about picking up after her two behemoths on a weekly or bi-weekly schedule and I shake my head at myself. I pick up the yard once a month--year-round--and I call it good. I wonder what my neighbors think. I wonder, as it is with my eyesight not being the best that it could be, if perhaps my nose, my olfactory sense, is also not as good as it should be. Could the cigarettes that I smoke have rendered my sniffer a non-factor? Could the straights that I choo-choo have bamboozled my beak into believing that all smells like babies' breath? I'd ask my neighbors, but I'm afraid of what they might say. LOL some ways, Meagan and I quite polarized. She is uber-cognizant about germs and bateria, whilst I, um, not so much so. I like nothing on the floor and the countertops free of debris, she's not as concerned as I. Coatracks hold no mindbending sway over her; I figure, well, hell, since we have one, why not use it, huh?

"You gotta get the room clean or you're going to wreck the computer," my love says, from behind me. As I write this, Meagan is using the attachment on the Dirt Devil to collect the spiderwebs that have snuck into the corners of the computer room since the last time I noticed some--maybe two years ago? When the always-popular Charlotte pitched her web-tent on the corner of my kitchen counter? Or maybe the time that I was actually wearing my spectacles and actually noticed that there were cobwebs in the corner of the living room? Yeah, that.

Anyway, all this to say that, together, we're going to have the cleanest house this side of of the Mississippi. Together? We can do anything. It's really nice to have that sort of midset, that sort of attitude, huh?

Now all we have to do is work on Naomi. The fourteen-year-old needs to be learned that foodstuff and pop bottles really don't have to be in the living room or in her rarely-used bedroom. No, actually, when the person is done consuming, he or she can--and this is highly-controversial--he or she can--gasp!--put the uneaten food in the fridge and--holy crow!--put the glasses in the sink and the empty pop bottles in the return bag. I know, I know: I'm spouting nonsense, here. It'll come, though. Eventually, it'll come. She's already getting better about picking up after herself--kind of. But, one can hope, eventually the yearning to live in a clutter-free, clean house will infect young Nay-Nay and all will be good.

Hell, it's better already.

By the way, before I go, let me tell you that, last night, I slept with a couple of pussy cats. That's a first, for me. Lemme tell you this, too: I think, over time, people can lose theie allergies. (Conversely, people, too, can gain allergies, but that is not my point.) I used to be really allergic to cats. Not as bad as my sister Alexis and no way near as allergic as my mother, but, allergic enough, for sure. Now? I really don't think that I am affected by the feline persuasion. They both slept, on the bed, and I awoke feeling just only as run-down as I always do, no more, no less. Cool! Plus? They don't take up as much room on the bed as, say, a certain Beagle, a certain Boxer/Pitty.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


To the strains of Guitar Hero in the background, he sits down to the computer keyboard and gazes squintily at the monitor. Aha, glasses. Now? Now he can see.

So...what's going on in the world of A-Bomb, of late?
He takes a sip of coffee out of the Glenivet single malt whiskey drinking glass (the guy behind the counter gave the glasses away for free when A-Bomb bought his American Spirits) and ruminates....

There is an adjustment period when people move in together. So far, the adjustment is going pretty well. There is a decided difference in freedom of movement--for instance, I can't take a shower and dry off and then walk nekkid to the bedroom (at least not when Nay-Nay is home) and I have troubles getting to the TV--MTV is seemingly on a constant loop, here, in the front room. Then again, I've not even really said that I wanted to play video games or watch the tube...perhaps I should be more vocal. But, this is what I do: I wait and stuff my wishes and desires to keep people comfortable, to keep things on an even keel. Besides, when I play Grand Theft Auto, I like to immerse myself in the game. People in the background, talking and shit?! That doesn't work too well with the ole GTA, for me, at least. But, as I was saying, co-habitation takes some getting used to, especially when a 14-year-old girl is involved. Naomi, Meagan's daughter is great, I love 'er, but I just don't know where she's coming from, sometimes. "There's no food in the house!" she calls. Wha--? No food?! I open the fridge. Foodstuffs pile out from the door and bury me amongst chips and bread and lunchmeat and pickles and Ramen noodles. From the chaos emerges my trembling fist, clutching tight to a Marie Callender chicken pot pie. "What about this?" I groan. "No," she blithely says as she walks over the Pile of Me and wanders out to the front room to devour more of the ubiquitous MTV reality shows. "Mom," she calls, "I'm a 14-year-old! I need a cell phone!"

I collapse underneath the vomitus of the refrigerator.

What else is going on in A-Bomb's life? Hmm....

Computers. I'm starting to hate the motherfucking things. I'm sick and tired of worrying about viruses and trojans and using a computer other than the one with which I had become accustomed nigh these last two, three years. Slow processes, worrying about what is needed upon Start-up and what could go the way of the dodo bird and sick of worrying about why the Epson printer is not working, though I loaded the CD onto this computer just as I did the other one.... I'm just sick of the fucking binary wasteland that is the 2009 computer world. I want a computer that is quick and confident and does what I fucking ask it to do...yesterday. I want blazing speed; I don't want to have to wait for the computer to scratch its head and say, "Oh...he to...bold.... 'Yesterday.'" Oy vey. I may have to--if I can't get this computer and mine upstairs working correctly--I may have to just say fuggit and buy a new tower. I'll have to work some overtime, but I don't think that'll be a problem.

My new partner at work? She (Sharon) likes her overtime. I'm more than happy to oblige. Yesterday, for instance, we, and four other people, worked a nice fifteen-hour day. In the rain. In the slop. In the rainy, muddy slop. I jumped right into what needed to be done; though I finished the day with my raingear looking like I had wallowed in the mud all day (which, basically, I did) I had no qualms about the matter. I have no qualms, at all, about getting dirty. Actually, it's kinda cool, in a perverted way. It makes me feel like I earned my money for the day. And, in fact, I guess I had. Today, both lineman commented on how well and how hard I worked yesterday. That makes me feel good. (And then, later in the day, I took a corner in Birmingham a little too tight and blew open one of the trailer tires on a sharp-edged decorative rock--but that is a story for another day.) Regardless, overtime is good. I had seven hours last night and I had four on Monday, so...eleven hours. Good 'nough. I'll take it. And I'll pay my ever-mounting bills with it. Whee! Paying bills is fun! (One good thing? I paid off one of my loan payments last month, so, this month--and evermore--I'll have an extra $230.00 to throw at other bills. Good deal.)

What else? Ah, yes. My car. I need to get the brakes looked at. The car is just running really weirdly, and, from time to time, I smell burning metal. I'm on-call next week and so I'll have a company vehicle and so I'll be able to drop the car off at the garage and have them fix the damned brakes/alignment/shocks...or whatever. And then, later on, if I have the money, I'll get my windshield fixed, too. I was resting in the passenger seat, a couple of weeks ago, with my feet barely pressed up against the windshield and--pop!--instant spiderweb. Not cool. But! It is cool to look through at night. The way that it catches and reflects the lights from stores and other cars...pretty cool. (And, yes, that is false optimism, cheery Pollyannaism.)


I went on a cleaning spree last weekend and now the house is feeling more like a home, the only disaster of which to speak being Naomi's room, the room that she won't sleep in because there is no cable on the TV and she can't fall asleep without the cable acting as a background Sandman. Oy. Oy vey. The rest of the house is picked up and clutter-free and I aim to fucking keep it that way. The upstairs is really cozy and all I have to do with it is finish putting up the ceiling tiles. Meagan can help me with that: it's a two-person job.

All in all, life is good. Thanks for checking in and listening to me.

Peace to ya.

Friday, February 13, 2009


Wow. I just installed Norton 360 on the computer and, lemme tell you, it was not a pleasant experience. Now, I wanted to protect the computer because, as we all know, the threats of viruses and worms and "trojans" are rising exponentially every day, but--damn!--I had not realized that it would be so damned stressful!

It took forever to install, first off. It had to swat aside some bullshit program called "Windows Protector," and then it took a long fricking time to install itself. Then, once it was finally installed, I was unable to get on the Internet. It had to have something to do with the firewall protection, right? Well, I fucked around a bit with the firewall settings and even disabled it at one point, but, still, no dice, no go. Well, I thought to myself, I guess I need some help; I reckon I'll have to call Technical Support. That turned out to be a fucking joke: the support part, that is. I looked all over the got-damned box and all throughout the flippin' "instruction" manual, and nowhere did I see an 800-number. No, all that I saw was a tip to go to their technical support/help page on the 'Web. Now, how the hell am I supposed to go to their website if I can't even get on the fucking 'Net?! It was driving me crazy. If I'd had hair on the top my head, I'd have torn it out. I was having fantasies of ripping the computer tower and the monitor from thier moorings and flinging them through the window onto the cold February mucky ground of Michigan.

I tried a couple of half-hearted 800 numbers (1-800-Norton360 and 1-800-Symantec) but, obviously, nothing worked. I needed to get online to get the phone number to be able to get online. If that sounds confusing, if that sounds like a rat in a maze banging his head against an electrical port to get an almond or a piece of cheese, yes, that's what that was. Finally, I thought to call my sister, Melissa, and see if she could go online and get me that oh-so elusive, oh-so helpful 800-number. I got her voicemail and so I left a message and went back to pulling out my nonexistent hair. I remembered, then, that my mom had said something about going to visit dear sis Meliss, so I figured maybe, just maybe, Melissa had taken the day off from work and thus could be reached at her home. So, I called her and, yes, she was at home. I pleaded my case to her and she said that, sure, she'd look online for the number but, be warned, A-Bomb, her computer was running slowly, too. That's when I started thinking to myself, Hmm...terrorist attack? Anyway, her computer was running slowly and I hung up the 'phone and brewed myself some coffee as I waited for her page to load. (She, in the interim, had made iced tea and taken a pee-break. God love speedy computers, huh?) Eventually I got the number from her and thanked her and called the (408) 517-8000 number, hoping that I'd be able to deal with Symantec quickly and efficiently so that I wouldn't have to use minutes on my Sprint phone (They're another group of thieving bastards with whom I'll have to deal. Their contract apparently doesn't mean squat, what with the bills that they're sending me.). I called the 408 number and, luckily quickly heard an 800 shout-out. I immediately hung up and called the 800 number and, after navigating my way through a bunch of computer voice-prompts, found myself a place in the virtual landscape to drag up a rock and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The computer lady thanked me for my patience and pleasantly warned me that if I hung up and called back (apparently to circumnavigate the minimum 30-minute wait time) I'd unfortunately be sent back to the end of the virtual line, as the calls were to be answered in the order in which they had appeared. I wasn't about to fuck around with the computer lady with the saccharine-sweet voice, so I held and doodled on a pad, and while I was doodling, opened up Norton 360 and went to "Settings" and fumbled around in the "Firewall" section for a bit. There was a tab called "Traffic," so I opened it up and fucked around a bit and, lo and behold, figured out that I needed to tell Norton what I wanted it to allow. How fucked up is that?! I eventually figured out that Norton, that bastard, wanted to be told to allow access to Internet Explorer. I guess I'd just thought that that was a given. No. Apparently? Not. I encouraged Norton, that bastard, to allow Internet Explorer and then clicked on the icon and--to what to my wondering eyes did appear?--my homepage.


What a fucking hassle. But, I'll tell you this: All is well that ends well and if Norton, that bastard, protects me from worms and viruses and tarantulas and "trojans" then, I guess, I'll tip my hat to him. Begrudgingly, though, definitely begrudgingly.

And now, after, damn-near four hours on this machine, I can get off my ass and go take care of what I'd taken the day off to do: finish the upstairs, painting the walls and installing the ceiling tiles.


Thursday, February 12, 2009


Two hundred years ago today, Abraham Lincoln was born. He was gangly and pretty homely and rocked the beard-without-a-mustache look. He was a lawyer and then a senator and then he ended up becoming President, just in time for the United States' most tenuous days. He was in office during and up to the end of the Civil War and he unfortunately chose to go with his wife to the theatre to see a comedy and ended up getting shot in the back of the head by a Derringer held in the hand of one of the famous actors of the day, John Wilkes Booth, who then vaulted the eleven feet to the stage and ran center and intoned in Latin, all actorly, the Virginia state motto and then closed with, "The South is avenged," before he raced off into the cornfields. Interestingly enough, Wilkes fucked up his leg or something during his dramatic leap to the stage and the doctor who ended up treating him was a certain Doctor Mudd. Mudd was looked upon with reproach for treating the assassain and thus the saying, "[His or her] name is mudd" originated.

I hope you liked your history lesson. I have a shitload of things to do today, but I figured I should hop on the 'puter really quickly and honor the gangly dude.

Have a great day! =o) And here's to antivirus programs on the computer actually working.

Saturday, February 07, 2009


Saturday morning, seven-thirty.

God! I love them! Weekends, that is. This last week dragged like a broken hind leg on a Russian race horse, skittering and slobbing.

It takes a little while to get used to going back to work every day, you know? ;-)

This last week at work has solidified my intimations that I am a boob at work. I am ineffectual. I seem, to me at least, to be an anchor with whomever I work. I drag 'em down. They have to be over my shoulder at every instant and make sure that I do the seemingly-simple procedures adequately. (That, by the way, is one of my problems: I don't work well when people are right there, over my shoulder, watching my every move. I start to spin the wrench the wrong way--righty tighty, lefty loosey, I know--and I second-guess every action that I do. I guess I do this because I don't want to fuck up, I don't want to add to the "Adam is an Ass" common "knowledge.")

I feel like a thief at work, sometimes. The company pays me good money to work with gas lines and all that comes with them, but, often--especially when I am on a three-person crew--I stand around, watching the others do the work. I'm game to do the work, really, but often co-workers will just grab the appropriate tools and do the work themselves. They'll say, "Don't worry about this one, Adam. I got it."

Maybe I need to be challenged?

Listen: there's no overt animosity with my co-workers, at all. They all like me; I know that they do. I try hard; I bust my ass with the physical part of the job. I just have the feeling that they all, too, view me as an inept boob, one who needs to dealt with with kid-gloves. I feel--and this is funny--I feel that they view me with sorrow, a sense of "what a good guy, but he's a complete ass." There is no trust, nor--I'm convinced--should there be. I've been in this department for a year and nine months and I'm still committing basic fucking errors. I'm still sweatin' the basics of the job. Though it may stem from second-guessing myself and/or self-consciousness and/or lack of attention to detail (yes), the fact remains that I suck as a gas lines worker.

There. I said it. It's out.

Now I can move on, I reckon, and work like there's no one there, judging, gauging, making sure that Adam doesn't do something to blow shit up. [That was written for effect; there's not a whole lot of opportunity to blow shit up. Relax.]

Does this sound like a pity party? I'm writing it and, yes, as I'm tapping the keys, that is exactly what it sounds like: a pity party. Listen, A-Bomb, just do the fucking job. It is faaaaaaaar from rocket science.

When oh when will I become proficient? When?! This job has damaged my hubris. It has Achille-sliced my confidence in my own innate intelligence. I am in a field in which many of my co-workers are "That Guy/Girl." The type of person who can look at a problem of mechanics and, through use of hammers and 'drivers and screws (oh my), remedy the situation, make it good as gold. Me? I look at the pipes and the fittings and the frozen ground (how will I get a wrench in there?) and I think to myself, Self? This is un-doable.

And then a co-worker will step in and kindly say, "Hey, Adam, lemme in there for a second." And then he or she will do what needs to be done in an expedient manner and, then, all is good, but, again, I've the feeling that I'm nothing but a implement used to keep ships and the like in place. An anchor, I mean. An ineffectual anchor.

I am not mechanically-inclined. I'm just not. I'm smart, I'm intelligent--I know this, cling to this fact--but I am not one of those dudes who can look at a problem and, through the use of tools, remedy the conflict. I'm just not. It's not my skill-set. And, yesterday, I was asking myself just what the hell is my skill-set? I can tell you this: it has absolutely nothing to do with steel pipes and fittings and unions and couplings and curb boxes and three-quarter to five-eighth adapters. My skill-set does not include use of trenching machinery, though my job title is TMO, Trenching Machine Operator. I can do it, I'm sure--gimme time and don't watch--but--damn!--this shit doesn't come easily to me! Motherfuck.

Sometimes at work, I want to tell with whomever I'm working that, hey, I'm not as dumb as I appear. In fact, I've mentioned that twice within the last couple of days/daze. They all say the right things: Dude, it takes a while to get this shit, man. You can only learn by doing. It's all right, Adam; you're doing fine.

No! No I'm not doing fine. I placed in the 98th percentile in my English ACTs, damn it! I'm smart! Seriously. Seriously.

Seriously, though, what, exactly, marks someone as "smart?" I'd trade my ACT scores for mechanical aptitude in a fucking heartbeat. That, to me, is "smart." The ability to view a mechanical quandary and take the appropriate steps to remedy said quandary, to me, is smart. Everyone and their brother can tap their thoughts out on the keyboard, mind to fingertips.

This post has meandered long enough. Basically, to sum it all up, I feel ineffectual at work. Have felt and continue to feel as such.

I'm seriously thinking about trading my 2002 Ford Focus hatchback in and get a rip-roaring pickup truck with a large bed. And, yes, that is a complete nod to my feeling weak and inadequate (and trucks are cool and strong and kick-ass). With a rip-roaring pickup truck (no lower than a V6) I'll be able to feel--and thus act--more manly. This begs a jaunt onto gender roles and femininity and masculinity and how individuals tend to associate "things" and actions with said roles, but, for now, I'm done.

I'm done with this post. It's 9:03 in the aye-em and I'm just about bushed, ready to go back to the warm bed and the warm woman and the satin sheets. I just got up--and thus onto this drivel--because I had to drain the monster. My elephant trunk was about to leak.

Postscript--Some, if not all, of the sympathy I feel that I feel from my co-workers could be attributable to them all knowing that I've had some Subby-Abuse demons capering behind my skull, of late. Yes. That could be part of it. I have the sense that everyone in the office is treating me and viewing me with kid gloves. "Adam's a loose cannon. Be careful"-type thing. And I can undertand that. I've not got the best track record. At all.

So, I guess, in essence, this post is about starting anew, blank-slating with regards to the people's perceptions in the headquarters. That is not an option. Baggage accumulates and people are people. People remember; people distrust. And I cannot, and will not, blame them. They see a dude who was thisclose to getting canned, they see said dude fumbling with the most basic aspects of the job and, I think, the Highers-Up ask themselves, "Why'd we keep this blast on the fucking payroll? He's an incompetent boob, with a substance abuse history, who is doing nothing but pilfering high twenties dollar an hour. Why is he still here?"

And that's a good question. God bless the union. And that is the God-given truth. God bless the union. They saved my ass--they did it with compassion and stories of their family members who'd fought the Lick-n-Hops, and they did it with an overt display of Solidarity.

And I'd never felt alone.

I love my job! =o)
***Edit: I should have been there for my dad during his last fucking days. I'm crying, now. He was in Hospice, at home, and I flaked on his last week. Fuck! I miss him so much. I really do. I'm listening to The Beatles' "Let it Be," and it njackhammers into my skull the thoughts that I had while my dad was checking out, dying. It's rough--seriously. I miss him! Fuck.
Fuck. It's like a huge fucking void in my life that I've adequately ignored, thus far.
I miss him. My Daddy. I fucking miss him. I want him here. [I'm spoutin' tears, here.]
I miss him. So sincerely. I think that there is a LFD (Life Before Dad Died) and a life after. Still, three months later, I say and/or type and/or hear that my Dad "passed." LOL I'm laughing 'cause I'm leaking like a faucet, right now. I miss him.
It's tough to tickle the keyboard through tears.
11:57 in the morn.
My tears have abated, for now. I don't want any sympathy from You Readers. No.
Instead, I'd love to read stories about substance abuse and the love that you hold/held for your parental unit--and they friends.
Get back to me--please.

Thursday, February 05, 2009


Meagan is running computer circles around me, lately. She is pointing out both the obvious and the not-so-obvious answers to my computer quandaries. She was the one who advised me that, hey, Adam, to be able to load the cable connection, maybe the ethernet connection needs to be plugged into the modem or something. She didn't add that I was a complete moron when it comes to computers, but...she didn't have to.

And, then, again, today.

We are using a different computer than I have used for the last 2, 3 years and so I am not hip to its ins-and-outs. [Mine is still in the Geek Squad's shop--it's set to come out of the ICU late tomorrow.] Photoshop was not loading and I was starting to get muy frustrated and then Meegie said, "Hey, Adam, try this: go to My Computer and Control Panel and then go to Load New Software." I was "scoff-ful." I'd done this before. I'd loaded it onto my computer and I had done it simply off the CD. This time, though, the route that I had previously taken was not working. So...I did what my baby told me to do and--voila!--the program loaded and I was able to open a picture (it's of C. Canyon and it's viewable to the right) and modify it, somewhat. The only thing I did to that picture? In the original, C. Canyon was wearing a blue, headlight-accentuating tanker. Nothing more was done to alter the snapper of the Canyon lass.

Anyway. All I am trying to do is give Meeg some much-due credit. She has, these last couple of weeks, made me feel like an illiterate computer ass. I think she should do what she's talking about and get a computer degree. I think she has the head for it; I think she's got the knack.

Me? I have the "knack" to put punctuation points in dey proper spots and conjure images in da readers' minds. She? She seems to have the gift of being a Computer Whisperer.

Go forth, Meegie! Sow your binary oats!


Wednesday, February 04, 2009


I was tagged by the lovely and talented Izzy, over at Smut in G Major, to do a meme on "Sexual Firsts." I, egged on by my sophomoric sense of humor, decided to change Firsts to Fists and then go off on an undelineated tangent on fisting--kind of. I also wrote about the llama in my mom's basement and the fact that I live in my mom's basement (under the ping-pong table), and the fact that I have never kissed anyone, ever, in my life.

Those allusions are all patently untrue.

If I gave anyone the idea that the meme was truly about fisting I, first, apologize and, second, strongly advocate your getting your head out of your ass.

I feel bad, though, that some people might have been stupid enough to actually believe that Miss Snow sent me a meme on fisting. She never did. She sent me a meme on sexual firsts. That's it.

Maybe the reason I fudged around with the meme is because I feel ashamed of my penis, and the fact that it's only seven inches long, five inches around. I feel that that is an embarrassment to men in general, yet, it swings between my legs. I can't improve it. Weights and pumps don't work. It is what it is. :-\

I also should have taken into account, when I received the tag, that Izzy is a paid sex columnist. There was also a link--in the rules of the meme--that shot the clicker back to Sex Talk For Men, assuredly an online column. I didn't think, whilst I was gleefully typing, about the career ramifications that could have been incurred had Someone read the linkages back to my post.

I would never intentionally try to put words in others' mouths, but, in this case, that is exactly what I did. It was Firsts not Fists! Damn it! Oh, God! How could I have been so foolish?!


Let this be a lesson to you, though! Never--never--try to inject humor into a blog-post. It could be misinterpreted. =[