Laziness pt. 13

Buster, Marisol and I went to Zoo Atlanta today. He is on spring break. It is April 7. It snowed. At the zoo. In Georgia. All day. Clearly, we are all living on borrowed time. Assuming we're still here, normal posting should resume in a day or two. In the meantime, Buster and future Panda Express mascot, Mei Lan, march cheerfully on towards doomsday. Cheers.

A stack of paper in search of a paperweight

At the outset let it be noted that I would normally be working as I take my job uber-seriously, (as we all do up here of course) but the EPJ has been on me all morning about updating things on here. Each burst of frantic typing from my corner has been met with the same query from the EPJ's corner.

"Germs, are you blogging?"

"No, I am working. Quite diligently, I might add, on important county business," is my always immediate and unchanging reply.

"Well, let me know when you are blogging so I can read the update," is her always immediate and unchanging reply.

"I'll get right on it, chief." Note: I don't really call her chief but probably should because things always go more smoothly when I reference Get Smart.

So because I'd really hate for the EPJ not to know what's going on in her very own backyard that she herself has observed, herein is my account having not seen her yard since before the heavy equipment was delivered: it is a mess of biblical proportions.

As of this morning it finally has stopped raining but the ground is little more than a sludgy mix of grass, dirt and water. It will probably be that way for some time so she can accept it and move on to another matter of cosmic insignificance or she can moan about her pure, dumb luck. Thus far, guess which one she's chosen.

Starving children in Ethiopia know just how she feels to be ticked at the weather. Of course, the irony is that they don't get any rain at all. But there's always the chance that Madonna will pop into one of their villages and whisk one of them away to a life of unlimited food, clothing and nannies. Alas, I'm pretty sure the EPJ has virtually no chance of being Madge's latest fashion accessory; it's boring small-town domesticity for her from here on out. So I guess it all balances out.

In unrelated, but no less fascinating, EPJ news, I was giving her the rundown of mine and Christopher's latest game of Scrabble courtesy of Facebook. She asked who was winning and I said, per usual, me. Eh, Christopher? But mentioned that neither of us was having that great of a game and getting bogged down with crap letters leading to crap words leading to crap scores. The one bright spot I somewhat embarrassingly added was that I played the "O" word for a whopping 31 points. (For the non-Scrabblephiles, 31 points is a decent, if not amazing play) Figuring that would be enough detail and we could quickly move on to other things, I was almost immediately disappointed.

EPJ: "The O word? What's that, oval?" Now, if she was me, I'd give her points for being clever. Alas, she's not and well...she's just not. I keed.

Me: (incredulous and leading) "Yes, oval. I was too polite to say oval and therefore referred to it as 'the 'O' word. No, the big O. And not Oscar Robinson. The O word. You know the word I mean. I know how you love Oprah." My eyes roll back in my head.

EPJ: (excitedly) "Oh, Oprah. Yeah."

Me: (annoyed) "No, not the word Oprah." I begin dialing up Maureen. My eyes roll back further.

EPJ: (totally perplexed) "Octopus."

Me: (ignoring the EPJ, talking to Maureen) "You know what the big "O" is right? The "O" word."

Maureen: "Uh, no. You mean like a bad word?"

My eyes roll further back still. I think I see my brain stem. Hello, brain.

The EPJ is still occasionally shouting out random words that begin with O. Octagon, oasis, oligarchy, obsequious, etc. (Who am I kidding? No one would believe she would shout out oasis.) At this point, I began cursing the makers of Scrabble for ever leading me down such a road and why was I so pulled by the promise of a mere 31 points. And why, oh why, did I even bring it up? Can't I turn back time just this once? I decide forget it, I'm going home, I quit, I'm moving to Ethiopia, when suddenly Maureen announces she's got it. Lo and behold, so does the EPJ. Hallelujah. But before I can throw my hand up and say, "Yes, that one. I was embarrassed to play it. No need to say it. Hence the past 30 minutes. I hate my life." The EPJ lets fly.

EPJ: (confident and unashamedly) "Oh, orgasm. (pause then helpfully adds) I would have put an s on the end."

I crawl under my desk because I am a male and that is what we do when we hear such words. I also begin to shiver and see plaid. Maureen not to be outdone and apparently thinking there's going to be a prize offers her final answer.

Maureen: (somewhat disappointed) "I thought you meant orgy."

These are the people I work with. We are the guardians of the public teat. God bless us everyone.

Mr. Gorshin, your table is ready

I'd like to think that you, dear reader, read these posts over and over. Like some grad student poring over the endless minutia found in Joyce or Proust, I imagine regular readers searching and analyzing content for all manner of cryptic references and hidden clues. The excitement of unearthing a verbal treasure replaced by the sadness of knowing that, like the onion, there are still more layers to go.

I suspect the reality is much more sobering. Most of the world doesn't know I exist and the ones who do read my ramblings are quite content with having lost only a few moments of valuable time rather than pondering over obscure details for subsequent minutes. Thus I share the burden of ol' Jimmy and Marcel. If not the talent.

All of this is an extremely pretentious tongue-in-cheek way of saying that I made an error that needs correcting. Yesterday in posting on the Knox, I reckoned that Star Wars was the first flick I saw at age 2 1/2 in 1977. Part of that statement may well be true. I did see Star Wars at the Knox. It was 1977. Unfortunately, I seemed to forget that I was, in fact, born in 1973 and not 1974 thus making me 3 1/2. So yes, I can remember what was possibly the first movie I saw and where I saw it some 30+ years ago but the high hurdle of basic math was a little too much. Apologies but thanks to Andy for pointing my age out to me. He can remember precisely when I was born because from then on his world crumbled as I rose to power.

An aside. It's good to know that it took me three paragraphs to say what could have been accomplished in one sentence. Luckily, Blogger pays me by the word. Moving on...

It is with great sadness that I must relay that construction on the Rancho Relaxo pool has been temporarily halted due to weather. We've gotten roughly 17" of rain here in the past week and aside from a brief peak on Sunday (the Lord's day of rest, you know) there's been no sun. Perhaps I should have taken those Earth Hour instructions more seriously. Anyway, the EPJ reported that she now has a giant mud hole in her yard. I'm not sure whether she was expecting her new Mexican friends to kindly pull a tarp over the site before heading home for the day or maybe they would do some of their voodoo to stop the rain. Regardless, she's arrived at the scientific breakthrough that dirt + hole + water = heap em big mess. Optimist that I am, I told her to be of good cheer, most of her neighbors still don't hate her and at least her house hasn't slid into the hole. Yet.

So the ribbon cutting has been pushed back. *Sigh* I'm not sure to when but a safe bet it will be sometime between now and the end of the world. I know it won't be after the end of the world because not even the Almighty is a match for the determined EPJ. She simply won't let God carry out His apocalypse until she gets to belly flop into her fruit of others labor. Therefore, in the best interest of humanity I must hope that work is never completed.

A slight update: There is a slightly different picture below now. A better shot with both doors in place as well a more close-up view of some of the neon. FWIW, the doors are on backwards and will stay that way. Don't ask.

The Cinema Show

A few weeks ago I mentioned in passing that they/we/somebody was restoring our old cinema to its former glory. One day I'll actually get around to writing about "the show" as it played a far bigger role in my life than probably even I realized at the time. No doubt it's where I first really got into movies and where I saw the bulk of them growing up. I'm not sure but the first movie saw there could have been Star Wars in 1977. I know I saw it there and wouldn't have seen many movies before then as I was only 2 (thanks, Andy. Thandy) 3 1/2 years old. The last one was definitely Happy Gilmore. Regardless, it's always been a special place for me. So much so, that I actually considered purchasing it a few years ago but we never got serious about it. I suspect part of me will always regret that.

It closed up shop in 1997 but was deteriorating even before then. Like most small town movie houses, it couldn't compete with the megaplexes and attendance couldn't justify the necessary repairs. Time took its toll.

Exterior work was begun in the fall and as can be seen, is more or less finished. All the neon and paint has been replaced and restored to its original colors. Other than a brief test, they've not lit it up though that's supposed to be in a few weeks. New windows and doors as you can tell. Now work begins on the interior which will be a massive undertaking, read: expensive. This will be done solely through donations and private funding through our Better Hometown organization. Guess who's the chairman. If you'd like to make a donation, get in touch. Probably one of the coolest things we're doing is that you can purchase a seat in honor or memory of someone, even yourself. If, like me, you always sat in the same seat, it can now be yours forever. Maybe we'll even throw in some of the old floor goo as well.

I thought it might be a kick for any out-of-towners that remember the Knox to see what's going on now. Regardless, "the show" is looking better than it has in decades. I'll try to post as things progress.

We invite you to attend the college of our choice

What was a pretty uneventful weekend for me personally (a trip to see the not exactly good Monsters Vs. Aliens with Marisol and Buster was the highlight) turned into a pretty eventful one for the world at large. North Korea moves us all closer to midnight as Kim Jong Il continues his quest to be the ultimate James Bond villain; I've no idea if he has a cat or lives inside a volcano, however. President Obama essentially fired the head of a U.S. corporation, GM. A move that, regardless of necessity, has been met with surprisingly little commentary from the chattering classes. Then there were the floods in North Dakota. Or more accurately the waiting for the floods in North Dakota; it's been a bit strange watching that story unfold. Certainly good for the folks in question, but sucks for all the roving reporters. Eager to give us some human tragedy with a smidgen of human triumph thrown in, all the media has got thus far is a bunch of folks in flyover country filling up sandbags. Fail.

Our North Dakota friends need not feel they're alone in all this. Andy called Saturday afternoon to inform me that the local news was reporting that puddles were forming around Atlanta. Killer, godless puddles. The kind one has to hop over or walk around to avoid. Worse still, the kind that the oceans formed from. Holy shit. It was with not a little disappointment that Andy reported this news report was not filed from a canoe. At least it gave chivalry another chance at renewal as capes were laid down for fair maidens by dandy gents the city over. I've not been advised of the current situation so I can only presume the entire metro Atlanta area has been destroyed. Farewell, old friend. Farewell.

Unfortunately because I actually have something approaching a life these days, I wasn't able to take part in the big Earth Hour on Saturday night. For the fortunate few who have no idea what all that hubbub was about allow me. For one hour on one night the entire world was supposed to power down at the behest of Edward Norton, one of our finest actors, presumably a decent dude and expert on all matters metaphysical. That meant no lights, computers, television or electricity (general or otherwise) for one solid hour which would probably suck if you were unfortunate enough to be on a plane, subway or life-support during that hour. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, I suppose. Somehow all this energy conservation was going to save Mother Earth from its core melting or something that was probably detailed in the "scientific explanation" part of The Day After Tomorrow. Regardless, we'd all feel good enough to live the next 8764 hours with pretty much no thought of energy conservation or Edward Norton. Since we're all still here, I guess it was a success. Thanks, Earth. Thearth.

Fortunately, I happened to pick a cinema that did not care about Earth and chose not to shut down operations. So while most of the would-be do-gooders were sitting in the dark patting themselves on the back whilst wondering how to eat a frozen dinner with no microwave, we were attempting to yuk it up with Monsters Vs. Aliens in 3-D!!!!!!!!!!! This seemed the most patriotic thing I could do on such an night. Of course, I'd be lying if I said that part of me wasn't hoping that due to all the energy being saved, my movie experience wouldn't be a little bit brighter. Alas, it wasn't to be as the movie was a largely forgettable, goofy kidfest with wasted talent (Paul Rudd, Will Arnett, Rainn Wilson) and jokes/references thrown together just because. The particular kid I was with didn't seem to enjoy all that much either.

As a result, I have decided that I will do more for the environment if Hollywood will start making better product. I am fully prepared to buy energy-efficient light bulbs, cut off my computer at night and not rev my car's engine just because it sounds cool. All I ask is that Hollywood quit turning forgotten tv shows into movies, abandon all remakes/sequels, start putting Simon Pegg in every movie to make it cooler, stop putting Samuel L. Jackson in every movie to make it cooler, discontinue making PG-13 horror movies, tell Quentin Tarantino that ripping off obscure movies is still ripping off, bring back the Care Bears and give Kevin Smith back to New Jersey. And anything else I decide to add at a later date.

Let's sit back and look forward to the status quo together.

Let's Go Bowling

Though I've yet to manage to upload them, Marisol has provided pictures of the Hollywood's destruction of our family heirloom. At this point a reminder is probably in order: the house we loved so much we sold 60 years ago and have allowed to gradually fall in. The point being that I've not forgot my promise to my faithful readers, I've just yet to act on it. Perhaps I have a future in politics.

Apparently, the EPJ's construction of her Rancho Relaxo pool is of great interest to some. I guess I just took it for granted that people would actually care since I spend most of my days trying to ignore any/all talk of such affairs.

I keed.

Nevertheless, construction continues or more accurately, is wrapping up. Not having much experience with such things, I really didn't know how long these projects take. I must admit it warms the cockles of my heart to know that it really doesn't take more than a few days to dig a big hole and fill 'er up. Never let the determination of the American worker (and his Mexican sub-contractors) be underestimated, especially when there's a crazed woman monitoring their progress. In addition to being an expert on various legal matters and kid-raising, the EPJ's also a skilled construction foreman.

Due to this expertise, she's been running out to her house to check on the progress and document everything with her trusty digital camera. This, as one might figure, is a fascinating documentation. Wow, there used to be grass. Now there's a hole. And now there's a liner. What a pretty at bulldozer. Oh look there's Diego, hello Diego. Etc.

As stated above, the project is winding down and they've moved on to what I can only presume is the final phase: the fill. Not really sure how this was accomplished. They simply may have cut on the garden hose and tossed it over the side or pulled the local fire department away from that children's orphanage fire to borrow the hose. I'm sure the kids understood. Whatever, the pool is now full if not yet open for business. Unfortunately, the EPJ didn't get a picture of the procedure. I guess it wasn't noteworthy. My warped sense of humor really was hoping for a picture of her standing over an empty pool with a hose, however. For some reason I imagined they build it, you fill it. Again, I've little experience with these type projects.

Soon we'll be making another run

I'm gung-ho for any and all opportunities to speak in front of a crowd, any size. Location and subject are irrelevant but I'm quite skilled at managing to say the wrong thing whenever the opportunity presents itself. It's just a talent that I've honed, sharpened and workshopped for many years. Not really sure if it stems from nervousness (probably) or my total lack of basic social skills (possibly), but in my continual efforts to reassure my audience, that I know how ridiculous the very thought of me speaking, perhaps imparting wisdom or perhaps just droning on about nothing in particular, to them is usually results in multiple violations of Robert's Rules of Order

There was the time way back when in church when I was doing the children's sermon. The previous sermonizer (my bestest pal, Christopher) split for seminary and left a gap that for some reason the powers that be felt I could fill. Apparently, they felt all the happy, feel goodness and wonder that a child should find in church needed a healthy dose of cynicism and real world bile. Who was I to argue? Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed doing these things and think the kids dug me because I treated them like adults. We often went out for coffee and discussions on Kierkegaarde afterwards. Don't worry I provided the smokes since they were underage.

Anyway, there was this one kid who came down just about every Sunday and just drove me bonkers. I know it makes me sound awful but I couldn't stand him. Every Sunday I would secretly hope his family had moved to Estonia the past week. He couldn't be still, constantly talked and enjoyed making smart-ass comments as I was trying in vain to relate to the kids by using baseball cards or records. If I'd kept it up I'm sure at some point I'd tried to explain nuclear fusion to them.

But as for this kid, he was like Martin Short's man child, Clifford, a little boy who everyone thinks is darling but only one man, Charles Grodin, sees the light and Clifford for the spawn of Hell he actually is. As always, Charles Grodin is awesome. Fitting then that I should get to imitate one of my heroes in real life. Like Grodin, I always did my best to humor this demon seed and mask my contempt with a slow burn or some sardonic thought. Any verbal comments were lighthearted enough for the congregation proper and usually met with a light chuckle. If only they'd known of my loathing.

But one time right before Christmas I was talking about Jesus or the manger or some such and this kid would not shush. No great surprise. I guess I thought I really nailed the children's sermon that week and did not want to be deterred. As is probably obvious, in the best of times, I ramble. If I get to rambling and become annoyed, then the venom really comes out. So this kid was yapping, probably all excited about Christmas as kids generally should be and are. I decided to ask the kids what they wanted for Christmas. Susie wanted a doll, Jimmy a bike and Johnny a baseball bat (For the purposes of this anecdote, assume it's 1950). So I came to Hellboy and asked what he wanted. Maybe he only wanted a dollar to give to world hunger or pair of shoes for his terminally ill mother. More realistically, I suspect he'd have preferred a kitten to drown or a gun to shoot me. Regardless, before he could answer I cut him off. "I'm pretty sure Santa's not coming to see you this year since you've been so bad. So it doesn't matter anyway." Oh...snap.

And I carried on telling the kids about God's love and the wonders of Christmas.

Now if I were truly an awful person I would end the story there, content that my reputation as terrorizer of tiny town par excellence would be secure. But I am human and generally not a bastard, especially to kids. Therefore I must add that as I was actually saying the above the other part of my brain was frantically trying to induce a stroke or aneurysm, something/anything to shut me up before my train got to its destination. It's odd how quickly one can process several different items at light speed when the situation requires yet can take 2 hours to decide whether it's a Big Mac or Whopper kind of night. Perhaps, this is a curse which only I bear.

In addition, I should point out that there was no visible reaction from the child, a hunch this was not the first nor the last time he had been told this. The other children and the congregation gave their usual chuckle, so I'm fairly confident they took this as a playful little dig and not as the there's-a-pitchfork-being-sharpened-for-you-down-below-right-now comment I intended it. I suppose they could have been laughing through their horror. I try not to think about that option too much. And I'm pretty sure the kid ended up in juvvie or jail. Heck, he may be on the lam right now. Probably coming after me. Gee, I certainly hope not.

Selah.