I'm in line at the downtown Riteade, and there's this Native American woman next to me. She has all sorts of lame ass 1983 country music style tattoos (Roses wolves and feathers) but she also has a heart tattooes right next to her mouth. Sort of the cheek-al area, but sort of the far mouth. What is that called? Anyway, the heart is not only a heart, but the heart is crying. Or bleeding. I'm guessing cryinf though, because of the international symbol crying hearts, the tear drop shape. It's called a tear drop, because it's a tar, denoting crying. Simple.
As I blatantly don't even attempt ot not stare, my mind goes through al lthe scenarios where someone would think that a crying heart on their face would be a good idea. Only two scenarios come up. Prison and Meth.
As Ileave the store, the first woman I see outside is a matronly trailer park granny (ie. 35 going on 78) with a tear drop tattoo under her eye.

I had thought you had to kill a person to be allowed to get one of those. Like the spiderweb tattoo on your elbow. It's supposed to mean something. Deep meaning, not just a fashion statement.
Of course I get all my gang information from tv shows. Like that one in the eighties that wasn't 21 jump street where the guys looked like hall and oates and infiltrated a mexican gang and got that tattoo of the teardrop and then sang duke of earl like they were a doo wop band on the corner.
That was a good song.

I hear that writing about your job is the way to become more (in)famous.
So here goes my work story.

One of my fringe duties here at work is setting up the product demos from outside companies. Salespeople come in and bring free lunch, then chatter on about their products. I always ask difficult questions at the end just so they know I was listening. "Hey sales guy, why should I specify Derbigum over Siplast, when Siplast doesn't lock me in with a proprietary insulation system?" See, it makes me look smart. Well at least smarter than anyone usually suspects.

Anyway, today one of my coworkers acts like he's doing me a favor by showing up.
I should just say he was in a meeting and keep his free lunch as a leftover.
You don't shine my shoes by walking in that door m'man.

I got my results back from the doctor.
The thumb is probably not broken.
He suggested that I go to a physical therapist.

I suggested I save the money and let it not heal.
With my inherent lack of intelligence and non opposable thumb, I will have decended to monkey level, and that is much or important to de-evolve as opposed to be healthy and normal.

This weekend at the beach tournament in Seaside, after playing
all day, my team cleaned up and hit the town for dinner and partying.
We were putting our name in for reservations at every restaurant
possible, and doubled back to check on one last joint. As we're
walking up the street I turned to say something t oa friend, and out
of the corner of my eye saw a familiar face. I quickly tapped her on
the arm and she glanced up very surprised then yelled at me "SHUT
UP!"*1
It was my old friend Sarah T-, who I've been friends with since
2nd grade. We only see each other about once every two years since
she lives in Philly now, and she was randomly visiting a friend from
college. We exchanged numbers and met up alter that night to talk
without other people bugging us. It was great to catch up and see a
friendly face in that giant sea of humanity and cheap souvenirs. It
pretty much made my whole summer.


*1-That's been her tag line I think since tenth grade.

I went to the doctor.
And since I never go to the doctor it was a good experience.
I had previously self diagnosed myself as having either, the Hiv, or lung cancer. Sars was a possibility, because I have a penchant for eating civets.
The good doctor rediagnosed me with a pulled muscle in my chest.
His suggestion for treatment was switching ice and heat, coupled with 800 milligrams of ibuprofen.
I should also limit my physical activity, and definitely not play ultimate, which is what broke my chest in the first place.

I promptly ignored his advice, but took it under consideration, and I'm going to play the beach tourney. If I can breathe again without holding my chest.

He also referred me to the radiology lab where I finally got my busted thumb checked out.
He'll call me monday when he gets a look at the xrays.
If it turns out that it is broken, like he figured in the quick exam, then I will definitely follow his advice.
Unless he suggests surgery. Then I will ignore him again until after ultimate season is over.

I think this would be a good time for you to post questions to me.
I will answer them because I am just as capable of giving advice as Ann Lander's daughter.

All my advice will be about how to solve your problems by using your hooha. Or solving your problems by scoring some hooha.

The other night I'm riding my bike home while I have a High Life tallboy in my right hand. Now previously that night I found out that my front brakes, situated on the right handlbars, were no longer working. I only add this anecdotal evidence to add a little color to the story. It really serves no purpose later because I had a plastic bag of leftover High Lifes in my right hand.
As I approached the largest street I would have to cross on my way home, 50th, I noticed a car was just setting at the stop sign. Right turn signal all a blink. That might be a clue to some person such as Sherlock Holmes, but I am not Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes does not have a wicked one speed. If Sherlock Holmes had a bicycle, it would be one of those weird bikes with the one big wheel and one little wheel. So maybe I should just say someone who would ride a bike like mine, but also with the cognitive capacity to use adductive reasoning to divine future portent. MacGuyver perhaps would have been a better choice.
I was not about to let a stopped car slow me down, so I attempted to pass on the left, and ignore the posted vehicular suggestion.
At this point I determined that the car was not turning right because of the other car coming towards both of us in the northbound lane of 50th. After determining that the newly located car would not be able to stop in time to allow me to pass, I decided using my brakes would allow me to avoid certain impact. So I applied my right handed brake, the rear brake, liberally. I continued at the same rate because there was no handle bar in my right hand, only a now crushed High Life can.
Deciding that defensive driving was a better idea than attempting to take on the opposing vehicle like a modern day male Pinky Tuscadero since I did not have the immediate assistance of one Arthur Fonzarelli, I pulled a quick turn into the curb and rode the sidewalk, grass, curb, and then street to safety. My heart beat quickly, but I was able to ditch my nonfunctioning High Life, and coast back home without further predicaments.

Moral: Wear a helmet.

Isn't the first post to set a tone?
Well, that ain't gonna happen here.
It seems like if I ever read some other blog, it ends up being weird reading backwards in time. There should be some set up to read front to back instead of back to front, because who the hell wants to hear about shit that already never happened.

damn work sucks

We just landed this big project here at the firm, and I'm being assigned to it.
It's a good client who pays on time, but he asked for another one of these.



They say once it's actually finished they're going to kill me too and bury me in it.