| (no subject) |
[Sep. 20th, 2005|10:34 am] |
Holy balls, I haven't updated in forever. I don't even know where to start.
So, the Razorbacks suck. And not just a little bit. If their performance the last two weeks were a smell, it would be akin to taking one of their B.O. riddled uniforms, letting two skunks get busy on top of it, then dousing it with eggs and vinegar and leaving it in the sun for a day, all before letting a dog take a dump on it. Just to finish things off. That's what their performance would smell like if'n it were a smell.
I just got back from Charleston, South Carolina, and it was awesome! And I mean awesome in a nothing-can-go-right-but-we-make-the-best-of-it way. Let me lay the situation out for you. Hell, let's just do a day-by-day...I haven't done once of those in a while.
Saturday
Departure. Of course I got drunk the night before, and of course I didn't pack, so of course I'm packing, hungover, at 8:30 in the morning. Stephanie loses her keys and freaks out, but we find them. Meg has packed seven (seven!) bags, so there is drama there. But, eventually, we're off. Me and three girls. Hoo-ray. Caravaning with two more girls and a guy. That's seven people, five women, and six smokers. Nobody's bladder was in sync. Everyone smoked two cigarettes at each stop. A nightmare. We also got to see the Great Slums of the South on our way. Memphis, Tupelo, Birgmingham...all were beautimous. We finally get to Atlanta around 10:00 or so. There is a bowling alley, the Atlanta Fun Center, right next to our hotel. Everyone gets the bright idea that we should go over there for a couple beers and burgers before bed. I speak up that I don't think that idea will work out. Nobody believes me. Here is a re-enactment.
All of us: *walking across the parking lot from the hotel to the "Fun Center."
Me: I think we need to think about other options for dinner.
Everyone else: Why?
Me: Have you ever been to Professor Bowl on Saturday night?
Everyone else: Oh.
Me: This is going to be that, multiplied times Atlanta.
Everyone else: Oh...
All of us: *Walking into the foyer, not yet going in, but able to see in*
Every soul in the AFC: *slack-jawed stare*
Record in the AFC: *screetching*
Someone in the group: So...how about Applebee's?
Sunday
Another fucking travel day. Atlanta to Charleston on this day. We get there around four or so. Have dinner with Emily's family. We all get drunk. I stay to talk to Chris and all the girls go home. For the record, there are four girls and myself in this house. So I come home to four wasted, giggling girls, who have turned the loveseat upside down and made it into a fort. A fort, for God's sakes! Then they ask me how big my penis is. I'm not making that up. Apparently, somebody saw a bulge. I assured them it was just a shadow. Talk about weird. Also, because Chris' best man had to go to the Gulf to help out with Katrina, he asks me to fill in for him. I haven't known Chris and Emily for a whole long time, but I'm extremely honored to help them out.
Monday
It's cloudy, on account of Hurricane Ophelia being just off the coast, so we spend the day going to the mall and getting lost around downtown Charleston. We also travel across the largest bridge in North America, the Cooper River Bridge heading into and out of Charleston. This thing is brand new, and it is massive. I had to get fitted for a tux. I bought a pair of pants. We had dinner with Em's family again, and then we got drunk, again. Scoot and I had drunk bonding time until about 3:30 in the am. It was sweet.
Tuesday Ophelia is growing closer, so it rained all day. We were all tired of being in the car, so we just hung out and played cards all afternoon. Never, ever play Phase 10 with five people, unless you'd like a sneak preview of the third circle of hell. At some point, Lisa and I briefly discuss going out to this bar, Dunleavy's, and getting a beer. Well, we eat spaghetti, and then we watch Laguna Beach. And then we watch The Biggest Loser. And then we watched Big Brother. And when we turned it to The Real World, I about lost it. I mouthed to Lisa asking if she wanted to get a beer, but she didn't understand. So I just got up and said I was getting one. She of course did, as did everyone else, until they realized that I meant *out* to get a beer, not just on our back porch. Lisa was still game, everyone else wasn't, but they got the impression that we were conspiring, what with the mouthing back-and-forth and all. But we really weren't. There was drama, and then it was diffused. At this point I'm praying for sunlight the next day.
Okay. That's halfway through the trip...I can't do anymore right now, so we'll finish it next time. The juicy, entertaining stuff is still to come. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 23rd, 2005|11:58 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| |  hopeful | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Coldplay | ] |
It stormed today.
I left to get lunch kind of lateish, and as I was driving around I saw that a storm was rolling in. Pretty good one, too. So I rushed back to the apartment as the rain began. I knew that I needed to wash clothes, but there are only so many chances you have in life to take stormy-afternoon-naps.
I took full advantage.
Usually, I wake up from a nap in a pretty good mood, which annoys some people. Groggy, but a happy groggy. There are two conditions, though, that cause me to wake up in an exceptionally good mood. Naps during storms do it, and for whatever reason, a nap with the windows open and sunlight on my face. Today's rainnap was gloooorious.
When I woke up, I experienced a very surreal period of time. It lasted about fifteen minutes, and everything was just perfect. My senses were heightened, and every stimulus was extremely pleasing. The sound of tires on wet pavement. Voices as people walked by my window running their errands, or sometimes just running, since the rain had died off. I walked outside on my balcony (I live on a hillside, so the front of my apartment is street level, but the back is three stories up.) to smoke, and it felt phenomenal. The rain had cooled everything off to the point where the humidity was almost enjoyable. 75 degrees, with heavy air and a nice breeze. It almost felt coastal. And I watched the valley behind my apartment for several minutes as it started to dry out. I never realized how much I underestimated the view from my back porch until today. It's very nice. And I was in a very good place, without needing assistance from alcohol or any other drug.
And then things were back to normal. It was time to go to work, and I had to go stinky. But it was worth it. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 21st, 2005|01:55 pm] |
I really hate it when you go to Sonic and they put so much fucking ice in the cup that when you want to reposition it for maximum-liquid-intake, you can't even get the fucker back down to the bottom....yeah, that really chaps my ass.
That's my only bitch for the day.
I need some new music. I'm out of fresh and the only show coming to Little Rock in the near future is Todd Snider, who I absolutely love, but I'm going to miss it because...
I'm going on vacation, bitches! That's right, Trent, for 10 sweltering days and 9...sweltering nights, YOU will be living the life in Charleston, South Carolina! Golfing! Shopping! History! Nightlife! Hot girls from the College of Charleston! And all expenses paid for by YOU!
Seriously, I cannot wait. The first road trip for the Xterra, which is still nameless, so feel free to make suggestions. I also really HAVE to make a sidetrip to Savannah, which is only a couple hours away I think. Let me check GoogleEarth. Yeah. So I gotta go.
And now I gotta go to work.
Bye bitch, bye. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 19th, 2005|04:16 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| | upbeat/melancholy | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | the sizzle of an Arkansas August | ] |
Today I assessed my first new vehicle ever.
Yesterday, I trimmed my nose hair.
Last week, I caught myself grumbling that my mom's lawn was higher than anybody else's in the neighborhood, and I should mow it before they get grouchy about it.
MY GOD IN HEAVEN, I AM GETTING OLD
Despite not updating in ages, I really don't have any funny stories to pass along. Nothing uproarious has happened to me or anyone that I know as of late. Sure, there are plenty of things to laugh about at work because half the people I work with are cool and witty, and the other half are complete dumbasses (I'll let you figure out who takes the abuse). But those are usually zingers that don't make the transition past "the moment." OH. I did inadvertently inform the daughter of the owner of the restaurant I work in that an old woman fell and broke her hip because "--
Ok, well now that was kind of funny. Just now, the Chinese place down the street tried to deliver some food to me. He had my address, but I hadn't ordered any food. We struggled along with some form of broken English for a few minutes before everything was straightened out. Damn, that shit smelled good. Now back to your previously scheduled programming.
"--our floors suck and they have too much wax on them." I didn't KNOW it was the owner's daughter, and I didn't know that the woman had broken her hip. I was just being honest. It got me a reprimand. Fuck that place.
I still work at the Gap. Me figuring out what to wear in the morning is probably very entertaining, although I seldom have an audience. You walk around and fold clothes and tell people that they don't look fat in those jeans. Which, if you're a guy, comes naturally.
And gas is currently $2.59 and 9/10 of one penny. It costs me $50 to fill up. And I'd like to take this opportunity to tell all the American gasoline companies that they can go fuck themselves right in the mouth. Right in the motherfucking mouth. Gas will be back below two bucks by the end of the year. MARK MY WORDS!
This is my first day off in at least 10 days, and I'm going to go get drunk and enjoy the last night with my girl before she goes back to school. So, y'know...bye. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Aug. 9th, 2005|12:31 am] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | "Road Cases" by DBT | ] |
So, I should get this out of the way...
I got a job working at Gap.
I immediately went out and bought a brand new SUV in order to shore up what's left of my heterosexuality.
It's a 2005 Nissan Xterra S 2x4. Black. And it is so fucking pretty. Like seriously, I don't even care that I'll have to give plasma to fill it up with gas. 265-horsepower, after driving a Malibu (purple!) for five years is just, like...pretty fucking cool. I can pass people now. And I'm getting laid all the time because of it.
But the Gap thing...yeah, I still don't wanna talk about it. It's easy, the people are friendly, and it pays pretty good. Did I mention it's insanely easy? So far, at least.
Also, I think that the whole banking on the net thing is the greatest invention ever. I don't know how I missed out on this, but the opportunity to pay a bill, or check my balance, whenever I want to, is something that I sorely need. I'm bad bad bad about paying bills, but I can sit on the computer all damn day. It's like they were thinking of me when they came up with the idea.
To conclude, apparently the manner in which I eat hot wings proves that, if I *were* gay (which I'm not, despite working for The Gap), I would be very strong in the oral sex department.
That is all. |
|
|
| STEEEEEEEEE-RIKE |
[Jul. 22nd, 2005|02:36 pm] |
Little Rock as a AA Minor League baseball team, the Arkansas Travelers, and last night Stephanie and Jay and his son Julian and I went to watch them play against the Tulsa Drillers. The Travs play in Ray Winder Field, which is a relic built in the first half of the 20th Century...1918? 1933? I dunno, but it's fuckin' old. Anyway, the Travs are moving to a new park across the river in NLR next year or the year after, BUT... I have a list of demands that I want to make the jump across the Arkansas.
--The Timex Clock on the scoreboard has to stay.
--The B3 Organ (thanks, Jay) needs to make the move. For history's sake.
--The concession layout has to stay, for nothing other than its ingenuity. You can buy at the most two things, and usually just one, in each line. If you want a hot dog, a coke, some peanuts, and some candy...you get to stand in four short lines instead of one long one. This is awesome if you just want one thing, but gets a little maddening if you're making a run for several people. It's a neat little quirk, and it gives you plenty of opportunities to move around checking out different asses of hot girls.
--They really need to pick Interstate-630 up and move it across the river as well, even though this would fuck up morning and evening commutes for a lot of people. There's just something kinda cool about the possiblity of hitting a ball into rush-hour traffic and causing mass chaos and death, just from hitting a ball. Of course, this hardly ever happens, as there is a huuuuge fence, but I've seen it done. It just takes a moon shot.
--Hookslide Bradshaw needs to be reincarnated.
--More Dizzy Bat races! Like, after every half inning. And up the stakes.
--Please please PLEASE use billboard-style fences, and not boring solid green or blue. Your baseball is not that interesting. The only reason you have people on the third base line is the fact that you sel beer, so we can get drunk and gamble on which sign gets hit by a ball. I always take Coors Light in Right Field.
--Find someway to pipe that refreshing "The Zoo is our next door neighbor" smell in.
--The pretzels, oh my god, the pretzels. Rated the #1 minor league pretzel by pressbox.com for a zillion years running, or at least since Al invented the 'net. Grilled, salted, and, if you prefer, jalapeno cheese filled. Salt encrusted dough is a legend at Ray Winder.
I'd like to take a minute to talk about mascots. Most people never stop to consider where a team's mascot comes from. I always do. Some are generic. Some are obvious, like the San Francisco 49ers. Then you have your oddities of places that had a town-specific mascot, and then lost the team. Ever wonder why the L.A. Lakers are named such? Because they used to be the Minnesota Lakers...as in Minnesota, Land of a Thousand Lakes, Lakers. What about the Utah Jazz. Who knew Mormons are famous for their Jazz Music? They aren't, they inherited their team from New Orleans. The Houston Oilers were the Tennessee Oilers for a year before they changed to the Titans. The Memphis Grizzlies? The Mississippi isn't home to many Grizzlies, but Vancouver is. Now what if the Miami Heat decide to move to, say, Fargo? |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 20th, 2005|01:52 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| | positive | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | "Danko/Manuel" performed by Jason Isbell | ] |
Wow. I really suck at the whole Updating-In-July thing. I'll do better.
HIGHLIGHTS OF THE FIRST THREE WEEKS OF THE SEVENTH MONTH IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD, 2005
--You have, have, HAVE to go see Wedding Crashers. Seriously. Like, now. You should stop reading this and go see it and then come back. It will still be here. Any movie that takes advantage of the phrase "eye-fucked" is gonna be enjoyable.
--Stephanie (not Scoot) and I floated the Spring River with Jay. Aside from being a veritable jackpot of T-Shirt Bingo participants, the Spring is also about the only river in Arkansas that you can float mid-summer. This is because it is ...spring-fed. Which means it is COLD. 58 degrees cold. We had a blast, and we didn't float once. At one point, we make it through a spot called Dead Man's Curve, which is two quick rapids with a turn in between them, and a woman wearing a Tommy Jeans tee-shirt (or was it Girbaud? Or Kermie Hilfinger...you get the idea) yells to us "Yaaaa'aall shoulda flipped back thar." Well, I guess we rock. Four-hour float, 0 flips, 10 beers, and two turkey sandwiches. BUT WE LOST THE FUCKING WATERPROOF CAMERA. So you don't get to see our incredible pastiness, offset only by patches of crimson sunburn. Good times. Not bad times.
--Of all the questions I've anticipated in my life, sitting in the living room of a preacher's house and walking out to be greeted with "You didn't have sex in my bed, did you? is not one of them. I couldn't even think of a smartassed response. Thanks, buddy.
--New Music Update. The newest Better than Ezra, Before the Robots, kicks all the ass. I highly, highly recommend it. The new Coldplay is, eh, Coldplay. Good for what it is. I got my hands on a Weezer show from back in May, and the fact that Rivers is almost drowned out by the crowd singing along (through every word, not just the choruses) is fuckin' awesome.
--I'm thinking about getting a new automobile. There is a story behind this, and a really good one, but I cannot relay it because I would be running down people on here that I shouldn't run down on here. But I get a new bill out of the whole deal!
--Jermain Taylor is the man. And that clownshoes motherfucking judge who scored eight rounds for Hopkins was on the take. Obviously. Little Rock's first undisputed world-champion boxer. And a class act. Way to go, Bad Intentions.
My Great Uncle used to take me and I'd watch them recollect
about some things I couldn't comprehend |
|
|
| News update |
[Jul. 1st, 2005|02:50 pm] |
I didn't want to tell you this, but...
Jay likes the cock.
A lot. Too much. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 30th, 2005|04:18 pm] |
I work with a guy...his name is Lloyd.
Lloyd is a crackhead. He has to be.
Let me tell you Lloyd's story.*
Lloyd was born in poverty, the eleventh son of Ernest and Flossie Christmas (ok, not really) of Rockford, Illinois, in the Rockford Municipal Hospital on February 16, 1944. He wasn't the brightest in Ernest and Flossie's brood, but he was without a doubt the sweetest and most sensitive of the herd. He worked hard, and studied harder...but then he discovered drugs and alcohol.
GODDAMN YOU, NIGHTTRAIN!
Lloyd, through the sweat of his brow and the soap on his hands, worked his way up through the dishwashing ranks in the highly competitive Rockford foodservice market. He'd work all day, and then all night, and then drown his sorrows with tasty malt liquor. Except he didn't have any sorrows, so he was pretty much just getting fucked up for the hell of it. This was a very happy time in Lloyd's life. He wasn't bothered with Vietnam, and he didn't so much know what to think of John Kennedy, or even who he was for that matter. His concerns were getting a ride to work on time, getting his suits cleaned for his nights out, and getting laid. This kept Lloyd satisfied for awhile, but pretty soon he tired of the scenery around Rockford.
And that is when he made his move. Vegas or Bust, baby!
He busted. Well, not so much busted, as hitchhiked the wrong way. But he ended up in Atlantic City! And pretty soon, he was movin' on up. He now washed the finest china, and most stainless silver. And the fortified wine selection in New Jersey was much deeper than in Rockford. Lloyd worked hard, and he played hard, and, over the years, he got addicted to crack. That is when Lloyd went plumb crazy. He was still jovial, quick with a smile and a laugh and not the least bit dangerous, but he was nuts just the same. He developed a wild eye and a wild hair. He would suffer periods of incoherence. But he sure was one funny motherfucker.
I'm not sure how Lloyd got to where he is now. I'm not sure how a man in his 60's thinks cornrows look cool. I'm not sure how he got the nickname Old School, but by jove, it fits. He is still jovial, quick with a smile and a laugh, and he refuses to learn the names of any white people, but gives them affectionate names of his own, that he holds true. I'm just "fella", and I'm okay with that, because I am fella every time he talks to me. And nobody else is Fella.
I admire Lloyd because he comes in and does his job. He doesn't bitch. He doesn't complain. He doesn't get stressed out, except for when he gets stressed out. And even then, when he's stressed out, he doesn't bitch or complain. Oh, sure, he might talk to himself a little bit, but he always gets through it. And he doesn't ever bitch or complain. And he does his job. And comes in. Yeah.
So that's why I like Old School. Whoever said crack kills obviously hasn't met this guy.
*- portions of this have been made up. Pretty much the whole thing, in fact. Ok, definitely the whole thing. |
|
|
| Skeeee-eez |
[Jun. 27th, 2005|12:19 am] |
Time for a true drunken update.
I watched Batman Begins last night, and here is your full review. It kicks ass. It really does. Promise. I love it. But...
Christian Bale overacts. And he overacts with shitty lines, which compounds the problem. I'm no thespian, but if you're given shitty lines, you DOWNPLAY them. Instead of, y'know, overacting them.
I like my villians with names. What is a villian without a name? I'll tell you what. A nameless fucking villian. And that is no fun.
Katie Holmes. Wow. I've always liked a little character on a girl's face, and her jacked-up grill is just the ticket. That crooked smile will always make her Joey, and Joey will always be insufferably hot.
Gotham City is a cool place. I'll leave it at that.
When did black people become interested in Batman? I thought it was like the last bastion of white geekdom. With Lord of the Rings and Star Wars.
That's the end of your review.
Tonight I went to Ernie Biggs. It's a piano bar downtown. I fucking hate downtown. Because people ask you for stuff. I had two guys ask me for money tonight on the fifty-foot walk from my car into the bar. AFTER a dude tried to get me to buy him a Swisher at the gas station. Dude, if you need money, lemme know, but don't ask for forty cents so I can buy your ass a cigar. You can find enough for the on the side of the road.
Jay got drunk and snuck out. That fucker.
I'm tired of typing now. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 24th, 2005|12:36 am] |
Today By Numbers
Phone calls: 20
Text messages, sent: 2
Text messages, received: 1
Meals: 2
Beers: 5
Trips across the Arkansas River: 2
Hours spent napping: 6 (!)
In other words, very fucking unproductive. But I needed to recharge my batteries. I got absolutely zero sleep last night...we're talking maybe two hours, tops. Which, I know isn't zero, and for sure isn't absolutely zero, but it's damn sure not enough. So I struggled my tortured ass to Sherwood and back in time to make it to lunch with Joe. Fu Lin. Kung Pao Chicken. Not their best dish. I haven't seen that dude since I sent him off on his honeymoon. Same old Joe. We're talking about opening a business together. Any and all ideas are welcome. As well as money.
12:00 p.m. - 6:00 p.m -- I napped. I fucking rock.
Then I went out to Embassy to watch the Finals. Scotty D and Vinnie Boom were there, stories were drank and beers were told. As I leave, the fire alarm in the hotel goes off. I'm parked in a fire lane. But I'm leaving, thank God.
I went home, watched the rest of the NBA Finals, and now I'm taking my ass to bed.
And my foot is asleep. Grrrreat. |
|
|
| Bud Light and Dick |
[Jun. 17th, 2005|02:49 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| | upbeat | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Todd Sniter LIVE from Juanita's | ] |
I am a bad person.
Really, I'm not, but apparently I've become too important to remember people I went to high school with. I was at lunch today, by myself, at Fulin (which is, by the way, the best lunch in Little Rock. Egg Drop Soup and Chicken Fried Rice for $4.40 AFTER tax. And you carry half of it home. Amazing.) and this girl turns around and says "Hey, Trent, how are you doing?" I'm dumbfounded. I respond with the obligatory "Great! How are YOU?" But I don't have a fucking clue what this girl's name is. I'm such an asshole. It's glad to know that I'm memorable, at least.
So I had a process server call me the other day. I have no idea why. The whole thing sounds fishy. He told me that I was supposed to call this lawyer in Hot Springs, but he had no idea what it was in reference to. I informed him that if this lawyer wants to talk to me so badly, he'll get in touch with me himself. It's not like I am that difficult to locate. The befuddling part is that I have absolutely no idea what it could be regarding. I'm completely clueless. I've only been to Hot Springs twice in the past year, and I didn't witness or partake in anything fishy while I was there. Very, very strange.
OH. My. God.
So, the other night we're hanging out over at my house. Jay, Scoot, and I. We'd been to the Travelers' game, but left early because it was seriously White Trash Wednesday (Thanks, Scoot). So we're on my porch, drinking beer, and Scoot and Jay are kinda drunk, me not so much. Stephanie is in a little white Bohemian-style skirt, sitting on a barstool, and I'll let the dialogue take over from here.
Scoot: I'm TIRED of this skirt. I hate having to sit like a lady.
Trent and Jay: Well...take it off.
Scoot: *the look* (then...) *lightbulb*
Scoot: Jay, switch clothes with me!
All parties involved: ...
Crickets: *chirp*
Jay: Okay...
Trent: Wow.
We proceed to the hallway.
Scoot: Okay, I'm wearing a thong, so you can't look.
Trent and Jay: Ok...
Scoot: *takes off skirt and hands it to Jay*
Me: *watching everything and wondering at what point it's going to get weird*
Jay: *takes off shorts*
Me: *realizing exactly at what point it just got weird*
Me: Is...Is that..--
Scoot: Oh my god, Jay, your PENIS is hanging out!!!
Jay: *looking down* So it is! *buttoning flap that should have been buttoned in the first place*
Scoot and Trent: OMFGLOLROFLBBQ!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! *falling on to bed and rolling with laughter*
Scoot: *falling off of bed, rolling on the floor...still laughing*
By the time Scoot and I get out breath back, Jay has somehow packed himself into this skirt. Keep in mind that Stephanie is about a size 2. It looked like cotton shrink wrap around his ass. Another round of belly laughter follows, and then there is a knock on the door. It's Stephanie (there's a new Stephanie, now, who for the purposes of this will go by Steph2). I open the door and try for about 2.6 seconds to prepare her for what she's about to see, and then realize that no amount of preparation is sufficient. So I just tug her arm and pull her around the corner. Jay walks out in his skirt, sits on the couch, and cross his legs like a fucking debutante. Round 3 of racousness begins.
So yeah. That happened. Probably the hardest I have ever laughed in my life.
I realize this is an abrupt ending, but I'm tired of typing, and really, how could anything I come up with top that? |
|
|
| Bitches. Bi-atches. Biiiiiitches. And cookies. |
[Jun. 14th, 2005|02:07 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| | optimistic | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Sevendust's "Bitch" | ] |
Your first glimpse inside the Grump's. You can't see much, except for my fatass head.
Is it update time? Already? Fine. Here we go.
- What is the best thing to buy with a $20 Gift Card from Best Buy? I'm thinking a Playstation 2 controller. Or Kanye West. I know, I'm behind the trends...bite me.
- Random Fortunate Incident #1: I fall a month behind on my student loan. Through some sort of luck, and I'm betting (or...not betting. Sorry.) on God's benevolence, my loan was sold, and due to the entering information into computers thing, I get like a month or so off from making payments. Sweet ass.
- Apparently, when I play pool, I can make every difficult shot there is to make. It's the straight ones that give me trouble. Write that down.
- I really miss central air conditioning.
- Highlights from Saturday: Written in multi-verse haiku. Not necessarily in chronological order.
Meth-head golf partner/ "But he's alright now!" says Scott/Complete with pornstache.
Nice guy, plays like shit/ Somehow I play even worse/ Out of the money.
Hello, Embassy / I think I'll have a bourbon/ A vodka. A beer.
Well hello, Joe's couch/ I think I'll pass the fuck out./ Cats' tongues wake me up.
- Sunday I'm at Mom's house between shifts since she lives like two minutes from where I work now. I complain about the absolute shit she has playing on the picture box..."what is this shit? It has to be Lifetime or something." She explains that no, it's not Lifetime, it is in fact Encore somethingorother, but I can change it (I really, really love my mother). I proceed to flip past golf, past the Speed Channel, past like seven different hunting shows to a movie that I find interesting. Because I've read the book before. After a few minutes, in a quiet, innocent tone, Mom asks me what channel this is. "Uh...Lifetime." Bitch.
- I have the most ridiculous farmer's tan that I have ever had. And I have had some ridiculous farmer's tans.
- I am learning the art of the Skeez. Details later, complete with Skeez dictionary and menu.
|
|
|
| Sudden Update! |
[Jun. 8th, 2005|03:42 pm] |
So, remember when I ranted a couple weeks about about the construction on the I-30 River Bridge in the middle of the night? Well, I figured out what they were doing. And the irony is so thick you could eat it with a spoon.
Markham Street is downtown. Cantrell Street is downtown. Markham St. has, in certain places, been renamed President Clinton Avenue. In honor of our favorite son. Little Rock has a big music festival over Memorial Day weekend. Tens of thousands of people flock in to our fair city from the sticks, and get trashed and listen to Hank Williams Jr. or whoever.
A couple days after Riverfest is over, it all clicks. The construction was to change the name on the interstate signs from Markham St. to Clinton Ave. They busted their ass to have it done by Memorial Day so all the hicks from out in the country would be able to see it.
Again. Once more, with feeling.
The city of Little Rock busted its hump to change the name of one of its most important streets so it could honor a known Draft Dodger over...Memorial Day.
I love it.
Don't get me wrong, I am a huge fan of Bill Clinton, or Billy Jeff, as Jason Isbell likes to call him. But, you have to admit, that's some funny shit right there, no matter where you fall on the geopolitical spectrum. |
|
|
| Yay. |
[Jun. 8th, 2005|02:34 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| |  hopped up on Passion Fruit Tea | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Loveline with Adam and Dr. Drew | ] |
I suck. I've intended to update this thing, and I haven't. So here's a catch-up post.
Wedding
My best friend Joe got married. In the middle of nowhere Texass. A place called Winnsboro, population 3500. I was a groomsman. Joe teared up. Hylan was great. I love both of them, and I'm insanely happy for them. They are in Destin right now, and I'm housesitting for them. More on that later.
Winnsboro has a Brookshire's, a Dollar General, a Dairy Queen, and a Sonic. Their gas is expensive, and their cigarette lighters are absurdly priced. Like 2.5 times as much as they are here. Fucking outrageous, man. One of the highlights of the trip was Shane recreating the scene from Old School where Vince Vaughn is whispering to Will Ferrel at the altar. "One woman for the rest of your life...way to think that one through, buddy. No, she's walking down the aisle now. Let it go, man." Good times.
Backtracking, we had the Bachelor party on the Thursday night before the wedding, at Joe's house. Several old friends showed, and we all got shwilly. Especially Joe. Total damage done? 10 hangovers, a nasty bruise on the Groom's forehead, a burn on his neck, a broken laundry room door, and various and numerous holes in sheetrock walls. Awesome. This might be the shortest wedding since Britney Spears'.
Farming?
So we get back Sunday, and I take Shane to Carlisle to drop him off. Carlisle has a population of 2500 (WTF am I doing in these small towns lately?), and the plan is for me to drop him off and head straight back to Little Rock, because I sorely miss civilization. After declining numerous requests for me to stay for dinner or go swimming or have a drink, I leave. Only my car won't start. The starter is out. On Sunday afternoon. In a speck on the map. So after making it painfully obvious that I didn't want to spend anymore time in that place, I'm stuck there. Beeyooteeful.
I had a great time.
We had family dinner at the Gosney ranch. Grilled pork chops, fried okra, baked potatoes, fresh salad, baked beans, and homemade strawberry pie. And sweet tea, of course. It was scrumptuous.
Then, the next day, after my hosts James has already bought my starter and gotten it fixed before I get out of bed, I did actual farmwork. Me. We picked Johnsongrass from a soybean field. This involves walking up and down the rows, looking for Johnsongrass (which looks like a mini-cornstalk) and plucking it from the earth. It felt good. But I could never be a farmer in a million years. Too much dirt and shit. And depending on the weather? Yeah, no thanks on that. My hat's off to those guys, however.
Chinese
Had lunch at PF Chang's China Bistro. It's brand new here, and I've never eaten in one anywhere else. I'm impressed, just like everyone else is. Went with Mom and Aunt Pam, with my nephew Jackson (11 mos.) tagging along. Started off with Crab Wontons, which were solid if not spectacular. Then we shared Pork Schezuan, Almost Chicken, and Kung Pao Shrimps. Our waiter scored extra points by bringing us a plate of Chicken Fried Rice which was made extra by accident. Also, their passion fruit iced tea was surprisingly good, as I'm a dyed-in-the-wool Southern-style Orange Pekoe man, myself, which no added fruit, thank you. But this stuff was really good. Lunch for 3 with an appetizer was $48. Not bad.
Clever
So, I had a great idea for a game at the restaurant the other day. It's called Tee-Shirt Bingo. When you come into work for a weekend shift, you're given a bingo card. On it are various tee-shirts you might see on the podunk-redneck-white trash that like to call themselves our clientele. Whenever you have one of these tee-shirts in your section, you mark it off on your card. Standard bingo rules apply afterward.
I realize most of us have some of these shirts in our possession, but, c'mon, most of us have our hickish days, as well. It's fucking Arkansas.
Shirts so far on the list.
American Flag of any variety.
Confederate Flag
Dixie Outfitters
Any Anheuser-Busch product
Corona Extra
Senor Frogs
Hard Rock Cafe
Tweety Bird/Bugs Bunny/Taz
Anything with Branson, Missouri on it
Dale Jr.
Ducks Unlimited
Old Navy of any variety
Big Johnson
Coed Naked of any variety
Hank Williams Jr. Tour
Any 80s metal band Tour
World's #1 Dad/Granddad/Grandma/Sewage Worker
Feel free to let me know if I left any off this list. This could be the most popular game for servers to play during a shift since Name That Mullet came out. |
|
|
| ...a fucking he-she |
[May. 29th, 2005|09:54 am] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| |  aggravated | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Weezer -- Pink Triangle | ] |
pink triangle on her sleeve
let me know the truth
let me know the truth
--DISCLAIMER--
Let me preface this by saying that I love lesbians. And all gay people, really. My spiritual beliefs go against the whole homosexual lifestyle, but my spiritual beliefs also tell me not to judge. And gay people are usually pretty cool, for the most part. Okay? There we go. Disclaimer over.
What I don't understand, and I did the gay disclaimer up there because I really don't know where to lump this individual in, are the transvestites.
But not really.
I should go ahead and tell the story, shouldn't I?
So my last table last night appears to be a black woman and her two children. A boy of about four, and a boy in early adolescence. No father. The older child is very precocious. Asks for more time to order. Then orders for the table. Then sends his steak back, but we'll get into that later. Very adult-like. I find it amusing, and through my quick and obviously very reliable psychoanalysis, I gather the he is taking on the role of man of the house, since his father is apparently absent. I'm impressed.
So the kid sends his steak back. He's ordered it medium well.
Boy: Excuse me, sir. This steak is not cooked correctly. I ordered medium well, and it came out med-i-um RARE.
Me: *sees that steak was actually overcooked and came out well done*
Me: *getting annoyed with the whole "adult" thing this kid is trying to pull*
Me: *grunts and takes the plate back, muttering the entire way*
Me: (inside the kitchen now) Kevin, I want you to burn the fuck out of this thing.
Medium rare my asshole. There wasn't even any pink left for that kid to be squeamish about, but he was squeamish anyway.
Gah. Okay. Anyway.
Chelsea takes the food back out. A minute later she comes up to me and says "Is that a boy or a girl?" I'm dumbfounded. "That's a boy, without a doubt." But now the seed is planted.
So I check the kid out.
Baseball cap. Turned sideways. Check.
Baggy clothing. Check.
No tits. Check.
Ordered for the table. Check.
Got nervous when Chelsea was standing there because she's fuckin' hot. Check.
Gotta be a boy, right?
At the end of the meal, I offer to "take your plate, sir." He says "Yes Ma'am".
I stop. Well that little fucker.
After they leave, I swing by to pick up their credit card voucher. On it is a big fat zero and a note.
No tip for you for calling me a fucking he-she all night. NO eye contact.
Well I guess that answers the question. But now I am completely confused. Apparently this boy was really a girl. But was it older than I thought? Involved with the mother? HE WAS PLAYING WITH CRAYONS FOR FUCKS SAKE. Why didn't they correct me? Why didn't the mother stand up for her child (or lover)? If he's going to get offended about being called the wrong gender, why wear a baseball cap? And a sweatshirt? And act like a fucking man? If you want to make sure everyone knows you're a girl, then do your hair, pick up a fucking blouse, and pad your bra, you dumb bitch.
And what's with the eye contact thing? How would that have helped me? Let me help you, NOT ANY AT ALL. You know what would have helped? Some tits. THAT would have let me know. Or maybe some makeup. Or not trying to look like Lebron fucking James, who, I'm guessing....HAS A FUCKING DICK.
Now I'm all worked up again. |
|
|
| Children and Dogs. Dogs. And Children. |
[May. 28th, 2005|01:46 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| | Good! | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Annie Lennox -- Waiting in Vain | ] |
Yesterday, I was planning to go in to work on my day off. But then my dad called and wanted to play golf. And then my buddy Vaughan called and wanted to play golf, too. He mentioned that Tripp was in town, and I hadn't seen Tripp in two years, so it was decided. I got to play golf with friends that I haven't seen in years at my favorite course in the state for $15. I hit the ball reasonably well, but I couldn't putt to save my life.
Anyway...
After we left the course, I went with Tripp to some friends' house for a barbecue. In Malvern, AR. Population: 9000) It was raining softly. They had a five-month-old. And two dogs. Everything was cute and quaint and comfortable...
I was about to go out of my mind.
I don't mean to knock the domesticated lifestyle. In fact, I love to romanticize it. But when the most exciting part of my day becomes what kind of Kool-Aid to mix? Well...it won't be good. At all. I think a quiet night on the couch with a girl is incredibly appealing. Hell, I'll admit it. I like romantic comedies. But I'm not ready to throw children into the mix. They're cute, and they're yours, and I know that when you have one, you can't imagine life without. But I'm being selfish and I'm not ready for that. And I won't be for a while.
And what about dogs? Are you kidding me? This guy paid $1000 for a purebred boxer. Sweet dog. Loved me. Licked me continuously. But I don't think he's particularly smart. He couldn't even mind simple commands. And...he's ugly. Boxers are ugly. I realize that ugly can be chic, but goddamn, man, how about finding a cute/ugly trendy breed that doesn't cost a grand? That's what I'd do, at least.
Thursday was bad. Watched the Hogs game at Embassy, and then went to Grumpy's for the Barrett Baber experience. I had a great time, got way too drunk, and hit on a stranger for Jay. I got her number for him, but he's going to have to sumo wrestle me for it now, because she's pretty cute. And she didn't condescend to me at all when I asked what "chiefing" was. A righteous stoner, man. Far out.
Work is in the forecast. And my best friend Joe is getting married one week from today, which means I get to spend three lovely days in Winnsboro, Texas. All expenses paid, of course. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[May. 27th, 2005|02:39 am] |
|
Holy Fuck. What an awesome night at Grumpy's. Details later...maybe. |
|
|
| The King of the Big Round Heads |
[May. 26th, 2005|01:10 pm] |
I cherish Loveline with Adam and Dr. Drew. It is more entertaining than any radio show, and probably any television show out there. I never, ever, ever get tired of it. There is no need for special guests. Just a continuous string of fucked up 20-somethings with weird sexual questions. And girls are ALWAYS hot when you can't actually see them. It's the perfect formula for success. I listen all the way home from work, and then inexplicably end up sitting in my car listening until they go to break. I have porn inside...and food! But still I sit, anxious to hear how they will resolve 17 year-old Alyssa's problem with "maybe being, like, bisexual, maybe". That's how good the show is.
Today, I'm on my way over to Joe's to do laundry, and I stop by Little Caesar's for a Hot-n-Ready. Which, by the way, should have been thought of about thirty years ago, but I digress. I walk out, and somebody yells "Is that Trent???" It is, of course, and I look around for this person that knows me. I see nobody I recognize. So I respond "Is that...you? YES IT IS!" And then my eyes scan over the largest head I have ever taken in. It's massive. Huuuuuuge. The only head that I've ever seen that compares is the one attatched to a kid I knew in high school. Yep, it's him. And his head has grown. Muchly. What I don't really understand, though, is why he stopped to holler at me, and furthermore, how the fuck he even recognized me. We weren't really friends in high school. We didn't hang out. And six years later he spies me from fifty feet and is confident enough in his recognition that he yells out my name? Weird. But rock on, dude. Good eyes.
Tonight, the Barrett Baber experience will be enjoyed in the comfort of Grumpy's. I will drink. Probably a lot. I will sing along. I will do my damnedest to extract myself from any sticky situations I manage to get myself into. Wish me luck.
And I made $100 last night! On Wednesday night! It made me happy.
I have to dry clothes and watch CNBC now. And you wonder how I get all the girls. It's that exciting lifestyle. They're just drawn to it. |
|
|
| YOUR Early Week Update |
[May. 24th, 2005|03:10 pm] |
| [ | My Mental State |
| | chilly | ] |
| [ | Bopping to |
| | Chris Isaak's "I Wonder" | ] |
Sunday blew. I hate Sundays. Some dumb bitch ordered an Appletini made with Petron Silver. An Appletini made with tequila. What. The fuck. I was more sad for the liquor than I was for her.
Apparently work is being done on the I-30 River Bridge late at night. It's FINE. There's nothing wrong with it. The goddamn DOT is just trying to fuck with my commute. Fuckers. When I explain this to whomever will listen to me, it's pointed out that I don't know if the bridge is fine or not, as there might be structural damage that is unseen to me.
...I'm okay with that. I can swim. I'll take my chances. But I work a night job specifically so I don't have to sit in gridlock on my way home.
Really, that's why I work a night job. For that reason.
And not because I'm too lazy to go out and continue my education or find a day job.
It's the traffic thing.
I promise.
Honestly.
Okay.
I was a good boy last night. There is a 12-pack that I bought on Saturday and I haven't even opened it yet. SO proud of myself.
Today, Jay and I went to the Town Pump for lunch. Jay has never eaten there.
J: Are you sure this isn't a gay bar? The gay bars are just down that road, you know.
Me: Trust me, it's not a gay bar. It's next to Dixie Cafe for Chrissakes.
J: Dude...dude, I'm just sayin'. It's name is THE TOWN PUMP. PUMP. PUMP!
M: Wh-
J: PUMP!
M: Wh-
J: TRENT! PUMP!
M: ...
J: ...pump.
We enter. There is no nonsmoking section. We are the only people whose name isn't stitched onto our shirts. Determining what material the walls are made of is impossible, due to the vast collection of beer-themed mirrors hanging about. We ordered fucking chiliburgers, for crying out loud.
Good call with the gay bar thing. Douche.
This a section of the blog I'd like to call *da da da DAAAAAAAAAA*
CONTENTS OF MY BUSTED-ASS REFRIGERATOR
12-pack Bud Light, cans, unopened, aforementioned
1/2 bottle Heinz Ketchup
2 20oz bottles Lemon-Lime Gatorade
1/2 pack Hillshire Farms Deli Thin Honey Ham
15 slices Kraft Sharp Cheddar Cheese (made with 2% milk)
appx. 1 qt. Country Time Pink Lemonade
30-35 Ketchup packets, from various fastfood restaurants
As an aside, I'd like to admit that I have a problem. With ketchup. I ask for the little packets every time I get fast food. I also buy BOTTLES of ketchup. I prefer to use the ketchup from the bottles, so I just SAVE the packets. Now, I can understand keeping enough packets for the unforeseen time when the bottle is empty and you need some sugary-tomato goodness. But I've taken it too far. The ketchup packets have outgrown their space in the butter-dish recess of my fridge, and expanded into the built-in egg crate. And I hear there is talk of annexing the bottom well usually used for two-liters and salad dressing. An ill-advised move, to be sure, due to the increased chance of falling onto the floor from there. But when is sprawl of any kind, suburban or refrigerated, ever pretty?
I'll keep you updated. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
boppertee's journal