Things I Hope I Never Hear

This is the first installment of what I'm tentatively calling Things I Hope I Never Hear. So, here is something I Hope I Never Hear:

"Hey man, I got us an eight o' clock tee time."

Man, I hope I never hear that!

Another Installment in the Sandwich Chronicles

I got it in my head last Monday that I wanted to make a Big Cuban Sandwich...however, my roommate and heterosexual life partner, the pseudonymous Craig, had just bought groceries and didn't want to spend any more money. The fact he didn't want a Big Sandwich merely confirmed my suspicions that he is, indeed, a communist. Craig and his pinko ideals notwithstanding, I decided to soldier on and make a sandwich anyway. Not a Big Sandwich, mind you, just a sandwich. I rocked out to the grocery store and came back with bread, tomatoes, and...chicken?

I can never think of anything to do with chicken, so I never buy it. This night though, I had a craving so I got some chicken and made a chicken sandwich. It was nothing spectacular, but it did get the noodle working about what other sandwiches I could explore within the world of chicken. Craig and I revisited the world of chicken sandwiches tonight with the cordon bleu. Again, nothing spectacular, but it was, we agreed, a "damn good sandwich."

Plans for the future: (1) modify regular cordon bleu sandwich and give it the Big Sandwich treatment. (2) begin preliminary testing on the next two potential Big Sandwiches: Chicken Parmesan and Croque Monsieur.

A (very) Short Story; Part III (The End)

“Let’s be honest about some of our lies.”

He wasn’t sure if he heard her right.

“…”

“I said I want to be honest about some of the lies we’ve told each other."

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“Yeah…I know. But I’ve lied to you. And I’m ready to come clean.”

“You want to be honest about lies? You want to be honest about lies you’ve already told? That makes no sense…what does that even mean?”

“It means I’m ready to tell you the truth about things that have happened in the past.”

“So you’re telling me that you’re finally ready to come clean about all the lies I’ve already caught you in?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you.”

“Are you mad? You’re mad aren’t you?”

“Why the fuck shouldn’t I be mad? I’ve done nothing but try to treat you like the queen of the world since the day we met and you’ve done nothing but shit on me. If I had any sense at all I wouldn’t even be speaking to you right now. If I had half a fucking brain I would have cut you out of my life a long time ago with one fierce, final stroke.”

“But you are still speaking to me and you didn’t cut me out of your life…what does that say?”

“I don’t know…I really, really don’t know.”

THE END

Are there dead bodies in my ceiling?

Here's one more from the old school. This was one of the first blog entries I put on myspace...I can't believe I overlooked it until now. I'm more than a little proud of this one and unlike the other 99% of things that come out of my mouth, this is actually true. Here we go:

Are there dead bodies in my ceiling? I don't know. I really hope not...it's kind of a creepy thought. But when I lie in bed on my back, looking up, I can't help but notice this convexity in the roof directly above my bed. In fact, if my bed were just a few inches over, said convexity would be centered directly over my bed and sleeping body. It looks like a former tenant stored something in an attic that was just slightly too heavy to be there, but not heavy enough to break through. Its roughly the size of a man, and you can almost, and this could be a child's overactive imagination, almost see where the ceiling looks different around the edge of this odd bulge above my bed. Like the roof has been patched. In my darker moments I have sat in bed, overwhelmed with wonder and not wanting to go to work, leaving the safety of the covers only to listlessly shamble to the fridge for another beer before I can make myself get up and go through the motions of another day. All the time staring and contemplating this sagging protuberance in my ceiling. Above my bed.

In moments like this I can all too clearly see some rotted and fetid now shapeless human form finally becoming too heavy for the cheap material and breaking through, falling in a mess of slimy old skin and putrid smell onto my sleeping form. Little plaster snowflakes would lazily float down. The terror would be so great I would be paralyzed, unable to scream or move as I now shared my bed with what in my head looks like the crypt keeper from that old television show. It's a disturbing thought.

And I noticed another one yesterday. On my deck, on the far right side, the roof is slightly sagging earthward in a distention more or less the same size as a human body in the fetal position. My God! How many could be up there? Are these the only two? Or just the only two that have been up there long enough to begin to show...What if the attic above my apartment is a field of dead bodies-rotting, decomposing, a veritable worm garden up there; crawling, slipping and sliding in, over and around all these bodies in different stages of decay?

Oh well...best not to think too hard about some things...

Daily Haiku

Poor Michael Jackson,
he taught us how to moonwalk,
now he is no more.

It's been a bad week for celebrities...first Ed McMahon, then Farrah Fawcett, now the King of Pop. The cynical part of me wants to make a joke about how, even in death, these Hollywood types are trying to one up each other. I mean, did Michael Jackson really have to steal Farrah's thunder by dying on the same day?

But (believe it or not) I do have feelings, so I'm going to do the decent thing and shut my big yapper now.

Daily Haiku

My idea of Heaven...

Oh, to pick bluegrass
on a rickety wood porch
deep in the mountains.

Best Sites Ever

I.

I'm usually not the kind of guy that shamelessly plugs other people's work. However, on occasion, I do become smitten with websites and then procede directly to running around yapping about them nonstop for weeks. Therefore, now I yap.

Another kind of person I'm not is one of these suckers that just love to see pictures of kittens and puppies in laundry baskets saying cutesy things. I've long had a compulsion to submit a picture to one of these websites of me, naked in the bathtub, beer gut hanging out, drool running off my chin while a sea of empty Busch Light cans bob around me. The caption would read, "Bring Me Another Beer, Bitch."

Having said that, I recently discovered a Flickr page that is very similar to these cutesy pet photos I detest so much. Before I tell you what it is, let me paint you a picture with my imagination brush: instead of a kitten pawing at the door, imagine it's an AT-AT. If you're unfamilair with AT-ATs then, first of all, shame on you. Second: AT-AT stands for All Terrain Armored Transport. They were the main weapons used by the Empire in The Battle of Hoth. What this genius is done is take his AT-AT and photograph it in various animal like poses. Two of my favorite things together: photography and Star Wars nerdery. Check it out here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/nickisconfused/sets/72157611113065419/

II.

If you don't know why I'm in love with this next one, then you simply don't know me at all. It should speak for itself.

http://scanwiches.com/

I mean, it's pictures of sandwiches!