The Wandering Ones by day
If you read this blog, you know several things about me, my life, and my propensity towards waxing poetic at moments that may or may not make sense to others.
Tonight, a chap I know mourns his grandmother - a woman who passed after 93 years upon the spaceship Earth. Sinic, if you're out there, remember these small things:
From what you've told me, your GMa was a wonderful, kind woman who had a marvelous life. Give thanks enough for that.
I remember Paul Wise - my irascible old fart of a grandfather - and his attempts at Thanksgiving Dinner. It wasn't so much that he was a bad cook - it was that he had the worst sense of timing that I've ever seen in a man. The peas would be cold and the potatoes near the boiling point when served. But the dinner was always delicious because it was served with his utmost love and attention.
Not many people strive to the point he did. He scraped and sacrificed for his children to have the opportunities he never had. We lose track of these things.
I will be out of blogging range until Sunday - but till then.
I am thankful for bourbon. The booze of the gods.
I am thankful for family.
I am thankful for those who read my words - be they paid or unpaid.
And I am toasting Sinic and his family in this moment of remembrance - and for that I wish them all the best.
Tonight, the sun never shines on closed doors.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Match.com: Millions of possibilities to meet your match
It must be said that I have rules and laws regarding dates. Especially ones engaged upon the Internet. Rule number one: expect nothing at all and empty your head in a Zen fashion - in this manner, you are always pleasantly surprised.
So. In the spirit of ending my singleness and the random kisses in the park, I invite the woman I've had coffee and park-walks with four different times out to dinner one Friday evening, and everything is marvelous. We make plans for Sunday night - or, rather, she makes the plans and says, "You have to come have margaritas with me." Since I like both Mexican food and margaritas in equal abundance, I agree - thinking that at the very least, I could repeat the Friday evening holding-hands-in-the-park under moonlit sky and kissing tenderly by softly lapping waves.
Granted, in the above situation she had to stand on a park bench to kiss me (5'1" and 6'5" with boots on) but it was still damn romantic, and here I am, thinking that I, the "Dateless Irish Wonder of the Skin So White Even Lighthouses Say, 'DAMN, BOY!'" might beat the odds and get a girlfriend. Because, let's face it. While being tall, darkhaired and romantic may get you a date, sometimes reality turns around and likes to kick you a few times in the nee-nees, just to make a point.
Illustrated by the following.
I show up at the restaurant, which is pleasantly atmospheric - but turns out to be a restaurant in a chain of many restaraunts - never having dropped this girl off at her house, I do not pick her up. I have not had a cigarette in two weeks, and the strain is lessened somewhat by the patch on my arm - but the minute I walk through the bar and order a dark beer, I CRAVE the sweet nicotine drifting up from the deathsticks held in the local faunas' grasp.
Surprise, she's early - and fifteen minutes early at that. She's flirting with the guy at the bar who's smoking. This isn't a problem, because hey. I know she's here to meet me, and I'm the guy with the sweet ride (hey, my yellow VW Bug from 1974 is a LOVE MACHINE, baby - and any woman who goes out with me in that, as opposed to the silver Honda is just freakin' cool) - while I've met the guy from the bar at a party, where he told me interesting stories about his past, and were I not technically on a date with her, I'd have the impulse to lean towards her and whisper, "That's not a cold sore." She hands his cigarette back to him and smiles, blowing out a small cloud of smoke. I wince. Okay, so I'm not kissing her. Then I notice that she bummed one from him - as he's now holding two. The kiss is back on. Maybe.
We seat ourselves - and she immediately makes it impossible for me to take her coat or pull her chair out for her by slipping around to the opposite side of the table. Then I get a small glare, and a, "Gosh, is chivalry dead?" comment, which immediately means I look at her, and say, "Nope! Just not given any opportunity to present itself, mostly." This segues into a small conversation.
ME:Well, I like to be polite, but I also find that it makes men look like clowns if they try to fall all over themselves to open doors or hold chairs for women. I like doing this sort of thing, I just don't think it's absolutely necessary at all times to follow the conventions.
SHE: But I expect it from guys when I'm out on a date. It's just nice, and all my girlfriends say if a guy doesn't do what you expect him to do, you shouldn't be dating him.
ME:Yes, but you could also get men who do all these things but expect their wives to stay barefoot and pregnant all the time. And maybe that works for some people. But I like to think of my dates as independent people who can do these things for themselves.
SHE: Well, it's just nice.
ME:Wow, look. Salsa! They have decent salsa here.
SHE: I don't eat salsa or chips, actually.
ME: *mouth full of chips and salsa*
SHE: Pause.
ME: *swallow* Why's that?
SHE: I just don't like spicy food that much.
ME:But you like Mexican, right?
SHE: I actually just like the margaritas (as Jon, our waiter, brings hers - in a glass the size of her HEAD.)
ME:Wow. That's a big drink.
SHE: Yep. I love 'em. Sometimes I'll have two.
ME:Know what's in them?
SHE: Lots of alcohol.
At this point I surreptiously check the drink list under the pretext of finding out how much this thing costs - and it's then that I gladly and happily note that I can buy three solid meals, half an ounce of marijuana and a Nigerian child slave for the price of this drink. Top-shelf liquors leap off the page to imprint into my mind.
ME:MY GOD!
SHE: What?
ME:Your drink has Patron in it!
SHE: *sips happily* Yep.
ME:In a margarita? Are they insane? That's sipping tequila!
SHE: Oh, I don't like tequila.
ME:But it's in your drink.
SHE: Yes, but it's mixed with Grand Marnier and other things.
ME:That's the point...Patron is...delicate. Did you know it takes over 100 years to grow the agave plant to maturity - and that's just making sure the tequila gets done right.
SHE: Mmmm. *SLUUUURP*
ME:...are you done with that one already?
She orders and obtains another one. However, at this point, I find that my one pathetic Dos Equis Dark isn't going to cut it. So I order another one, and start in on the chips and salsa.
ME:So, why did you pick Business Development as a career?
SHE: Oh, I get to go to meetings all day and talk with people, and network, and develop things.
ME:So you like the people you network with?
SHE: Not really, they're all kind of dull, you know, and they're older - almost too old to be in the business.
ME:How old is that?
SHE: Thirties, probably?
ME:But what will you do when you get older? I mean, don't you want to keep moving in the career field?
SHE: I plan on getting married.
ME:See, I'd like to go back to school.
SHE: Oh, I did that, but I had to go back for a Windows class.
ME:You mean like development?
SHE: No, just a class on Windows.
ME:.NET development, or the new protocols? I mean, I assume...you said you worked for a software company.
SHE: ME? No no no. I just needed better Powerpoint presentation skills.
ME:So, what do you like to do in the summertime? Hike?
SHE: Oh no, I can't go out. See, I have to have a curling iron and a hot shower every day. If you can guarantee me that, I'll go camping.
ME:You'd like RV camping, then.
SHE: Yeah, but why ride around in a van when you could just go to a spa?
ME:That's not really camping...
We are asked what we want by a snobbish, churlish waiter - my favorite type, whom I love dearly, since it means I get to infuriate him by being excessively polite to him, and she gives me yet another glance that says, "Stand up and be a man! Or something!" But since I adhere to the principles of nirvana (be nice to people when they get more and more upset, and you can ALWAYS make them burn out a fuse by being unflinchingly calm).
I order my standard taco-and-enchilada combination, since I never take food home from a restaurant, having a sister who works in public health. Lo and behold, this girl orders the shrimp taco and fajita combination - and another MARGARITA THE SIZE OF HER FUCKING HEAD.
SHE: Why didn't you tell him off?
ME:Because I know him. He's just being pissy.
SHE: That's no excuse.
ME:No, you don't understand. I KNOW him.
SHE: He's your friend?
ME:No. He works out at my gym, and he looks like he's just having a bad day. Don't worry about it.
(all of this is a lie. Frankly I don't care overmuch about this guy's day. But I'm not going to go alphan male on his butt because BusDev girl wants me to do so.) She asks me about my family, and I tell the amusing stories of my huge Irish family. Then I say:
ME:Tell me about yours.
SHE: Oh, it's not very interesting.
ME:I'd like to know, though.
SHE: My dad doesn't like any of the men I date.
ME:Really.
SHE: I have some issues with my parents.
ME:Oh, that's too bad.
A long, pregnant pause. Then:
ME:So did you get a chance to look at the music calendar in last week's Stranger?
SHE: Not really.
ME:I can't wait for the Paperboys to come back to the Tractor Tavern, how about you?
SHE: I never heard of them.
ME:But I thought you liked them. It said so in your profile.
SHE: Oh. I meant the Paper Boy. He's a hiphop star.
ME:I've never heard of him.
This discussion winds through the deep musical musings of bands such s N'Sync and the literary merits of Pink's "Let's Get the Party Started", and how great it is to have a girl chanting rap lyrics. Finally, before I can stop myself, I say, "You know, I like the old school of rap and hiphop much more than the stuff that's getting produced by the music industry these days, you know, like Run DMC and some of the older rhymes. When it wasn't so much about kicking people or shooting - more like the rhyming and the rhythm. And I heard last week this interview with Ray Charles where he said, "Rap ain't no kinda music"". I do the Ray Charles voice.
SHE stares.
SHE: That's not very funny.
ME:Wha? Who?
SHE: That voice.
ME:What, Ray Charles?
SHE: Yes.
ME:It sounds like him, right?
SHE: Yes, but you're not black.
ME:Wait...
SHE: I just don't think it's very funny.
ME:...long pause...
SHE: *slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp*
And now we're ordering margarita number three.
I am now talking about myself and answering all her questions - which are turning into monosyllabic, four-word sentences. By the time I've finished half of my meal, she's burped and unbuttoned her jeans (literally) and is working on her after-dinner drink. And finally, when I put the fork down, she smiles and leans back.
SHE: You know, I did want to talk to you about something.
ME:*mouth full of food, gesturing to continue*
SHE: You see, you're a really nice guy.
ME:*taking sip of beer*
SHE: which is why I think you and I, we're not right for each other.
ME:*blink blink blink*
SHE: I like you, I really do, and you're a nice guy, but I've got so many friends right now, that I think if we kept trying to see each other.
ME:Excuse me.
SHE: Yes?
ME:Okay. So this is a "let's be friends, but not friends" dinner?
SHE: Well, yeah, I didn't want to lead you on or anything.
ME:Oh.
SHE: Because I like you a lot.
ME: (remembering my sister's last words of dating advice): Aha.
SHE: But I don't think we're going to work out.
ME:Gotcha.
SHE: And I hope you don't mind, but I made plans to go out with someone else tonight, as well.
ME: So the movie...
SHE: -Well, I know you bought the tickets for it.
ME: Yep. I should probably call my roommate and see if he wants to go.
SHE: Or you could just give them to me...
I look at her. She's not joking.
ME: Wait, so you want the tickets?
SHE: If you aren't going to use them.
ME: Wait, so you want to go to the movie tonight with this other guy with the tickets I bought.
SHE: Okay, forget it, it was just an idea. (She folds up her napkin and adjusts her purse.)
At this point I'm *pissed*. And my sister is sitting right there on my shoulder, whispering into my ear all the things I've always heard her say about situations like this.
I stand up and say, "Excuse me" and meander back to the bathroom area.
And turn the corner.
And right in front of me is the back door exit.
It takes me ten seconds to wrestle with the ethical implications, which go something like this:
She asked me out to dinner to an expensive restaurant.
She broke up with me.
She admitted to double-booking the date.
She wants the movie tickets I bought early so she can see the movie with this new boy.
She ordered too much food and three giant margaritas.
My tab comes to around $15.
And I'm absolutely positive she isn't going to offer to go dutch on this one.
I walk out the back door and go to my car.
And then I think, "But why not?" And I skip around to the front of the building, where I, with my peeping Tom curiosity, watch her wait with her coat on - obviously waiting for me to come back.
And wait.
And wave and smile at the guy from the bar.
And bum another cigarette. And be told that where she was sitting was non-smoking.
And wait.
Ten minutes passed, and she realizes I'm not coming back.
The look of impatience is now one of rage - she's ticked.
She ripped out a VISA and wrote the whole thing off. I saw the busboy watching her malevolently. In a storm she snaps down the Visa, scribbles her name, and walked out the front door. And from my vantage point in the bushes, I see her downshift into reverse, kill the engine, and tear-ass down the street, wind howling in her blissful rage at being left with the bill for her margaritas and her takeout meal for the week.
I call my roommate Jon and say, "Hey dude. I've got a spare ticket for the show tonight."
Then I call her cell - get her voice mail, and say, "Hope you don't mind if I don't call you ever again," hang up, and slowly drive past her, down the street, where she's been pulled over by a Seattle Police officer. Those images of the margaritas the size of her HEAD come back into my brain, and instead of panicking about their size and cost, I start to grin.
And I'm at Zen again.
It must be said that I have rules and laws regarding dates. Especially ones engaged upon the Internet. Rule number one: expect nothing at all and empty your head in a Zen fashion - in this manner, you are always pleasantly surprised.
So. In the spirit of ending my singleness and the random kisses in the park, I invite the woman I've had coffee and park-walks with four different times out to dinner one Friday evening, and everything is marvelous. We make plans for Sunday night - or, rather, she makes the plans and says, "You have to come have margaritas with me." Since I like both Mexican food and margaritas in equal abundance, I agree - thinking that at the very least, I could repeat the Friday evening holding-hands-in-the-park under moonlit sky and kissing tenderly by softly lapping waves.
Granted, in the above situation she had to stand on a park bench to kiss me (5'1" and 6'5" with boots on) but it was still damn romantic, and here I am, thinking that I, the "Dateless Irish Wonder of the Skin So White Even Lighthouses Say, 'DAMN, BOY!'" might beat the odds and get a girlfriend. Because, let's face it. While being tall, darkhaired and romantic may get you a date, sometimes reality turns around and likes to kick you a few times in the nee-nees, just to make a point.
Illustrated by the following.
I show up at the restaurant, which is pleasantly atmospheric - but turns out to be a restaurant in a chain of many restaraunts - never having dropped this girl off at her house, I do not pick her up. I have not had a cigarette in two weeks, and the strain is lessened somewhat by the patch on my arm - but the minute I walk through the bar and order a dark beer, I CRAVE the sweet nicotine drifting up from the deathsticks held in the local faunas' grasp.
Surprise, she's early - and fifteen minutes early at that. She's flirting with the guy at the bar who's smoking. This isn't a problem, because hey. I know she's here to meet me, and I'm the guy with the sweet ride (hey, my yellow VW Bug from 1974 is a LOVE MACHINE, baby - and any woman who goes out with me in that, as opposed to the silver Honda is just freakin' cool) - while I've met the guy from the bar at a party, where he told me interesting stories about his past, and were I not technically on a date with her, I'd have the impulse to lean towards her and whisper, "That's not a cold sore." She hands his cigarette back to him and smiles, blowing out a small cloud of smoke. I wince. Okay, so I'm not kissing her. Then I notice that she bummed one from him - as he's now holding two. The kiss is back on. Maybe.
We seat ourselves - and she immediately makes it impossible for me to take her coat or pull her chair out for her by slipping around to the opposite side of the table. Then I get a small glare, and a, "Gosh, is chivalry dead?" comment, which immediately means I look at her, and say, "Nope! Just not given any opportunity to present itself, mostly." This segues into a small conversation.
ME:Well, I like to be polite, but I also find that it makes men look like clowns if they try to fall all over themselves to open doors or hold chairs for women. I like doing this sort of thing, I just don't think it's absolutely necessary at all times to follow the conventions.
SHE: But I expect it from guys when I'm out on a date. It's just nice, and all my girlfriends say if a guy doesn't do what you expect him to do, you shouldn't be dating him.
ME:Yes, but you could also get men who do all these things but expect their wives to stay barefoot and pregnant all the time. And maybe that works for some people. But I like to think of my dates as independent people who can do these things for themselves.
SHE: Well, it's just nice.
ME:Wow, look. Salsa! They have decent salsa here.
SHE: I don't eat salsa or chips, actually.
ME: *mouth full of chips and salsa*
SHE: Pause.
ME: *swallow* Why's that?
SHE: I just don't like spicy food that much.
ME:But you like Mexican, right?
SHE: I actually just like the margaritas (as Jon, our waiter, brings hers - in a glass the size of her HEAD.)
ME:Wow. That's a big drink.
SHE: Yep. I love 'em. Sometimes I'll have two.
ME:Know what's in them?
SHE: Lots of alcohol.
At this point I surreptiously check the drink list under the pretext of finding out how much this thing costs - and it's then that I gladly and happily note that I can buy three solid meals, half an ounce of marijuana and a Nigerian child slave for the price of this drink. Top-shelf liquors leap off the page to imprint into my mind.
ME:MY GOD!
SHE: What?
ME:Your drink has Patron in it!
SHE: *sips happily* Yep.
ME:In a margarita? Are they insane? That's sipping tequila!
SHE: Oh, I don't like tequila.
ME:But it's in your drink.
SHE: Yes, but it's mixed with Grand Marnier and other things.
ME:That's the point...Patron is...delicate. Did you know it takes over 100 years to grow the agave plant to maturity - and that's just making sure the tequila gets done right.
SHE: Mmmm. *SLUUUURP*
ME:...are you done with that one already?
She orders and obtains another one. However, at this point, I find that my one pathetic Dos Equis Dark isn't going to cut it. So I order another one, and start in on the chips and salsa.
ME:So, why did you pick Business Development as a career?
SHE: Oh, I get to go to meetings all day and talk with people, and network, and develop things.
ME:So you like the people you network with?
SHE: Not really, they're all kind of dull, you know, and they're older - almost too old to be in the business.
ME:How old is that?
SHE: Thirties, probably?
ME:But what will you do when you get older? I mean, don't you want to keep moving in the career field?
SHE: I plan on getting married.
ME:See, I'd like to go back to school.
SHE: Oh, I did that, but I had to go back for a Windows class.
ME:You mean like development?
SHE: No, just a class on Windows.
ME:.NET development, or the new protocols? I mean, I assume...you said you worked for a software company.
SHE: ME? No no no. I just needed better Powerpoint presentation skills.
ME:So, what do you like to do in the summertime? Hike?
SHE: Oh no, I can't go out. See, I have to have a curling iron and a hot shower every day. If you can guarantee me that, I'll go camping.
ME:You'd like RV camping, then.
SHE: Yeah, but why ride around in a van when you could just go to a spa?
ME:That's not really camping...
We are asked what we want by a snobbish, churlish waiter - my favorite type, whom I love dearly, since it means I get to infuriate him by being excessively polite to him, and she gives me yet another glance that says, "Stand up and be a man! Or something!" But since I adhere to the principles of nirvana (be nice to people when they get more and more upset, and you can ALWAYS make them burn out a fuse by being unflinchingly calm).
I order my standard taco-and-enchilada combination, since I never take food home from a restaurant, having a sister who works in public health. Lo and behold, this girl orders the shrimp taco and fajita combination - and another MARGARITA THE SIZE OF HER FUCKING HEAD.
SHE: Why didn't you tell him off?
ME:Because I know him. He's just being pissy.
SHE: That's no excuse.
ME:No, you don't understand. I KNOW him.
SHE: He's your friend?
ME:No. He works out at my gym, and he looks like he's just having a bad day. Don't worry about it.
(all of this is a lie. Frankly I don't care overmuch about this guy's day. But I'm not going to go alphan male on his butt because BusDev girl wants me to do so.) She asks me about my family, and I tell the amusing stories of my huge Irish family. Then I say:
ME:Tell me about yours.
SHE: Oh, it's not very interesting.
ME:I'd like to know, though.
SHE: My dad doesn't like any of the men I date.
ME:Really.
SHE: I have some issues with my parents.
ME:Oh, that's too bad.
A long, pregnant pause. Then:
ME:So did you get a chance to look at the music calendar in last week's Stranger?
SHE: Not really.
ME:I can't wait for the Paperboys to come back to the Tractor Tavern, how about you?
SHE: I never heard of them.
ME:But I thought you liked them. It said so in your profile.
SHE: Oh. I meant the Paper Boy. He's a hiphop star.
ME:I've never heard of him.
This discussion winds through the deep musical musings of bands such s N'Sync and the literary merits of Pink's "Let's Get the Party Started", and how great it is to have a girl chanting rap lyrics. Finally, before I can stop myself, I say, "You know, I like the old school of rap and hiphop much more than the stuff that's getting produced by the music industry these days, you know, like Run DMC and some of the older rhymes. When it wasn't so much about kicking people or shooting - more like the rhyming and the rhythm. And I heard last week this interview with Ray Charles where he said, "Rap ain't no kinda music"". I do the Ray Charles voice.
SHE stares.
SHE: That's not very funny.
ME:Wha? Who?
SHE: That voice.
ME:What, Ray Charles?
SHE: Yes.
ME:It sounds like him, right?
SHE: Yes, but you're not black.
ME:Wait...
SHE: I just don't think it's very funny.
ME:...long pause...
SHE: *slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp*
And now we're ordering margarita number three.
I am now talking about myself and answering all her questions - which are turning into monosyllabic, four-word sentences. By the time I've finished half of my meal, she's burped and unbuttoned her jeans (literally) and is working on her after-dinner drink. And finally, when I put the fork down, she smiles and leans back.
SHE: You know, I did want to talk to you about something.
ME:*mouth full of food, gesturing to continue*
SHE: You see, you're a really nice guy.
ME:*taking sip of beer*
SHE: which is why I think you and I, we're not right for each other.
ME:*blink blink blink*
SHE: I like you, I really do, and you're a nice guy, but I've got so many friends right now, that I think if we kept trying to see each other.
ME:Excuse me.
SHE: Yes?
ME:Okay. So this is a "let's be friends, but not friends" dinner?
SHE: Well, yeah, I didn't want to lead you on or anything.
ME:Oh.
SHE: Because I like you a lot.
ME: (remembering my sister's last words of dating advice): Aha.
SHE: But I don't think we're going to work out.
ME:Gotcha.
SHE: And I hope you don't mind, but I made plans to go out with someone else tonight, as well.
ME: So the movie...
SHE: -Well, I know you bought the tickets for it.
ME: Yep. I should probably call my roommate and see if he wants to go.
SHE: Or you could just give them to me...
I look at her. She's not joking.
ME: Wait, so you want the tickets?
SHE: If you aren't going to use them.
ME: Wait, so you want to go to the movie tonight with this other guy with the tickets I bought.
SHE: Okay, forget it, it was just an idea. (She folds up her napkin and adjusts her purse.)
At this point I'm *pissed*. And my sister is sitting right there on my shoulder, whispering into my ear all the things I've always heard her say about situations like this.
I stand up and say, "Excuse me" and meander back to the bathroom area.
And turn the corner.
And right in front of me is the back door exit.
It takes me ten seconds to wrestle with the ethical implications, which go something like this:
She asked me out to dinner to an expensive restaurant.
She broke up with me.
She admitted to double-booking the date.
She wants the movie tickets I bought early so she can see the movie with this new boy.
She ordered too much food and three giant margaritas.
My tab comes to around $15.
And I'm absolutely positive she isn't going to offer to go dutch on this one.
I walk out the back door and go to my car.
And then I think, "But why not?" And I skip around to the front of the building, where I, with my peeping Tom curiosity, watch her wait with her coat on - obviously waiting for me to come back.
And wait.
And wave and smile at the guy from the bar.
And bum another cigarette. And be told that where she was sitting was non-smoking.
And wait.
Ten minutes passed, and she realizes I'm not coming back.
The look of impatience is now one of rage - she's ticked.
She ripped out a VISA and wrote the whole thing off. I saw the busboy watching her malevolently. In a storm she snaps down the Visa, scribbles her name, and walked out the front door. And from my vantage point in the bushes, I see her downshift into reverse, kill the engine, and tear-ass down the street, wind howling in her blissful rage at being left with the bill for her margaritas and her takeout meal for the week.
I call my roommate Jon and say, "Hey dude. I've got a spare ticket for the show tonight."
Then I call her cell - get her voice mail, and say, "Hope you don't mind if I don't call you ever again," hang up, and slowly drive past her, down the street, where she's been pulled over by a Seattle Police officer. Those images of the margaritas the size of her HEAD come back into my brain, and instead of panicking about their size and cost, I start to grin.
And I'm at Zen again.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Amazon.com: Computer & Video Games: Unreal Championship
So here's a short thought that cropped up with my good friend John:
John writes: So the other night, a man that I would have at one time considered a friend got pissed off at me, and while I was in the process of attempting to apologize for whatever I had done that pissed him off he decided to hit me a few times. Honestly I've been hit a *lot* harder by my father in the past, and I was also drunk so it didn't hurt at all really. After it was over, I had lost a few drops of blood and he had lost a few friends. So the question is, who really won that fight? Just something for people to think about the next time they think violence will solve their problems.
The other thing is, I love this guy. And I've spent more than my fair share dealing with his crap. (Oh, and John, believe me, you dish out your fair share.) But the other thing is, if you take a swing at anyone, you're done. As far as I'm concerned, I've been in ten fights in my lifetime, and eight coincided with middle and high school. They all sucked. One was in college (as a bouncer) where my advantage lay in the fact that I was a bouncer with a 6 D-Cell Maglite and a hookup with the police department. The last one happened outside a bar and was over faster than it started...a guy pushed past me and threw a punch when I said, "Hey, take it easy there, Jack." Being able to grab the hand as it went by and help the guy along to an upside-down position with a boot in the small of his back didn't hurt, either.
It's not bragging, it's reality - people shouldn't hit. It's not acceptable under any circumstances, sober or drunk. I'm large enough (6'5, 275 lbs) to bark out a "QUIT IT!" when friends of mine get into a tussle. Seriously, though, I swear violent video games have a place in society, and it's to keep folks from acting on their aggressions. If they had had Unreal Championship to blow the aggression out, maybe it wouldn't have happened.
I don't know. I agree with John. Regardless of who this person is, they've lost any potential respect I might have had for them. And they lost him as a friend. Go figure.
So here's a short thought that cropped up with my good friend John:
John writes: So the other night, a man that I would have at one time considered a friend got pissed off at me, and while I was in the process of attempting to apologize for whatever I had done that pissed him off he decided to hit me a few times. Honestly I've been hit a *lot* harder by my father in the past, and I was also drunk so it didn't hurt at all really. After it was over, I had lost a few drops of blood and he had lost a few friends. So the question is, who really won that fight? Just something for people to think about the next time they think violence will solve their problems.
The other thing is, I love this guy. And I've spent more than my fair share dealing with his crap. (Oh, and John, believe me, you dish out your fair share.) But the other thing is, if you take a swing at anyone, you're done. As far as I'm concerned, I've been in ten fights in my lifetime, and eight coincided with middle and high school. They all sucked. One was in college (as a bouncer) where my advantage lay in the fact that I was a bouncer with a 6 D-Cell Maglite and a hookup with the police department. The last one happened outside a bar and was over faster than it started...a guy pushed past me and threw a punch when I said, "Hey, take it easy there, Jack." Being able to grab the hand as it went by and help the guy along to an upside-down position with a boot in the small of his back didn't hurt, either.
It's not bragging, it's reality - people shouldn't hit. It's not acceptable under any circumstances, sober or drunk. I'm large enough (6'5, 275 lbs) to bark out a "QUIT IT!" when friends of mine get into a tussle. Seriously, though, I swear violent video games have a place in society, and it's to keep folks from acting on their aggressions. If they had had Unreal Championship to blow the aggression out, maybe it wouldn't have happened.
I don't know. I agree with John. Regardless of who this person is, they've lost any potential respect I might have had for them. And they lost him as a friend. Go figure.
Thursday, November 20, 2003
So I've not posted in eons. But. I've been doing other things with the length and breadth of my writing talents.
I shall post these shortly, and they'll all be in timeline somewhat similar to that of the posting arena.
But tonight I'm watching movies I got from Netflix, surfing the net, and trying to figure out what the bloody hell my cat is doing to the blankets on the futon. He's being very strange.
I shall post these shortly, and they'll all be in timeline somewhat similar to that of the posting arena.
But tonight I'm watching movies I got from Netflix, surfing the net, and trying to figure out what the bloody hell my cat is doing to the blankets on the futon. He's being very strange.
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