two dolla

You know I’m a WNBA fan. We’re hitting up two games this weekend, just so I can get my fix in before the Summer Olympics start up putting the season on a break for most of August.

Chris Baker, the man I will now refer to as The Largest Douche in All the Land, isn’t so much an WNBA fan. At all realy. He’s a local talk radio host. While I’ve never listened to his show (and never plan on it at this point), I think it’s safe to say he’s a gigantic turd.

The topic of his show on 100.3 KTLK (which will never be turned on in my presence) was about things that never lived up to their hype. (Chris Baker’s radio career might be one I’d throw out!) One caller suggested the WNBA should be added to that list. His response?

“You know what [the WBNA] is? That’s a place for lesbians to make out when they score,” Baker said.

Thanks, Chris Baker, for making something so exciting to any female athlete seem like the cheap fantasy you’re too scared to tell your wife about.

I’d like to invite Chris Baker to join me at the Lynx game Friday night or even Sunday evening. And anytime the Lynx scores, I’ll just punch him square in the neck. Or the prostate.

Gratuitous video of WNBA players in a bench-clearing brawl can be found right here. Take it as a sign, baker. When the players aren’t busy making out after they score, they’re busy beating the shit out of grown ass men like Rick Mahorn.

The General and I went to go see The Dark Knight tonight. I wanted to see it last weekend, but I also didn’t want to end up punching myself in the face repeatedly by trying to fight crowds like that. Another advantage of working downtown is the most awesome convenience of being able to walk a few blocks to the theater after work and not have to deal with parking!

The movie? Fantastic. So fantastic. Heath Ledger, just like every site on the internet has said already, was amazing. After his first scene, I leaned over to The General and was pretty much speechless; all I could mumble out was “Holy crap. He’s amazing.” or something equally as lame. There wasn’t a single part about the movie I didn’t like. While I’d heard from several people that it was about 30 minutes too long, I didn’t think so at all. Most 2.5 hour movies tend to make me restless, but the only squirming around I did was when I couldn’t wait to see what was next or when the asshole thug that smelled like cheap booze had to walk in front of us at least a half dozen times.

Sadly, my scene got cut.

Jenni took this picture of me last July when they were filming The Dark Knight while we were in Chicago. Matt, Jenni, Bill, and I were wondering around downtown Chicago and noticed production vans all over the place with signs talking about RFK/Rory’s First Kiss. A production assistant kicked us off the set and told us we should google Rory’s First Kiss since none of us knew what it was, but what that douchebag production assistant didn’t know is that the security guard a block down had already told us they were filming the new Batman movie.

There goes my plans for royalties and getting rich off DVD sales.

I’ve never been a hardcore believer in horoscopes. Of course they’re extremely entertaining and there were some days at my previous job when I’d find one that said something like “your boss will be hit in the nuts repeatedly tonight when he stops to get gas on the way home from work”, I’d vow it was going to come true. It might have; I don’t really know.

When I started learning more about the astrological signs, I started to get A) a little creeped out and B) completely amazed. I’m totally a Pisces! Wishy-washy, can’t make decisions, extremely loyal, gets to invested in the emotions of others, and gets way too invested in the problems that belong to other people instead of my own - pretty much me in a nut shell.

Riley? He’s a Gemini. His pet horoscope this month? (Yes, I did find pet horoscopes on the internet, thank you very much!) It indicates he’s been a little lethargic so far this July (absolutely true!), but he’ll regain his energy on the 23rd of the month. This means only one thing - tomorrow, you might just get a video of us playing LION TAMER. Seriously.

For quite some time, I’ve been having some issues with my external hard drive. I’ve written about them before. I was getting pretty desperate, mainly because that hard drive held every digital picture I’d ever taken since 1998. Every last one. And while those pictures of me drinking beer from a plastic Bud Light picture while sitting in the middle of a pole barn that had been converted into a club/bar approximately 10 minutes from Whiteman Air Force Base may not be all that important to the next person, those gems of photographs are certainly not ones I want to lose.

I’ve been avoiding the thought of the faulty hard drive for quite some time, because it made me really sad. When we were at Pride, we talked to a lady who runs a computer fixin’ business of her own. She let me know that it’d cost abuot $75/hour to retrieve the data I wanted, and it’s likely that it could take an entire day for it to finish. I think I threw up in my mouth when she told me that and decided to stop thinking about it again for a while. And then I’d want to look at a picture or, you know, listen to music, but I couldn’t because all of that? On the hard drive.

One night, I got tired of thinking about it, so I did some looking into things on the internet. Surely if it’s on the internet, it’s gonna work, right? The internet suggested taking the external hard drive out of the casing and plugging it into my computer. I did the first part, and then realized I didn’t have an extra ribbon cable to plug it in. Luckily, The General’s ex is kinda smart with these kinds of things and suggested I just unplug my CD drive and use those cables instead. So I did.

And you know what? It worked. And as soon as I saw my computer recognize it, I collapsed onto the floor with happiness. No kidding. And now I can bring you little gems like this:

Why, yes, that’s me sitting in The Cuz’s old house, partaking in a little 4th of July celebration in the year 2000 while drinking a can of Dirt Cheap beer and downloading songs through Napster. The Cuz had high speed internet and I was amazed at how quickly DSL could download Busta Rhymes’ “Woo Hah Got You All in Check” compared to my 28.8K connection I had back home.

The General and I have talked a lot about getting some pepper spray to take with us when we go to the dog park. It’s not that either one of us are scared of the dogs attacking us, but moreso other dogs attacking our dogs. The General’s dog was attacked a couple of months ago and the only thing around to help get the other dog off of Kentucky was a stick. We later found out via animal control that it’s legal to use pepper spray for just that reason, making the Keychain mace a pretty good idea. But considering our keychains already look way too much like ones a janitor might carry around, it might be a bit much.

The good news? They have a pepper spray ring. Yes, I said that, a pepper spray ring. It’s “a beautiful self-defense ring with pepper spray, offers safety, elegance and confidence close at hand.”

I’m picturing myself walking Riley one night before bed, just me, my gigantic pansy of a dog, a few poop bags, and one beautiful silver and gold plated ring that could protect me from a sneaky attacker. In my current neighborhood, I’ve never so much as even felt threatened by anyone other than the gigantic dog next door, but it’s kind of an awesome backup plan should the neighborhood wind up transforming into the sketchy place I lived in a few months ago.

Another option The General just pointed out? I could wear it while on the bus. I mean, what happens if Nutsack McGee decides he to adjust my business, too? I’m so weak and fragile that I might not be able to defend myself, and nothing says “back off my lady parts” than a quick one second burst of pepper spray right into his bloodshot, sleep-deprived eye. And with any luck at all, it might just make him think twice about adjusting his own manhood while using public transportation.

Back when I lived in Eagan, I would typically opt to take the train from time to time when going to baseball or basketball games. I didn’t have to pay for parking and I didn’t have to deal with the gigantic mess of traffic afterwards, which tends to fuel even more fire to the already exsisting anger I would feel after watching any of my favorite local sports team lose. But I never took the bus.

I’ve taken it twice since moving here in the late winter/early spring of 2002. Once, I was living in St. Paul and working in downtown St. Paul, so I figured I’d give it a whirl. I got scared and pulled the stop request cord about half a mile before my actual stop resulting in a morning hike to my office. The second time, Cindi was trying to teach me how to ride it, so we took it from her place to a bar. I only remember the kid sitting across from us that was completely cracked out picking at his face and continually thinking someone was looking over his shoulder, even though his back was to the bus window.

I took the bus every morning this past week. It’s a $2 fare and it gets me to work on time, if not early. And while it’s taking me a while to get used to not being in complete control of my ride to the office, I don’t really hate it and I’m getting some reading done.

On Thursday, a man with a tie got on at my 35th and Bryant stop. I’ve been riding the 4B bus for three whole days, (THREE WHOLE DAYS) and up until today, I’d always been the fanciest one on the bus. Instantly (and obviously), I didn’t like him.

I like to sit in the front of the bus, because there are always open seats, I get to see everyone that gets on, and I can get off pretty quickly. I sat down, and noticed that the guy with the tie sat down in the row of seats somewhat diagnol to me. I’m reading America’s Boy, pretty much minding my own business, and I look up long enough to notice the tie-wearing guy is reading a sales-related book. I have three theories about guys that read books called “How to Rock at Sales” or anything even remotely close to the sort.

1. They’re horribe at sales and desperately trying to find a source where they can learn how to be a pro before their 30-day probation runs out.
2. They’re new to the job and just want to look like a cocky pro.
3. Their asshole manager assigned them the book to read. (Oh wait, that was me in my last job.)

So, the bus stops somewhere between my stop and the edge of downtown, and this guy stands up. I figure he’s getting off the bus at MCTC, but no, he’s standing up for a different reason - so he can adjust his boy parts.

Dude stands up, sales book in one hand, and takes the free hand to grab his entire package. It apparently needed adjusting. I can’t really assume that it was bothering his knee or something to that effect, but the way he grabbed it allowed me to see the outline of absolutely everything that I never wanted to see on the bus at 8:40 in the morning. It’s possible the man only had one nut.

And the day after that, I started catching a different bus.

Every now and then, I like to examine my financial situation - see how my credit score is, see how much debt I have, compare my budget to what I’m exactly spending. Mainly, it’s just to remind me that I’m not sleeping on a bed of hundred dollar bills or in a great enough financial situation to make it rain into the Mall of America’s rotunda on a regular basis. And usually, I wind up using what cool new tool I can find online.

Tonight, I used BillsIQ to see if I was “financially fit” (Lord knows that’s the only way I’m fit!) and the results were pretty much where I expected them — a 76%, which translates into about a C. It reminded me to do pretty helpful things like shop around for insurance rates (especially since mine are jumping through the roof in August, since my address change will finally take effect) and get my ass in gear to make a will, even though the only thing I need to leave to someone is my big, fat dog. And my Seimone Augustus bobblehead.

I’m glad I’m nowhere near the point where I need to worry about Bankruptcy or someone repossessing my car. And BillsIQ might be kind of a nice place to stop back in every once in a while to see where I’m at with ye ol’ finances.

Angelina Jolie had her babies. Now the world will be saved and peace will be restored and world hunger will come to an end and terrorists everywhere will drop their homemade suicide bombs to join hands and sing Michael W. Smith songs.

And I can finally stop obsessing over it, too.

Things I saw after I turned my computer off at work and headed down the elevator until just right now:

1. A co-worker leaning into the back window of his VW Passat while cleaning safety glass out. Someone was ballsy enough to punch in the window in the middle of the afternoon while it was parked in an open parking lot right smack dab in the middle of Minneapolis.
2. Two cop cars and a bomb squad truck parked in front of the downtown Minneapolis library.
3. The stoners three blocks down playing hackey sack in their front yard and attempting to involve their wheelchair-bound friend, but instead it looked like they were just beaning her in the head over and over.
4. Myself cutting up raw chicken, which ended up in the most delicious stir fry I think I’ve ever eaten, made ever so lovingly by The General™.
5. A total drug deal going down at 34th and Emerson. The guy in the car that was handing of said drugs asked if Riley was a pit bull. NO, JACKHOLE, HE’S A DRUG SNIFFING DOG, SO WATCH OUT.
6. A seriously crazy lady meeting us head on our post-dinner 2.25 mile walk, who asked Riley to sit (which he did) and then lay down (and instead he tried shaking her hand). Then she handed The General and I an apartment rental magazine.
7. And now it’s pretty much just my computer screen, my fat, tired, white dog sleeping on the couch, and the glow of The General’s laptop.

SIDENOTE: I quit drinking caffeine last Thursday. I just kept forgetting to bring change into work to get pop out of the vending machine, and figured why the hell not just quit worrying about it. As a result, I’m pretty sure I’ve lost eight pounds. I’m currently trying to break my juice habit, too, but holy Christ on a cracker, I could live on nothing but juice and Little Debbie snacks.

SIDENOTE.2: The General quit smoking last Thursday. The quitting of our vices on the exact same day was not at all planned, but it worked out that way. We now own stock in Tootsie Roll pops, but I’d rather find sucker sticks laying all around then make out with an ashtray. Sorry, baby. ;)

The General™ and I just returned home from a lovely Saturday night date that included a trip to the dog park, followed by a romantical (in the words of Flavor Flav) dinner at Denny’s on Lake Street in Minneapolis. We know how to live it up with the rest of them.

After we left, we were strolling down the street and I farted. Loudly. And I apparently looked at The General™ and made a face as if I were grunting, which was completely unintentional. It’s possible it was a very loud fart, but hi - it’s been almost two months, so it was bound to happen. Plus, The General™ has not only farted on my living room floor, but also ON MY LEG WHILE WE WERE SITTING ON THE COUCH (and was allegedly sick at the time). So, we’re kind of even.

This led to a discussion about how sometimes it’s possible to accidentally let out a little dookie while you’re passing gas. Or, as the awesome Urban Dictionary says, gas followed by mass.

It’s possible this may have happened to me while walking back to work from lunch in the not so distant past. Luckily, I hadn’t unpacked my camping gear, so I had an extra pair of drawers in the back of my car. I swapped out the sharty bloomers for the nice clean ones and all was well.

But I know I’m not the only one that’s had that happen. Right? RIGHT?