Help me out
I have 9 points towards a new 46″ Sony flat-panel television. I have 19,993 more points to go. Each Diet coke that I drink gets me 3 points closer to my television. I’ve already asked TLBO for help and he’s jumped to the task, asking those he works with for their bottle caps as well.
If any of you, my tens of readers would like to help me reach my goal, let me know and we can work out a share plan. I’ll get the TV and you’lll get to come over for movie night.
NOTE- Points are earned as follows: (all coke products included)
12 Pack, 12 oz. cans (Fridge Pack) 10 points
20 oz. bottle 3 points
2 liter bottle 3 points
1 liter bottle 3 points
1.5 liter bottle 3 points
3 liter bottle 3 points
history on a page
I have a weakness for paper products. (Books, journals, pads, cards, sheets of paper, et. al.) In the last few years, I’ve realized this problem and put a stop to the ever growing burden of my shelves filled with empty journals and blank paper pads. The problem started in 1996 when TLBO, in an attempt to nudge me towards self-awareness gave me a journal for my birthday and it’s been spiraling out of control ever since. On last count, I had well over 30 empty books in which to write. The crisp pages silently calling out for the press of pen, some ink, and a story.
But there is one book that caught my attention last night. A simple, leather covered spiral notebook The Republican gave me back in another time and in another place.
Why this book?
This book is unique in my collection because there are words scribbled in it. Words from two people, a conversation, or rather, conversations, that have taken place over the years between two people that come together once or twice a year over dinner and a beer (or these days a martini, as I do love the martini these days.) There is nothing ground breaking in this book, nothing that will be of any interest, even to me. The words are not important, but the conversations are.
My friend, the other participant in this conversation is deaf and I do not know enough ASL to converse, so each time he comes to town, we arrange a dinner via e-mail and I grab the book from its shelf, slide a pen into the spiral rings lining one side and head off to dinner. The book is slid back and forth, words exchanged and stories shared. The truest form of conversation, without distraction from occupants of the neighboring tables. The very act of writing, the meticulousness of putting ink to paper forces the correct choice of words, forces the brain to work within constraints normal voice conversations do not.
After dinner, I add what little ASL I’ve picked up to my vocabulary, consider taking a class to learn even more before quickly discounting that idea and replacing the book to its shelf to await the next visit, the next dinner, and the next conversation forever caught on paper.
March 28, 2006
I’m not broken
A few posts back, I discussed my displeasure with anti-depressants of all make describing the side effects as a wet blanket thrown over my emotions, or some such descriptive prose. I quietly received an e-mail after that post from one of my tens of readers suggesting I look into hormone therapy (i.e. Testosterone replacement therapy). He/She went on to describe the same reactions/side effects to the medications that affected me.
In an unusual and bold step, I decided to call my good doctor and inquire about this not-often thought about treatment and was told the pluses and minuses of such a therapy. Once he filled my head with pharmacological hooey and confused me even more, he relented and scheduled an appointment for some blood work to check the various levels of “stuff” in my blood stream.
I finally heard back from my good doctor and I was not even close to ready for the results of those tests. I sat there shocked on the telephone, while my doctor, in great detail, shared with me, the results of my blood tests. It took him some time, to first describe what the test results would indicate, then why these results happened, and what steps could be done to work within the results of these tests.
Most of you, my beloved tens of readers are aware that I like to keep my emotions pretty close to my heart. I don’t share so much about those pesky “feelings”, or my worries. I will break that rule today and share something that has shaken my very life and being to the core.
My blood type is o-negative.
I know, not very shocking, but I had you on the edge of your seats. What’s a little drama without a little fun?
Though I was curious about my blood type, (something I should already have known long before my current age) it was the other 3 tests that I dreaded the results of to a greater extent. My Thyroid was “normal” (whatever THAT means), and my hormone levels were “normal” as well.
So you can all see why I am so shocked about the results of these tests. It means that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me to cause the depression I’ve been fighting so hard to expel from my life the past few years. There is no medical explanation, other than that serotonin-re-uptake thing that is causing such unbearable pain and sadness in my life. Nothing. No low hormone that I can replace, no thyroid condition, no real medical explanation what so ever.
That can only mean that I’m depressed because my life must truly suck. What other answer could there be? Don’t worry, instead of taking responsibility for this turn of events, examining my life to find out the root causes and taking steps to move towards a happier existence, I’ll find yet another medical route to explore in hopes of finding something, anything that could be construed as causing my pain.
a letter to a BMW dealer
Dear Perillo BMW,
My vehicle recently suffered from a failed alternator leaving me stranded on the road-side. Being that I’ve had all work done by Perillo BMW since the purchase of my car, I directed the tow-driver to deliver it to Perillo BMW for this repair as well.
The following day, I received a phone call from the service advisor at Perillo BMW advising me of the “problems” with my vehicle and the repairs required. I was appalled at thebrazen dishonesty of the service staff member that handled this; I will never utilize Perillo BMW again and will do my best to inform anyone that will listen to my tale to also avoid them.
I was told that not only would I need a new alternator, (which I figured) I would also need a new battery, a new timing belt, new brakes, a new water pump and new control arms. This amounted to well over $3000.00 in repairs. My father is a mechanic so I knew enough about vehicles to realize that the battery would recharge, the timing belt, upon inspection didn’t even remotely need replacement and I had my brakes replaced less than a year and less than 12,000 miles prior by Perillo BMW. This incident has made me look into all past repairs performed by Perillo BMW and I am now questioning if several repairs were indeed required.
The damage done by Perillo BMW’s service staff to BMW’s quality image will never be repaired. I was convinced by all the repairs the service agent at Perillo BMW listed that my vehicle was only going to be a maintenance nightmare and it would be best to dispose of it and replace it with something more reliable, like a Lexus.
To make matters worse I never received a follow-up call from BMW of North America like I have for EVERY other repair Perillo BMW has performed on my vehicle.
You can thank the service team at Perillo BMW for any hesitancy I will have towards the future purchase of another BMW vehicle and the complete loss of faith in the quality of my BMW.
March 27, 2006
Last night, while watching Desperate Housewives, I was absolutely shocked and appalled by a commercial for some sort of Chrysler product. Now, I’m not the type of person that would normally be appalled by a commercial, since I rarely, if ever, give marketing that much power. (Unless it has a catchy tune) This commercial began with Tinkerbelle flying around a city turning things into, well, things Tinkerbelle would turn them into. For instance, Tinkerbelle turned a building into an ice cream sunday with a cherry on top. Fun. tasty. Tinkerbell-ish.
Cut to this Dodge product driving past Tinkerbelle, black vehicle, blacked out windows, meant to look aggressive and mean. It was an SUV of course. Tinkerbelle waved her little wand and her fairy dust flew at the vehicle, only to bounce off, the vehicle un-affected by her magic. Tinkerbelle took off in pursuit, waving her little wand as she flew behind the car. Each shot of fairy dust bouncing off ineffectively. Finally, Tinkerbelle, in anger, flew at the vehicle and unable to impregnate the “force field’ around the truck, bounced off the truck and flew into a brick wall with a thump, a puff of dust and a slow slide to the ground.
The very first words of the commercial were spoken by a rough looking, street-hip dressed redneck white trash man with a snarling Rottweiler on a heavy chain. Those words were “Silly little Fairy” at which point, Tinkerbelle waved her little wand and flash, pop, boom, there stood the same man in white tennis shorts, a pink polo shirt and a white sweater thrown over his shoulders while the dog turned into something small-ish and feminine-looking.
The commercial then goes on to describe this vehicle and its apparent manliness and tough-factor qualities.
I’m not sure what appalled me more, the words, or the result of them.
Either way, it was another three commercials before I closed my mouth and verbalized, to myself and my empty apartment “I think I’m offended by that”
Anybody else see this commercial? Have the same reaction I did?
March 22, 2006
Speaking of new words, TLBO may have just coined a new term today. We were discussing various things, like my previous post about my dreams and I shared that my stomach muscles were exceptionally sore lately. I may or may not have said something about them not hurting this much since I dated Fred back in San Francisco.
“you mean your top muscles are sore?” he asked
“totally” I replied
All my dreams were about sucking cock last night. Here’s the kicker… they weren’t sex dreams.
March 21, 2006
words are…
Who decides what words we, as a society, will adapt to our experiences? Is it the popular culture that introduces new words, such as “Yo” or gives new meanings to words like “bling” or the political spin masters introducing terms such as Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) or Improvised Explosive Devices (IED)?
Whoever is doing this, please stop. It is hard enough to work with the English language as it currently stands without the need for constantly updating it with terms that are made up and have no true meaning.
Today, I’d like to explore two terms currently being thrown about. Weapons of Mass Destruction and Improvised Explosive Devices.
Weapons of Mass Destruction – Why can’t they be called “bombs”? Its what they are after all isn’t it? They are bombs. Bombs are meant to cause destructions, the bigger the bomb, the bigger the destructions. Did we really need a new term here? Wouldn’t the word “bomb” suffice for a small destructive device and the term “big bomb” be equally as descriptive for something leaving a larger footprint of damage? No, we needed WMD as a made-up excuse to attack a foreign land. It sounds more ominous. Would we ever believe that a few “bombs” would warrant deployment of our children into war duty? Of course we wouldn’t. Whenever I think of the word “bomb” I picture the tattoo on my leg of Natasha Fatale holding a lit cartoon bomb in one hand and a dry martini in the other, laughing maniacally in her cartoon-ish way. I don’t picture destruction. It doesn’t make me agree with invading a sovereign land no matter how messed up its leadership.
Improvised Explosive Devices – These are the new WMD’s, recently dropped onto the American public as a way to sweep away the old terms and freshen up this war and the grip of fear it should have on the American public. Only, these aren’t WMD’s because they’re not sanctioned by a government, or manufactured by one of the many Military-Industrial behemoths cranking out the machines of death. I mean really, if Lockheed, United Technologies, or Raytheon didn’t make it, can it still be considered a “bomb”? Hell no, it has to be called an Improvised Explosive Device. But isn’t this still a “bomb”?
Maybe this is petty, juvenile and misguided, but lets call these things what they are. Weapons of Mass Destruction are big bombs used as a smokescreen to justify a warrant-less war and Improvised Explosive Devices are smaller bombs with a price tag made up of death instead of corporate profits.
The sunset was beautiful last night. I think I’ll focus on that instead, it hurts my head less.