So it turns out I have three uncles and three aunts whom I've never met. Through them, I have eight cousins -- five guys, three girls, all relatively close to me in age -- whom I've also never met. Oh, and my maternal grandfather is apparently still alive and kicking at the ripe old age of eighty-five. Haven't met him either.
My "new" uncle has suggested that he and my mother reunite by meeting up sometime after Easter.
Speaking of Easter, I'm traveling down to New Jersey visit the family this weekend. My sister and I have planned to dye eggs and get lit. I'm really hoping that "The Ten Commandments" is on television Saturday night. My only enduring Easter tradition is watching that on Easter weekend after everyone else has gone to bed.
I imagine that, drunk, it will come off like this:
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label holidays. Show all posts
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
All Is Well That Ends
Having roused myself at 5:45 A.M. this morning in order to comply with T-Rex's need to leave for work by 6:30 A.M. this week, I wasn't that surprised when the driver's side front door on his car refused his keys, meaning I would be unlocking the car from my side. As he went to toss them over, he expressed annoyance at having to clean off his car again, as a substantial amount of snow and ice had apparently slid from the rooftop immediately above where he parked. It wasn't until I got into the car, however, that I had the pleasure of breaking the news to him that the impact of the ice and snow had destroyed his windshield, sending a spiderweb of cracks throughout the entire driver's side half of the glass.
Having determined that the cracks had not fully reached the inside of the glass, we started up the car and began the drive to work. But with each bump my dear roommate hit along the road -- and the road we take has no shortage of ambitious potholes -- the cracks expanded slightly. Ominous!
On the bright side, we would finally learn what it was like to be Ace Ventura at the wheel, though I could not help but play out a scenario in my head in which a bump caused the glass to completely implode, smattering T-Rex's face with thousands of shards and impairing his ability to drive in the process. At that moment, I -- only grazed by the shards in a way that would leave noticeable but sexy facial scars -- would then be his eyes, guiding the used Honda Civic otherwise known as The Ark safely along until we could further address the situation without the risk of physically greeting oncoming traffic from all directions.
In the alternate future, I am a hero.
In reality, I arrived safely at my destination, trying to slam the passenger's side door as gently as possible, proceeding to my desk with the blistering consciousness that, as far as starts to one's Thursday are concerned, only T-Rex's had been worse to my knowledge. But we -- the royal we -- are going to change that, all of that, immediately.
Fate -- though imaginary -- is on my side; one of my coworkers just handed me half an onion bagel, lightly toasted, with cream cheese already on. Tomorrow is pay day, which means I am quantifiable hours from sushi and freshly popped pink champagne, my Diplomacy games have all shifted in my favor, my Restaurant Week dance card of seven reservations just filled up, and I have declared it to be "Post Music To Your Blog Day." Those who do not participate will perish in flame.
Without further ado, here are the proper anthems by which to turn the tides of a Thursday that got off on the wrong face. Bukkake:
Bonus Levels:
Andrew W.K. - "Party Hard"
Bill Withers - "Lovely Day"
Ludacris - "Georgia" (dj erb remix)
Having determined that the cracks had not fully reached the inside of the glass, we started up the car and began the drive to work. But with each bump my dear roommate hit along the road -- and the road we take has no shortage of ambitious potholes -- the cracks expanded slightly. Ominous!
On the bright side, we would finally learn what it was like to be Ace Ventura at the wheel, though I could not help but play out a scenario in my head in which a bump caused the glass to completely implode, smattering T-Rex's face with thousands of shards and impairing his ability to drive in the process. At that moment, I -- only grazed by the shards in a way that would leave noticeable but sexy facial scars -- would then be his eyes, guiding the used Honda Civic otherwise known as The Ark safely along until we could further address the situation without the risk of physically greeting oncoming traffic from all directions.
In the alternate future, I am a hero.
In reality, I arrived safely at my destination, trying to slam the passenger's side door as gently as possible, proceeding to my desk with the blistering consciousness that, as far as starts to one's Thursday are concerned, only T-Rex's had been worse to my knowledge. But we -- the royal we -- are going to change that, all of that, immediately.
Fate -- though imaginary -- is on my side; one of my coworkers just handed me half an onion bagel, lightly toasted, with cream cheese already on. Tomorrow is pay day, which means I am quantifiable hours from sushi and freshly popped pink champagne, my Diplomacy games have all shifted in my favor, my Restaurant Week dance card of seven reservations just filled up, and I have declared it to be "Post Music To Your Blog Day." Those who do not participate will perish in flame.
Without further ado, here are the proper anthems by which to turn the tides of a Thursday that got off on the wrong face. Bukkake:
Bonus Levels:
Andrew W.K. - "Party Hard"
Bill Withers - "Lovely Day"
Ludacris - "Georgia" (dj erb remix)
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Dealing With V D
Valentine's Day. A day to send text messages to select individuals containing the curious greeting "Enjoy your V D!"
The scene is Downtown Crossing T Station. Our hero is being eyefucked by a Mormon teenager, all dressed up with a name tag, while in the background, an elderly woman singing Johnny Cash covers has completed her personal rendition of "Ring of Fire," and has moved on to a hauntingly inapplicable version of "Boy Named Sue."
The afternoon was spent smoking hookah and sipping Maker's Mark on the rocks with Colin, watching a special on the Alamo hosted by David Carradine. It is now clear that Carradine received absolutely no direction in his role as Bill in Kill Bill Vol. 1 and Kill Bill Vol. 2, confirming a new level of David Carradine's coolness. He is the man.
As for the evening, I met up with an alarming number of familiar faces at The Roxy in the hopes of getting my dance on. I don't think I've ever been part of so many grind-chains. They just kept happening. One minute someone's backin' it up on me, the next minute I am sandwiched with at least two people undulating somewhat-rhythmically on either side of me. This is fine if the goal is to work up a semi, but I had come to bust moves to repetitive beats, and would not be denied.
And so the mission was a complete success, the only casualty being about five to ten percent of my ability to hear. When I was younger, I recall expressing fervent distaste for the deluge of decibels that is club music. I become completely deaf on the dancefloor; surely the loudness was keeping me from enjoying meaningful drunken conversation.
These days, I see the deafness as an absolute defense against enjoying meaningful drunken conversation. Several individuals tried to say things to me, but I just issued some makeshift sign language to indicate my sudden disability and kept on grooving into the night.
I cannot hear you, because I am awesome.
The scene is Downtown Crossing T Station. Our hero is being eyefucked by a Mormon teenager, all dressed up with a name tag, while in the background, an elderly woman singing Johnny Cash covers has completed her personal rendition of "Ring of Fire," and has moved on to a hauntingly inapplicable version of "Boy Named Sue."
The afternoon was spent smoking hookah and sipping Maker's Mark on the rocks with Colin, watching a special on the Alamo hosted by David Carradine. It is now clear that Carradine received absolutely no direction in his role as Bill in Kill Bill Vol. 1 and Kill Bill Vol. 2, confirming a new level of David Carradine's coolness. He is the man.
As for the evening, I met up with an alarming number of familiar faces at The Roxy in the hopes of getting my dance on. I don't think I've ever been part of so many grind-chains. They just kept happening. One minute someone's backin' it up on me, the next minute I am sandwiched with at least two people undulating somewhat-rhythmically on either side of me. This is fine if the goal is to work up a semi, but I had come to bust moves to repetitive beats, and would not be denied.
And so the mission was a complete success, the only casualty being about five to ten percent of my ability to hear. When I was younger, I recall expressing fervent distaste for the deluge of decibels that is club music. I become completely deaf on the dancefloor; surely the loudness was keeping me from enjoying meaningful drunken conversation.
These days, I see the deafness as an absolute defense against enjoying meaningful drunken conversation. Several individuals tried to say things to me, but I just issued some makeshift sign language to indicate my sudden disability and kept on grooving into the night.
I cannot hear you, because I am awesome.
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