Sewage Ejection Pump

Apparently I am an idiot, and the only person in the world who does not know what a sump pump does. It seems that a sump pump actually has nothing to do with household plumbing--it ejects groundwater from the basement to prevent flooding. What broke in our place was a sewage ejection pump. I've never been more ashamed as a man. The only thing keeping me from seppuku is my rock hard abs, which preclude convenient ritual disembowelment. So anyway, they came out and replaced the pump, but informed us that there is still a clog, and they'd have to get different plumbers to come out and fix that. They're pump guys, you see, not clog guys. Why can't you fix it, pump guys? Just jam a freaking snake up there. I could do it myself if I weren't so pretty.

Now to that old stand-by: last night's episode of Star Trek. Through a series of highly improbable events, the crew find themselves back in the late 19th Century where they meet Mark Twain and Whoopi Goldberg. For some reason, Mark Twain talks like he's had some sort of debilitating stroke. Why do old timey people in old timey settings always talk in that crazy voice? It's the really high pitched one where they elongate all their words, the voice you'd use if you were imitating an old man saying "Back in myyyyyyyyy day..." Ever see the America show at Epcot? I refuse to believe the founders of our country talked like that, and anyone who says they did is a communist.

Sump Pump

Apparently we have a bad sump pump. Until yesterday, I did not know what a sump was, although I'm sure I've heard the term paired with the word pump at some point in my life. Evidently it's a recessed drain, and in basements you need a pump to keep it from overflowing and spurting sewage all over your carpet. As previously mentioned, the dude who sold us the place is pretty much the nicest guy ever, so I'm confident that either he didn't know about the problem, or it's brand new--so my question is this: What kind of God would allow the existence of a world in which our sump pump could go bad in the first two weeks of home ownership? I view this as strong evidence against Intelligent Design. The shit of it is I know absolutely nothing about plumbing, so I'm just at the mercy of some random company in the phone book. They could tell me it's a 15 minute job or 5 hour job, I have no basis for argument. On the bright side, Kel's parents have generously offered to pick up the tab since I don't yet live there and Kel is currently $867,000 in debt, so that's a pretty sweet deal.

The Spirit Lives

Oh man, I got an email yesterday that warmed my heart. It was from one of the SophTones who I'm afraid I can't place a face to, and he wanted info on a certain now-dead baritone tradition that once warmed the hearts of all baritones...with booze. The revival of the baritone flask! I don't know any of these kids anymore, and I can't say I care if any of the "traditions" (most of which were invented on the spot) of my day are carried on, but I am happy to see that the new generation is sticking it to the Man. Stick on, young 'Tones, and don't let the Man get you down.

I watched Rocky III again the other night. That movie is soooooo sweet for so many reasons. Number one in my book is the three intense, constipated grunts uttered by Clubber after shouting "I'm the heavyweight champion of the world!" The fact that the movie has Mr. T in it at all is freaking sweet, but to have him grunting like he's trying to pass a cantaloupe...genius, genius, genius! He had some other great lines, too. In fact, the writing for the whole movie was freaking awesome.

Clubber: My prediction? PAAAIIIN!

Clubber: I don't hate Balboa. I pity the fool!

Thunderlips: To all my love slaves out there: Thunderlips is here. In the flesh, baby. The ultimate male versus... the ultimate meatball. Ha, ha, ha!

Mickey: I seen wrestlers as big as dinosaurs. You ever fought a dinosaur, kid?
Rocky: Not lately.
Mickey: They can inflict a variety of damage!

Thunderlips: If I can't break your spirit, I sure as hell can break your back!

And so on. And just when you think it can't get any better--BAM! Homoerotic training scene featuring half length muscle shirts, close up crotch shots, and culminating in a glistening Rocky and Apollo frolicking and hugging in the surf.

Mr. T actually came to my middle school once. He gave a motivational speech. He took questions at the end and my friend Paco stood up and asked why he wears all those gold chains, and he goes "Cause I can afford em!" Then Paco said something about them making him look like a pansy or some such nonsense, and Mr. T said "See, your problem is...you just tryin' to be black!" which was hilarious, partly because it was such a bizarre response, partly because Paco did spend a fair amount of time trying to act like he was black. Apparently that's not okay to say though, even for Mr. T, because he later apologized to Paco at the behest of the school administration. Paco never forgave him, however, and ultimately grew up and released the song "Mr. T is a Bitch" which I am not making up and which I recommend you download right now. It is, I am confident you will agree, the worst song ever written.

And if you're wondering, yes, Mr. T did say "I pity the fool that don't stay in school!"

Who's Going Chicken Huntin'?

Holy Frijoles. The whole ND internal network just went down, so I have no access to any work related services--awesome to the max. I bet we're being attacked again. We got attacked yesterday, someone hijacked an unsecured on-campus Windows 2000 machine and wreaked havoc upon us. Probably some pimply teenager. Anyway, work has been uncharacteristically filled with work lately, and blogging from home when I have any other conceivable form of amusement available to me seems terribly wrong, so...no posts. Suck on that, jerks!

The past week hasn't been terribly interesting anyway. Kel started her first week of med school, which is no doubt extremely interesting to her, but is much less so to me, as she now spends about 6 hours a night studying. She did make it out to ritas last night though--good stuff. We waited in the bar for nearly two hours before being seated, and as a result were all pleasantly sauced by dinner time. My recollection of the meal is vague, but I have every reason to believe it was delicious and satisfying.

I have to paint the living room trim again. I'll kill you all. When Kel told me her brother was going to stay in the condo during band camp and that he'd be storing his stuff there until his dorm opened, I knew--I knew--that something was going to get wrecked and I'd have to repaint it. It didn't happen in exactly the way I expected, but great sweet Jesus the trim got wrecked and I have to repaint it. I just want to hit someone with a frying pan.

I finally saw Swingers the other day, which means that inevitably and much to the horror of everyone who saw it when it came out 12 years ago, I'm going to start calling women beautiful babies, referring to good things as money, and saying "Vegas, baby, Vegas" for no reason at all.

Sytem's back up.

Scapula

Little time to post today, I'm afraid. The system is lagging like a three-toed sloth--my whole anthropology major is now justified by that simile--and it's put me way behind. I will say this though--when I walked out of my bedroom yesterday to check how Kel's studying was going, she was so intent on what she was doing she didn't notice me standing there for a full two or three minutes. Wow, I thought. Her first day of med school and already she's working so hard. Then I looked closer, and discovered that she was drawing a vampire.

Finally Done

I finally finished the place yesterday. Not like, done but I just have a few touch ups left, or done but I just need to clean everything up, but DONE done, totally finished, equipment is stored, furniture's in, and I don't need to think about painting again for at least the next 2 years. My only remaining duty is to forcibly insert a toilet plunger into the rectum of anyone who smudges the walls or says the words "you missed a spot." Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Actually I still need to build the bar, which is really looking to be more of a cabinet with a sink in it, but anyway I consider that recreational activity to be done at my leisure rather than work.

Kel started med school today, so I expect to see her again in about ten years or so. We went out looking at TVs yesterday and decided on a 50-inch LCD, which is highly amusing because Kel isn't even bothering to get basic cable, as she doesn't think she'll have enough free time to justify the $12 a month. Also we have no couch in the basement, which is where the TV will be going. But by God we'll own it, and I for one plan to spend at least 4 hours a day down there sitting on my bouncy exercise ball and staring at the blank screen.

Smells Like...Productivity

I love Lowes and The Home Depot. For one thing, Home Depot has the greatest theme song ever. Every time I hear it I want to run out and build a gazebo. Also, they have a great smell--sawdust and rubber. Mmmmmmmmm. I spent about two hours between the two stores yesterday even though all I bought was a couple gallons of paint and some outlet covers. Just being in there makes me feel productive, even if all I'm doing is wandering the aisles. I think--damn, I must be one handy and productive son of a bitch! Just look at all these building materials. Would a non-handy, non-productive person be standing next to all these building materials? Then I hum the theme song. A weird thing I've noticed about both stores--there's an unusually high percentage of noticeably attractive women there. We're talking like 20, 30 percent. It's truly bizarre. Has anyone ever done a study on the correlation between female attractiveness and the likelihood of shopping at home improvement stores? If there are any single fellas reading this, forget the bar scene man, head down to The Home Depot. It's positively packed with self-sufficient hotties.

Kel's at orientation for Med school right now. She heads back here Sunday and starts school Monday, so that's pretty exciting. The place is almost ready, although as of yet we have no furniture at all for the basement, other than a dart board. Where does one go to buy a dartboard cabinet? Surely there must have been places that sold them before the internet came along. We're also looking to buy a big-ass TV whenever Best Buy has another crazy sale. Kel really likes the Sony rear projection LCDs, and I'm inclined to agree. Everything I've read says DLPs have the edge on just about everything, excluding the rainbow effect, but from what I've seen myself the Sony LCDs tend to look noticeably better. Oh, and we're still building that bar, although the Guinness on tap--surprise!--doesn't look oh so likely. Here's to crazy plans that never come to fruition.

This Day In History: 1999

Or maybe some other day. I don't know. LB and I decided to answer the age old question--can you send a condom through ND campus mail? The short and surprising answer is: yes indeedy. Mail services must've been in quite a quandary when they received a single condom with "105 O'Neill Hall" written along the edge of the packaging. On the one hand, they had an obligation as faithful Notre Dame employees to stamp out all possibility of sexual congress among the student body, yet as postal employees they had a sacred duty to deliver properly marked packages in spite of rain, sleet, snow, hail, or silly religious beliefs. We received the condom several days later, presumably after several hilarious meetings between the upper echelons of the ND mail administration, and drunk on our success we sent out a flurry of prophylactic parcels to our various on-campus buddies, none of whom were nearly so amused as we were. That happened a lot, I think. We also sent the dismantled pieces of the scrotal remote (a remote, but with a scrotum) to several equally unamused recipients. You chumps just don't understand comedy.

Speaking of scrotums--here's a piece from the "Why Didn't I Think of That?" file--Man's Testicles Locked In Padlock. Apparently some unlucky fellow got wasted and passed out, and one of his buddies decided to seize the opportunity to secure his testes in a padlock. I remember one time my 5th year when an odd assortment of us--I vaguely remember Erica, Shannon, Booter, Ben, Stitch, Ball, and maybe some others--got completely and utterly blitzed for some reason or another. Must've been a Tuesday or something. Everyone crashed at our place, and Booter notably passed out sitting up, and awoke, bizarrely, with exactly half of his body soaking wet. Maybe he tried to drink water in the dead of night, maybe someone hosed him down. Nobody knows. The point is--that would have been a perfect opportunity to secure his testicles in a padlock! Back to the dude who this actually happened to--it seems the key broke off in the lock, and instead of going to the hospital he tried to remove the lock with a hacksaw. I don't know why I put that in italics, it's not that weird. I take a hacksaw to my gonads on a daily basis. Wakes me up in the morning.

Coach Carter on DVD

For the past several weeks there has been a winter hat sitting on my kitchen table embroidered with the words "Coach Carter on DVD". Ball bought the movie a while ago, and apparently the hat came in the box set. Hilarious. I bet the promotional exec who came up with the idea actually said the words "The kids will love this!" In what situation would it possibly be considered appropriate to wear a "Coach Carter on DVD" winter hat? The second you walked out the door you'd be inundated with sarcastic compliments, and there would be nothing you could say. I, uh...I really liked Coach Carter. A lot. The DVD, not the cinema version. Maybe if the hat was for Masters of the Universe or something equally hilarious--I'd wear that, and brother, the compliments wouldn't be sarcastic. But Coach Carter? Anyway, if anyone wants it, like for an SYR gift or something, I will sell it to you for 58 cents. It's not mine, but I'll split the profits with Ball and I think he'll agree we came out ahead.

I'm still painting. People keep asking me "You're still painting?" I am indeed, and if you ask me again I'm going to paint a tattoo on your face. I've done lots of painting in the past, but just a room at a time, and it was always a family effort, each brother picking up some task and my Dad supervising the whole thing. We'd be done in no time. But doing a whole house yourself? Freaking...forever. You've got to remove all the fixtures, doors, hinges, bannisters, shelves...then spackle...then sand...then wash...then prime...then tape...then edge...then roll...then you move onto the woodwork and repeat the process, only this time you're crouching. Kel was a big help at first, but she's been gone the past two weeks. So I'm still not done, although it's getting close. All I've got left is the downstairs doors, the kitchen, and the bedroom closet, then I'm going to retire and spend my days sipping tropical drinks while nigh garmentless women fan me with palm leaves.

Joyous News!

You might want to sit down for this email I just received, and probably scoot way in under your desk to hide the ensuing erection:

Good afternoon.

I just talked to the owners of CJ's Pub and they are scheduling a grand re-opening for September 8. There is a lot of work that needs to happen to meet that date, but they're optimistic. The absolute latest they'll open is September 15, the Thursday before the first home game (against Michigan State, Sept. 17. T-minus 38 days until the home opener!)

The delicious taste of CJ burgers will once again caress the tastebuds of Irish fans! (Oh, and I'm playing a show there on Friday, September 16, starting around 10:30pm.)

Yay CJ's!

Oose! OOOSE! I want AmberBock that's cold...

In The FACE!!

Disney World was lots of fun. John and I got in late Friday night after a moderately turbulent flight, and Kel and I were out the door for the parks by 9:30 the next morning. We spent the first half of the day at EPCOT--we checked out that House of the Future thing that Nips had been so impressed with, and I must say it was pretty impressive indeed, other than a Microsoft-designed media center which kept ignoring the guide's voice commands. Go figure. The coolest part was that instead of installing speakers in the walls, they actually just attached drivers TO the walls, so the room itself was thumping away. We hit the other normal EPCOT stops, stuffed ourselves with Italian food, and headed over to Magic Kingdom around 4.

For some reason there were a ton of British people there, and they were comically different from the American vacationers. Kel characterized it best when she noted a small British child coming out of Philharmagic holding his mom's hand and saying "Mum, do you know what my favorite part was? It was when Lumiere brought out the cherry pies, and everything smelled of cherries!" as opposed to several American children careening out ahead of their parents shrieking "I like the part where it looked like stuff was gonna hit you in the FACE!!" It's funny both because of the cultural contrast, and because my favorite part is also where it looks like stuff is going to hit you in the face.

We hit some other rides which I had never been on before: Goofy's Barnstormer--the most intense 12 seconds of kiddie roller coaster you will ever face, The Tiki Room--the best show featuring talking birds, singing flowers, and angry gods I have ever seen, The Jungle Cruise--non-stop puns peppered with animatronic hippos, and The Swiss Family Treehouse--the worse "ride" ever. Ever. It's just a line with no ride at the end. You know how in Pirates or Space Mountain you walk through the building by all these rooms and canons and spaceships and what not, and then at the end of the line, there is a ride? On The Swiss Family Treehouse, it's just the first part. At the end of the line, you just get go back into the park. It's totally awesome.

We stayed in the Magic Kingdom until 9:30 or so and headed back to the condo. It turns out 12 hours of straight Disney is a LOT of Disney, so I think I'm pretty set for a while. Sunday we just lounged at the pool and I flew back on another moderately turbulent flight that afternoon. The flights have given me a chance to get about halfway through Harry Potter, which is pretty good, although so far it's not quite as good as the last couple have been. Nobody tell me who dies. And for the love of God no one tell me it's Harry. Although I am guilty of making that hilarious joke myself, that's no excuse for you to do it.

To Disney World!!

I'm heading out in a few minutes to fly down to Orlando for the weekend, where I will be Disneying it up with Kel and the Mortell clan. It's a long way to go just for a weekend, but her parents are picking up my plane and park tickets in return for driving John to the airport, which I would have happily done anyway, so can't pass that up. I'm flying Southwest, which apparently has some kind of online checkin. You just print out your tickets from home the day you're leaving. I did so, and the ticket looks shady as hell. It's mostly blank, there's no gate info, and none of the weird airport mumbo jumbo that normally appears on tickets. I'm wondering if it's some sort of trick ticket, and a Southwest employee will just jump out and shout "Oh we got you good, you fucker!" when I try to board. He would be fat and have a crazy moustache, and later he'd do a completely unnecessary nude scene. So anyway, Disney should be a great time, and I'm totally looking forward to severely whooping Kel's ass once again on the Buzz Lightyear ride.

I Know You're Reading This

No, not my various friends and college chums. I suspect they stopped reading long ago, once they caught onto my formula of "Mundane life detail. Witty observation/gripe. Ha ha! I watched a movie last night. Can you believe it? A movie!! It was either good or bad. Witty anecdote. Ha ha! Awesome awesome awesome."

No, I am talking about you, my casual acquaintance from years past that I barely knew, or perhaps didn't know at all, who at some point added me to your buddy list. You may or may not have ever IM'd me, but you still check my away messages to this day, and if you're particularly bored you read this. I know this because my buddy list is still peppered with names of friends of friends, or people who drunkenly added themselves at a party, or whoever, and by God I still check your away messages. I will most likely never speak to you again, and I'm not particularly interested in the details of your day-to-day life, but I still know if you're wandering about campus, or things are busy at the office, or you're boozing it up, or your buddy just had a kid. And if you had a blog, I'd probably read it. So don't feel bad! I just wanted you to know...that I know.

Oh man, I got a super jismatastic smooth belly drunk dial on my work voice mail this morning. Jism, your boozeration and mockery of my womanly qualities has brought joy to my work day. Ha ha! Awesome awesome awesome.

I Am An Artist!

I used to make fork sculptures. Back in undergrad I destroyed so many dining hall forks I was personally responsible for at least 15% of the tuition hikes. And by destroyed I mean...transformed into something beautiful and glorious. I gave these embodiments of soul and wonder to my friends who all kept them forever and ever and had them encased in lucite to be displayed prominently in their homes, and certainly did not throw them in the trash days or hours after receiving them. Anyway, I thought I was pretty unique in my vision, but apparently Lizett went to the Museum of Modern Art in NYC a week or so ago and BAM--a fork sculpture exhibit! You all thought I was just needlessly destroying private property, but it turns out I was actually a genius, years ahead of my time. I wish I would have known that the time I got kicked out of Steak'n'Shake, I would've been like--Bitch!! Someday works like these will be displayed in the New York Museum of Modern Art, which is for some reason respected by a bunch of weirdos who call themselves the art community! You're going to jail.

I watched Constantine the other night. Freaking sweet. I really did not expect much from it, thought it looked pretty crappy in the trailers, so I was pleasantly surprised. I know, Keanu is supposed to be the worst actor ever, but fortunately I was born without the ability to detect bad actors, unless they're really bad, like local commercial bad, so I thought he worked well as an angry, badass exorcist. If you are not an easily offended fundamentalist Christian, I insist you see it.

Last night I was flipping through the channels and came across Fear Factor: Miss USA. Before I was able to escape, a scantily clad Miss Utah was like "As Miss Utah, I feel it is my responsibility to...show the other states that they are not the bomb. But I am." Wow. Your eloquence and dedication to Utah is an inspiration, as are your gigantic fake breasts, which are, by the way, the bomb.

Absolutely Nothing Of Note Happened This Weekend

Just more painting. I am getting awfully tired of writing about painting, so I'll just say this: painting for a weekend while chatting with your fiance: not so bad. Painting for a weekend alone in a basement: not so good. Also, one other thing--whenever I intend to say the word paint, I say tape, and whenever I intend to say tape, I say paint. No lie. What do you suppose that is all about? Am I going to die? One other other thing. Thank God for The Immaculate Collection. Normally I tend to devour music, discovering something new and then listening to it on permanent loop until I can't stand it anymore, but The Immaculate Collection has been in the permanent loop stage for like 3 years. Madonna, you ease my basement loneliness. I'm crazy for you.

I didn't have a chance to post Friday because I was too busy at work. Sweet! I wouldn't have time to post today either, except I have lunch duty which means an otherwise idle hour of sitting at the front desk. Some may not consider being busy particularly fantastic, but I would contest that they have never sat staring at a computer screen for 8 hours a day with no task to keep them sane. Maybe that's it, I'm losing my mind. They say the first thing to go is the ability to distinguish between tape and paint.

I'm still reading Haunted. Normally it doesn't take me quite so long to finish an average length book, but it is so mind-bendingly awful that I can't make it through more than 3 or 4 pages a night. It started off pretty decent. The premise is that several aspiring writers agree to go to a secluded location so they can concentrate on creating their masterpieces, only (get this) things start to go horribly awry. The finished "masterpieces" are peppered throughout the main text as a collection of short stories--unfortunately they turn out to be the only interesting part of the book. The main plot is so clearly a vehicle to get to each new short story, it's almost as if the author put no effort into it at all. The characters, after learning that they are trapped, start wrecking themselves in various ways, such as prying off fingernails or hacking away limbs, so that when they finally escape their ordeal will be horrible enough that they can gain fortune and fame from the movie rights. It would almost be plausible if there were some reason for their insane actions, some harrowing descent into madness, but there isn't. One page they are a normal group of people, the next they are destroying their food supplies and mutilating themselves in increasingly gruesome ways which conveniently lead into various short stories. What the hell, man? I get it. You're trying to make some weird commentary on the lengths to which people will go for fortune and fame. You could've just said it, instead of branding it into my face with a searing hot sledge hammer. The prudent thing to do would be to burn the book and launch the ashes into the sun where they would be broken down at the atomic level, but apparently when it comes to terrible books I'm a stubborn sumbitch.