Still in progress?

It is possible that sometimes I do stray from the original intentions of this blog. Blogging about aliens and knife-wielding grandmothers is amusing, though. At least to me it is. And it's all about me, as you know. And so, as a half-assed attempt at getting back on track... I'd like to offer a few ideas for those of you who are interested in progress, as I am.

Progress is:

• using your stupid ex-girlfriend's toothbrush to clean your bathroom before your awesome new girlfriend comes over for the evening
• finding a reason to continue living without regular doses of cable TV and video games (nervous twitches may develop as a result, but can be controlled with practice)
  
• making the time to take classes to learn new things
• eating more broccoli, because you're not 12 anymore
  
• traveling more, even if (especially if) you're not sure if you can afford it
  
• telling others to wait, while you take time to simply... breathe
• admitting to yourself that you matter

This is a short list, just to get you started. Care to add anything?

Little green men with Brittish accents

To appease numerous "freedom of information" requests, Great Britain's National Archives just released to the public over 1000 pages of reports on UFO happenings near (and apparently, hovering above) the big island. See for yourself.

Hells. Yeah!

I love me some little green men. Ever since my mom bought me that sweet-ass, light-up E.T. finger in 1982, I have wanted to meet one. If I could marry a little green lady, I probably would. "So, where are you two lovebirds going on your honeymoon? The Betelgeuse galaxy?! Really?" Yes, really. HOT.

True story... I work at a local community college, which will remain unnamed for no particular reason, and a few years ago they opened this new cultural center for the community. To celebrates its opening, they scheduled events and brought in various speakers and exhibits on different historical topics. Right after the WWII event, they, of course, brought in the Roswell historians. It was a natural progression. How could I NOT have gone to hear that presentation?? I know! So I went.

Oh, dear lord (irony intended), was that evening a trip. I learned two things from the "experts'" presentation on the whole alien-Roswell-conspiracy-thing:

1 - The people who consider themselves historians of that incident, and who continue to do research today, are strange cats. A polite way to describe them would be to say they are "passionate" about what they do. An impolite way to describe them would be to say they are fuckin crazy, and may actually BE aliens themselves.
2 - Having said that, Something happened in New Mexico on July 7, 1947. And whatever it was that did happen, the US government REALLY did not want the public to know. I'll leave it at that, because the theories and conspiracies are best left to people with more time on their hands than I.

Speaking of God Vs. Aliens...

Who do you think would win in an epic battle for Earth and mankind? Yeah, I know, "He" is all powerful and all, but have you ever seen Marvin the Martian's eludium PU35 explosive space modulator ray gun? That ray gun is no joke and will f some shit up (provided Bugs Bunny hasn't sabotaged it).

What do you think? Who wins, aliens or God? (And yes, I am only letting you choose one.)

Do not read this...

I am afraid to ask.

Anytime I say that, though, I always DO ask. So here's my question; what are women like in the lady's room?

WAIT. No. Poor choice of words.

I don't mean it like that, I mean, I'm not... you know... weird. In fact, I don't really want to know the full answer to that question. The reason that I was asking, however, is simple. Men are swine, as you know, and nowhere is it more evident than in a public restroom. And so, I am wondering if this is simply a guy thing, or do women also fall prey to (what I like to call) "the public bathroom condition?"

Guys turn into complete, full-on, dirt-ball ass-bags as soon as they set foot into a public restroom. It is as if our ability to behave with tact and manners is collected at the door, and only returned to us on our way out, after we have done something completely disgusting. Why do guys turn into poo-smearing (gross), racially-insensitive-joke-writing, non-flushing, wall-peeing, paper-towel-wasting children every time we use the men's room?

It is an honest question, and one for which I have a theory. The men's room is a safe haven. Since we don't look each other in the eye, and also since there are no women around, we feel as though we are completely anonymous and unnacountable. No one knows who we are, other than the scarred, wet walls of ceramic tile, and they don't talk much. It is there, and only there (oh wait, almost forgot about strip clubs), that we are are free to be the mindless animals that we truly are. I work at a community college, and I must say, other than homeless people, 18 year old kids are the WORST men's room abusers. Here are just a few suggestions that I have for my fellow men (swine):

• Beyond the age of 10, you should not have to use the stall to take a leak. Man up and handle the urinal. Besides, it uses less water (yes, I'm always mindful of being wasteful, call me names if you must), and there's no seat to sprinkle on.
• Do not ever, ever, EVER use the handicapper stall because you "like the extra room" for your fat, lazy ass. Imagine yourself in a wheelchair for 5 seconds, and then move over to the other stall.
  
• Washing your hands requires something called SOAP. I kept track one day... because I was bored and also because I'm insane... and I guesstimated that at least 3 out of 5 of guys do not wash up. Seriously.
  
• How much paper towel and toilet paper do you need, really? Is it a requirement to leave 5 feet of both on the floor when you're done? Don't be a freakin slob, that's what you have the bathroom in you mommy's basement for.
• Don't talk on your cell phone while you're taking a leak, or otherwise. No, wait, I take that back. Dudes who talk on the phone while taking a leak are hilarious. Just don't ever let your mother answer your phone.
  
• It is not necessary to moan, groan, whine, laugh, cry, or otherwise emote verbally while taking a leak or... you know. STOP it. Please. I'm begging you. Stop, stopstopstopstop.
  

So yeah, I hate this post. But I had to do it. My bad, dog. It just that... I'm mad as hell and I can't take it anymore! (Alright maybe I'm not doing that classic line justice by linking it to the poo and p, but what's done is done. Together, we can move on from this tragic excuse for a blog entry.)

Well, ladies, is it just as bad on the other side of the wall?

The hula chair will set you free

This one is for you, "creepy older guy" who cannot help but stare at younger, beautiful women. I can only imagine how difficult it must be to carry the burden of perversion on your shoulders. There is hope, though, and I am here to help you. I have recently stumbled upon an Internet gem, which, if used properly, provides the perfect excuse to stare (as you'll notice the inventor doing intently in the video).

I am now proud to present to you... the Hula Chair!

Grandma is carrying a knife?

My first car was a blue, 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. It had bench seating and only one side mirror. My grandma "donated" it to me after her foot "slipped" from the brake to the gas, and she drove into the side wall of Little Caesars. Thank you, grandma, for not killing anyone at Little Caesars, and also for Old Blue. Old Blue was good to me.

I drive 11 miles to work. I'm relatively lucky, I know. This morning, I was nearly a part of two separate accidents. The first was caused by a kid swerving into the other lane while talking on his cell phone, bumping the van in front of me ever so gently. The other was caused by a blue hair doing what blue hairs do... their best to cause death and destruction on the roadways.

Normally, when I exit from I-696 onto Groesbeck, decelerating gradually from 70mph, I don't STOP AT THE TOP OF THE MF'N OFF-RAMP. The little old lady in the little old car, a few cars ahead of me, did just that. And she did so quite suddenly, I might add. You know how it goes, each successive car has to stop more suddenly. Yeah, so with my tires screeching and horn blaring, I swerved off to the left and narrowly avoided rear-ending the car in front of me. The lady in the car behind me, who was of course tail-gating me like it was her job, swerved the other way and narrowly missed rear-ending me.

When I finally got behind the little old lady at the red light up ahead, and could see her face in her rear-view mirror, I could see that she had the typical, confused, omg-what-just-happened, did-I-do-something-wrong?! look on her face.

I was very upset, so I got out of my car, walked up to her driver-side window, and politely informed her that she was no longer allowed to drive herself to Ram's Horn for breakfast. She was quite firey, though, and responded by chucking her Virgin Mary dashboard ornament at me. It hit me right between the eyes. I had no choice at that point. It was on like, you guessed it, Donkey Kong.

I reached through her window and punched her right in the jaw. Much to my dismay, she shook it off like a heavyweight prize fighter, and returned the favor by grabbing my jacket and pulling my face into her door jam. That really hurt. Our brawl spilled out onto the service drive, as we exchanged blows. A crowd quickly gathered and began cheering for both sides. At one point, the old bitch threw gravel into my eyes (a cheap move, if you ask me), but I got her back by kicking her bad hip. Just as I was about to finish her off with a construction pylon to the face, she pulled a knife from her babushka and just narrowly missed cutting my leg. The battle was epic.

It all ended suddenly, when the sound of sirens in the distance sent the crowd scampering back to their cars. Old Lady Mildred and I did the same, because neither one of us wanted to end up back in the slammer. Before getting back into our cars, though, we glanced back, and gave one another a subtle nod of respect.

I share this story with you, because I feel there are lessons to be learned. First of all, if you're old and your powers of perception have diminished, you need to donate your car to a grandchild. Don't wait until you run someone over, or cause an accident. Second, if you run into an a blue hair that is causing havoc on the roadways, think twice about how you approach them.... they may be armed and dangerous.

Summer pics

How did the soundtrack that was the Summer of '08 play for you?

My soundtrack was all over the musical map. At times, I was sitting in the corner singing the blues, yet at other times, I was getting completely wasted in a haze of the city's euphoria-inducing techno beats. I spent some time wandering the city to jazz, alt rock, reggae, hip-hop, and anything else that I could take in at each of the many festivals that littered the summer calendar. It was an eclectic mix, not suitable for anyone of conservative spirit.

As I compiled that soundtrack (actually the soundtrack compiled itself, I just showed up), I also captured a few images for the inside cover of the album. You can find the images by clicking here, or by clicking on the image below. Enjoy.

A heavy-metal birthday

32 years ago today, the wailing, slimy, wiggly flesh log that would eventually become 30sinprogress, was introduced to this world. Yeah, it's my GD birthday. I realize that blogging about my birthday is rather.... lame, but you'll forgive me for it soon enough, so I'm not worried.

I've never fully understood the concept of celebrating one's birthday. Yay, everyone look at me, lets celebrate ME because I was... born? What an accomplishment, hoorah! So, then, if we're going to do it, let us do it up correctly. We'll all get together, and race to see who can shove the biggest piece of crappy white cake into their mouth, while simultaneously taking cheap shots at the birthday boy. "So, why aren't you married yet?!"... "How OLD are you now?! (which is always followed by "wow I didn't know you were THAT old!)"..."How is your career going?!"..."You should do this, and this, and this with your life, because I'm eating cake and therefore I know everything about you!" In a way, birthdays are an annual reminder of one's failure to succeed, and a countdown to one's eventual and inevitable demise. Ahh, birthdays, how I adore thee.

Can you guess what the most recognized song in the English language is? Yep. The friggin "happy birthday to you" song. Whether I'm (forced to be) singing that song, or the subject of it as others sing, I find its melody to be excruciatingly painful. Is it just me? Maybe. Probably. Why can't I pick the song that I want sung to me? After all, it is MY special day, isn't it? Next year, I'm going to make everyone sing Enter Sandman to me for my birthday. Now THAT would be a good birthday celebration... I can picture it now, my 92-year-old great Aunt Lil' singing, "...off to never never land, heh heh!"

Sarcasm aside for a moment (a very short moment, though, because I start to get cold sweats if I stray too far), I do selfishly enjoy the compliments, and the attention. I'll never ask for the attention... but that doesn't mean that I don't like it once in a while. I really didn't think that anyone would even notice that it was my birthday, but my Facebook page is full of happy b-day wishes, I've gotten calls (one from my mom's entire South Eastern swim team), timely text messages... and have been subjected to a day full of b-day embarrassments at work.

To all of you, thank you, very much.

I've decided to no longer fear my birthday. Bring that shit on, I'm ready. Here's to another year... now, who's bringing the vodka?

The VP (turd) debates

Did you watch the VP debate last night? Wow, right? I would have to say, that was the most glamorous display of two giant, steaming turd-piles that I've seen in a while. Really, in a country of 300 million people, these are the two most qualified running mates that McCain and Obama could find?! Here are a few post-debate observations (criticisms) for each of the turd-piles:

Senator Joe (Boom-Boom) Biden:

• Dude. You should have whooped that inexperienced, needle-nosed, self-righteous, self-inflating woman's ass in the debate. But no, you didn't whoop her ass, because you're a freakin WUSS. She gave you countless opportunities to point out the fact that was doing nothing more than reciting a pre-made list that Grandpa McCain had give her to memorize.
• I know that Bush's policies were bad for this country. Everyone knows that. Even George Bush knows that. It wasn't necessary to begin every one of your answers with a reminder of that. Yes, I know you were trying to connect McCain with Bush, and you did that. But after the 9th time, I started to become extremely annoyed and felt talked-down to. Thanks.
• I didn't know about the tragic events that endured with your family... I'm truly sorry. But the way you brought that into the debates looked like a search for sympathy, not empathy. Big difference.
• You started strong, and finished weak. Was it past your bedtime? Couldn't you have slipped a Red Bull behind that podium, or something? Common man, you were even slurring your words together at the end, and Palin was making you look OLD.
• I will say this, though, you did your homework and brought facts to back up many of your arguments. I appreciated that. Unfortunaley, no one told you that you could have just gotten away with LOUD talking instead of bothering with the presentation of facts and research (Palin knew).
• Yes, she's an attractive woman (until she opens her mouth, or course), but that didn't mean that you couldn't have smacked her around in the debate ring just a bit. Jeez man, she was begging for you to do it. Didn't you see how nervous she was when the debate started? Didn't you see her interview with Katie Couric last week? The America people don't want nice, and they don't require facts, they want "I knew Jack Kennedy, and you sir, are no Jack Kennedy!" THAT is what wins elections, my man. Sad, but true.
• Having said all that, I did feel like you came off as a trustworthy man with experience, conviction, and progressive values.

Govenor (Peppermint Patty) Palin:

• Was I the only person watching, who noticed that you never answered a single follow-up question?! You trick was to to ask yourself a question, and then answer your own question, instead of the moderator's question. Very clever (and childish). Did Grandpa McCain forget to mention that you might actually have to think on your feet during the debate, instead of just deflecting every other question so you could repeat the same shit that you said 2 minutes ago? That drove me CRAZY! For example, Biden answered the "Achilles heal" question with humility and honesty, siting a very specific example from his career. You, on the other hand, didn't even acknowledge the question and just started rambling off lines from your exaggerated resume, for the 22nd time. How did you get away with that crap? How did the moderator let you get away with that? More importantly, how did Biden let you get away with that?!
• You are a child when it comes to environmental issues, and you have NO excuse, coming from ALASKA. I want to punch you in the face for being so ignorant. If you say "drill baby drill", one, more, time... I SWEAR TO GOD I will find you and punch you in the face. (Where are you campaigning today? Texas... I'm listening, I will fly down there...) If you went to the doctor with a severed limb, and he handed you a Spider-Man band-aid, would you consider that good hospital policy?! Suggesting drilling as a solution is nothing more than a demonstration of your short-sightedness and vomit-inducing ignorance.
• You are scared shitless of gay people. You tried to cover it up, but... yeah, not so much. It's OK to admit it, no gay people are going to show up at your house and kidnap you, then burn down your church, even though you ask for it sometimes. And don't give me that line about "I have friends of many different backgrounds and orientations." Blah blah, shut your face. No you DO NOT have gay friends, because they hate people like you who use buzz words like "family values" to cover up their own intolerance.
• Honestly, I really do wish you weren't a narrow-minded, delusional, ultra-conservative with twisted values and backwards-thinking policies, because I admire your fearless passion.

Ah, damnit, I should have gotten into politcs.

I fly now

Dude. I WANT ONE. Give to me now.

They are only $100,000. I'm a little short on cash, though, so I may need your help organizing the bake sale and maybe a few bowling alley fundraisers to raise the extras dollars. In return, I'll let you have your turn on the jetpack.

Unless a space ship drops off an alien flying suit for me, I see the jetpack as my best option for fulfilling my life long dream to take flight. "Who could it be? Believe it or not, it's just me."

This solution could also help solve our public transportation issues in the city more quickly.

Can you imagine rolling to the club on a Saturday night with a jetpack? "Hello pretty lady, how are you tonight? Can I buy you a drink? Did I mention that I flew here this evening with my JETPACK?" That line would have to work every time, right?