Live Long

Tyler loves to cook "healthy", so, we're about to have a big fight about forcing normal non-vegetarian people to eat vegetarian. I can feel it coming. I know vegetarian is healthy and I don't care that its healthy.

IF I wanted to live to be 819 years old I'd eat Tylers nasty black bean soy crust veggie broccoli spaghetti squash nuggets all day long until my skin glows greenish yellow and cows start migrating through my front yard attracted to the luscious veggie scent; but I DON'T.

I want to live to be about 80, then on the night my grown-up children gang up on me and take my driver's license; I want to drive (illegally) to Slopes in my boxer shorts for a big slab of take-out ribs, watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off and The Blues Brothers for the last time while I eat, go to sleep, and keel over dead with a massive pork-induced heart attack.

But thats fine Tyler. If you want to cook vegetarian all the time - fine. I'll eat it with a smile on my face and a joyful heart. Then, each time you make me eat a vegan meal - I'm going to finish up the last crumb of asparagus-braised-imitation-veggie-crabmeat, push my chair back, and smoke a whole cigarette.

American Cinema Is Dead

I hate to break it to all you mealy-mouthed movie nerds out there, but I went to see the Twilight series' latest cinematic scab on humanity Sunday afternoon and i.t. w.a.s. a.w.f.u.l.; I mean: AWFUL.

I couldn't WAIT to get out of there. I figured if I could get her up and moving I could distract her with my antics until we were out the door of the theater, so I looked at Tyler about 20 minutes in and said "don't you have to pee?" with a pleading gaze.

"Not yet" she said.

Of course the one time in my life her Tylenol-caplet-sized bladder WOULD work to my advantage; she's perfectly continent and I'm stuck with an empty bag of popcorn and half a white cherry icee for two more hours.

If you haven't seen this two-and-a-half-hour blighted desert of acting talent, you owe yourself a trip just so you can appreciate how wonderfully terrible it really is. I'd love to go back with some friends, stand up, and scream throughout each awkward, longing, silence. I'd be hoarse by the end, I know that much. It was so fraught with constipated silences it was like watching a silent film learn how to talk.

Also, Edward either gets his butt kicked, or ends up in a standoff everytime he's not gasping out awkward sentence fragments. WHAT IN THE WORLD? Our vampire hero is an average-sized, fairly weak, stutterer who apparently can't have sex or speak in full sentences; and he may or may not be a real vampire. Great.

C'mon. Somebody needs to procreate in one of these movies sometime soon or the entire 15-year-old "Twilight 3" opening night audience is going to spontaneously impregnate.

And what about some she-wolves, eh? I'm definitely going to Twilight 3 just so I can vent my cinematic spleen later, but if I see another pubescent werewolf skin off his shirt for no reason without at least baring his fangs at a she-wolf, I'm going to puke. 6 half-naked guys wandering around in the West-coast woods with no female creatures to be seen is the start of a gay porn, not a good vampire flick.

I give the entire franchise two middle fingers way, way up.

It's Electric

I was recently quite surprised and intrigued to hear that a lovely young friend of mine had moved to a farm out West - just up and moved states like it was nothing.

Shocking.

She moved States; not houses, apartments, or even cities - STATES. One day she's in Utah, the next she's parked on the shoulder looking at a map of California in a Honda Civic loaded with clothes, skis and a frying pan.

Things are different out there.

I was further surprised to learn that her NEW home (described as a "cabin") has no electicity. My first question was: "did your first house HAVE electricity?" She gave me a blank look and said "Of course Jimmy! Gah!"

My mistake.

Generally, I think of people with no electricity GETTING electricty, not the other way around; but what do I know? I never went to highschool.

I do know that "no electricity" means when you flip a light switch - exactly nothing happens. The cable is always out. The internet is always down. The hairdryer never blows hot enough. In short: N.O. E.L.E.C.T.R.I.C.I.T.Y.

Don't have the right converter for your ipod? No problem. Carve whatever you want into the log wall and plug it right in - its all the same. If you want to catch Dexter on Sunday nights you have to drive 2hrs to a town, wander around until you spot a house with a tv tuned to Dexter, and watch it through their living room window.

I hope you're a lipreader, but even so: popcorn popped on top of a hot muffler does not remind me of my childhood.

Thinking on my feet, the only thing I could reasonably respond to her bit of news was "Oh. Well. how much marijuana" are you growing?" in a very jovial tone.

"Twenty five plants" she said.

You could have knocked me over with a rolling paper.

Oh yes. The term "farm" in California (I learned) means "licensed marijuana-growing-facility."

We don't license that here in Georgia. Why? Because, obviously, you go to hell for growing what the state has determined to be "naughty" plants. Everybody here knows that and we're fine with it because our legislature is never, ever wrong.

More importantly though, how do you bring yourself to bail on your home state? I couldn't do it myself; mostly because I believe Florida, Alabama, Tennessee, and South Carolina are just the leftover pieces of Georgia that we didn't really want and all the rest is a vast epanse of untamed nothingness; but also because my sense of state-identity dictates that I consider all other states in the union "generally terrible."

Georgia is, as I'm sure you know, God's Country.

I was made to live here. I can get from Atlanta to Albany using only neighborhood streets and Wal-Mart parking lots. I belong, but chances are good you don't. Its getting crowded as it is, so if you moved here recently - try California instead, they need good farmers out there.

Perdiddle

We were riding in the car last night to crash a party when I felt the solid "thunk" of fist-hitting-bicep; a sensation I'm all-too familiar with.

My leggy blonde consort followed with an excited "hey look look look!!! Three perdiddles in a row! Three perdiddles in a row!!! LOOK LOOK!! THREEE EPEEEEERRRDIDDDLEEEESSSS!!!!I've never seen that before!" and sure enough - three cars flew past us back-to-back; all missing a headlight.

In the realm of perdiddle likelihood - thats extreme.

Growing up we didn't follow "perdiddle," in our family we had "popeye" which makes a whole lot more sense. Spot a missing headlight, call "popeye" and you got a free shot at whoever was nearest. Its simple, fun, somebody always got hurt, and it aggravated your parents - thereby meeting all the important criteria for a road game.

Having been homeschooled for 18 years I'm always on the lookout for schoolkid details I may have missed so, naturally, I was excited to hear tales of this NEW road game and I was eager to be instructed in the perdiddle rules.

It's pretty disappointing. Basically, if you call "perdiddle" you get to lean over and kiss the other person sweetly on the forehead.

...annnnnddd thats what you get for growing up in a house with three women and no brothers - kissing games.

So, to be funny, when the three perdiddles flew by I said "Hey, next time we see three in a row like that I'll pull straight into the center of the next intersection and we'll get engaged on the hood of the truck!"

She arched an eyebrow and said "Oh, uh huh."

Then, we both turned to face the redlight and, in the first truly blatant, documented, example of how much God hates me; the next three cars through the intersection were all missing a headlight.

"Oh. Uh huh." she said.

Perdiddle.

It Was The Fried Rice What Done It

I've been eating at the same Chinese place (Zen Palate) quite often lately. When I say "quite often lately" I guess what I really mean is that when I call in a to-go order they ask for my phone number, then stop me at the third digit and say "Ohhhh, Mistah Jimmy!" I had no idea that was a big deal, and I like making friends in the food-service industry.

I just didn't realize I had a problem.

Our friend Bobby Pilkington's mom never realized she was an alcoholic until a neighbor pointed out that she drank a 24 pack of Miller High Life between 10AM and 5PM every day, which put her solidly within AA's "alcoholic" bracket. Not only did she not realize her alcoholic status, she was doing just fine and was, by all accounts, a great Mom (if a bit wobbly on her feet) until she got that bit of unwelcome news. Uncle Robert said if she wanted to drink Miller High Life while she did the ironing, he didn't see any reason to aggravate her about it and everybody ought to have just left her alone.

I guess he was right, because her neighbor staged an intervention that day and you know what happened?

She up and died.

Uncle Robert says she was so embarassed to find out she was an alcoholic; she just got in bed one night and never got back out - all because some jackleg neighbor didn't have the common decency to stay out of her trashcan.

Well, we have something in common because I didn't realize my Chinese habit was out of hand either until today, just before lunch, my office neighbor said "HEYYY, Chinese again today Jimmy? You know fried rice is terrible for you. I bet the servers think you're a stalker!"

So, even though I wanted a tuna roll and some wonton soup, at lunchtime I found myself guiltily jogging past Zen Palate to a sandwich place thats terrible; just so the people at Zen Palate don't think I'm weird and feel sorry for me.

Of course, I had to walk past the windows of the Chinese place to get a sandwich. All the servers standing in a group by the hostess stand waiting on the lunch crowd waved when they saw me, but I just scurried by staring straight at the ground.

So, on top of having to eat a crummy ham sandwich for lunch I've probably hurt their feelings, but the worst part is: now I'm probably going to die.

I Prefer My Cialis Chilled

I hate to get stuck on one topic for too long, so I want all 9 of you reading this to know that, after this post, the topic of "ice cream" is officially exhausted. Seriously, I'm allergic to dairy products anyway, so milky stuff in general isn't really that interesting to me.

I want to move on, but first I want to highlight an important family relationship with dairy products that I would like for you to be aware of. According to the always lovely Maggie M. Slocumb; her Dad (my Uncle Buster) comes home every night, sits in front of the tv and hollers "JEANNE...WHERE'S MY ICE CREAM??" over and over until my Aunt Jeanne huffs over to the freezer and brings it to him.

Eccentric? Sure. A bit. But, it gets better.

In order to keep him happy Jeanne puts not 3, not 10 but exactly 9 M&M's in a bowl atop two scoops of ice cream. Why? Because that is exactly how Buster requires it. 9 M&Ms. Seriously. Don't bring him 10 M&Ms -he only wants 9.

Then, about 7 times out of 10, Aunt Jeanne will carry the ice cream into the den and Buster will look up and say "put it in the freezer."

Upon hearing about this little ritual I asked Buster to explain the importance of it, and the general process he had to go through to successfully imprint that kind of training on another person. He didn't really explain anything, he just walled an eye in my general direction and said: "I can't prove it but I think she pops open the caplets and sprinkles Cialis all over my ice cream on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

They are still married which just goes to show you the critical importance of a lifelong dedication to spousal training.

I haven't been able to make sense of it all, but even though I don't recall suffering any unusual effects from eating ice cream at their house (other than the usual allergic itchiness, sleeplessness, fixation on explosives, slight stuffy nose, and narcissistic rage), I've stayed out of their freezer ever since.

I'm not sure what kind of impact I'd have on the world after a bowlfull of Cialis, but I know it would most likely involve a local news team and my underwear - and that's never a good combination.

Good Fortune

I have very important news to relate: today at lunch I bit into my fortune cookie only to find that it was actually a DOUBLE fortune cookie.

We're talking about siamese-fortune-cookie-twins more or less.

Obviously, that means something huge from a “good fortune” perspective and, given the time of year, it could only mean one thing: I am going to kill a monster whitetail deer tomorrow.

Pictures to follow Monday.

Also, look; I know its great that Sesame Street is 150 years old as of yesterday or whatever, but if you’re going to have two same-age male friends (Bert & Ernie) on a tv show and you want to clothe them both in stripes; how about you give the fat one vertical stripes and help him out? Everybody knows that helps. As it is poor Ernie looks like a stack of bowling balls.

Good grief.

The Divided States of Ice Cream

Based on the heated response; I think its safe to say I may have underestimated the acrimonious and complex relationship between men, women, and ice cream in my latest post.

I had no idea that Ice Cream in the United States is so indicitave of the general state of things, nor did I know that so many of my friends have a relationship with ice cream that has been marred by conflict and domestic strife.

I did, however, score a victory for the visiting team last night. Tyler is out of town, so I went straight to the fridge when I got home and ate all of her "Peach Champagne" flavored "gelatto" (thats ice cream, plus $5) straight out of the container. "You really shouldn't eat ice cream anyway" she said.

HA!!!! I guess that set her straight.

Later, I got sick and spent the rest of the evening laying on the floor in my bathroom. I find that linoleum offers the best combination of not-too-hard, but still very cool and refreshing on one's flushed, feverish face; but porcelain tiles have their place too.

Regardless, I still consider it a "win", because thats what you get for leaving me home alone for days at a time! I'm like the Jack Russel Terrier you can't leave alone in the house, and its MY HOUSE.

I can't even trust myself with myself.

Perhaps its best that I have a life-guide like Tyler handy. With so many pennies and so many electrical outlets to put them in; its a wonder I've made it this far.

Also: I'm allergic to dairy products.

There Is No Ice Cream

I generally don’t ask much of you guys - just a quick read periodically to make me feel all fuzzy inside, but today I want to run something by you and I’d like a little feedback.

So, my understanding is: you choose a woman to marry, then after you’re married she suddenly embodies all the things you love about your Mom.

That IS how it works, right?

Basically, you date somebody for a long, long, long,

Really, really,

Really long,

A super long, incredibly long, nearly age-defyingly-long, time.

Then when you lose your head and get married, a switch flips, and voila! A new, much more domestic, waffle-making, pork-barbecue-making, breakfast-cooking, kitchen-mopping, always-well-coiffed, person appears and begins taking care of you and she never mentions anything bad about meats.

I was under the impression that was the deal. Then, last week, as a sort of "trial run" I asked Tyler if she would "please fix me some ice cream?" Mom would have fixed me some ice cream, so I figured that was a fair request. Plus, Tom had just stuck dynamite in Jerry's cat food, and I wanted to see what was going to happen.

She smiled sweetly, got up, went in the kitchen, fixed a bowl of ice cream, came back in the room, sat down, and without so much as a mention of the location of my ice-cream, she proceeded to eat the entire bowl of ice cream herself; right there in front of God and everybody.

I was dumbfounded. Speechless.

When she was finished she looked up and said “see how easy that was?”

So, after a brief lesson in "what I am to do when I need something"; I went in the kitchen to fix myself some ice cream.....and it was all gone.

I heard a chuckle in the room behind me, but I didn't turn around. Instead, I pretended to have gone in there to fix myself some water.

My question to all you married people is this: where is MY ice cream?

Please choose one:
A. Tyler ate my ice cream. It WAS mine, then it BECAME Tyler's when she thought of eating it.

B. My ice cream is in the other freezer, she wouldn't actually eat ALL of MY ice cream.

C. Since there is no ice cream, there must never have been any ice cream to begin with. I was mistaken in assuming there was ice cream, and that it was mine. Tyler already knew of the ice cream situation. If only I had asked Tyler what the ice cream situation was, I would have known and not made a fool of myself for thinking there may be ice cream. Instead, because I failed to consult Tyler, I have shamed my family.

D. Everything I have is Tyler's until I'm told differently (by Tyler).

E. Every man must relive the consequences of Adam's Fall From Grace; in my unique case: I am allowed no ice cream.

F. She ain't trained right yet.