Highs and Lows

First, for the high.  We all know how much I love me some sweet, sweet hypocrisy.  Therefore, I'll kick off tonight's post with a quick 'suck it' to Warren Buffett.  "B-b-b-but... I should be paying more taxes."  Yeah right, liar.  As long as we're talking leftist philosophy and you can soak it to everyone else, you're a regular Bolshevik.  In real life... not so much.  (More on this at the link below.)

If I had a nickel for every time some uninformed individual has cited Buffett as the authority on tax policy, even as Buffett himself lies through his teeth about his employees' effective tax rates (payroll taxes are not income taxes, capital gains have already been taxed, etc.)... well, I'd have a lot of nickels.  And his weird fascination with Erin Burnett was always odd to me as well.  She's a beauty and a pretty cool broad and all, but seriously?  She was the only CNBC host that this wrinkly old creep would invite to his meetings?  Why, exactly?  Weird.

Further to the point at hand though, ole WB has made it known that his vast fortune will largely go to charity when he's ready to take the dirt nap.  (For those of you who aren't so quick on the uptake - he'll make his estate much smaller, which means a much smaller estate tax will be collected.)  See there?  He can decide that his money would do more good outside the hands of the government, even as he bitches and whines about how he'd like to be taxed more.  Other rich guys though?  Fuck 'em.  They deserve no say in the matter.  Call in the feds.

Then tonight I come home from work and read this one.

The guy always struck me as a phony, but I respected his ability to make money.  Now he strikes me as an even bigger phony, and I still respect his ability to make money.  I just understand that ability better than I did this morning.

Now for the low.

(Please don't watch this if you're (a) as young as the kids in the video, or (b) prone to suicidal thoughts.)



Damn. I was feeling pretty good a minute ago. I don't even remember what the hell he was blabbering about, to tell you the truth. "We're gonna try hard, but you're pretty much screwed," or something along those lines. I'm just picturing myself as a kid, watching this depressing monologue from the president of the United States. Damn. Talk about a buzzkill.

(The Buffett part is still hilarious though.)

Thinks I get a kick out of - Volume One

It's probably time to add a new recurring segment to the blog.  I can't say for sure how frequently recurring it will be but hey, we'll give it a shot.  Given how regularly I observe here and in other places that the world is basically full of shit, it would be easy for one to conclude that I don't enjoy much.  Such a conclusion would be completely inaccurate.  It's just that I enjoy the insignificant stuff a lot more than the significant.

When it comes to the more existential issues that face humanity, I'm pretty sure we're screwed.  Here's hoping that Rapture thing didn't actually happen and we all didn't just get left behind.  That would be a bummer.  On a smaller scale though, the world is pretty cool when you're easily amused.  I'm easily amused.

Volume One - The conveyor belts at dry cleaners

I used to wear a suit to work every day, so I had to visit dry cleaners on a regular basis.  Even aside from the vocational requirements though, I find that they make life as a single guy a lot more convenient.

When I was a kid, my mother would iron my clothes for me whenever I needed to look presentable.  A little later in life, my wife would iron my clothes for me.  After that failed experiment in marital bliss ran its course, I had various girlfriends who would iron my clothes for me.  (Brand me a sexist if you must, but it ain't always the worst thing to be.)  In recent years, I've been solo and I have less than zero ability to iron a shirt properly.  I can do okay with pants for the most part, and pants get wrinkled pretty quickly once you sit in them anyway.  But shirts - can't do it.  The best part about dry cleaning, in my opinion, isn't the actual cleaning.  It's that you get your clothes back in a nicely pressed condition, ready to take on the world.

Somewhat recently, my old buddy Mr. Pedro died.  It follows then that I had to attend a funeral.  I wear old jeans and a work shirt 90% of the time these days, so I went to my closet to assess the wardrobe situation.  My suits were hanging neatly in place, but they had been wrinkled a bit during my latest relocation.  In what must surely be a sign of unprecedented optimism on my part, I went to the store and bought a fancy iron with the steam shooter and all of the other high-tech nonsense.  I gave it a shot.  Yeah, I still can't do it.  So I had to take my clothes to the dry cleaner.

Upon arriving, I was reminded of one of the things that I really get a kick out of.

I dig those conveyor belts, man.  Walk around the shop and look for someone's clothes?  Hell to the naw.  This is America, Jack.  We whip out a remote control and watch a thousand sets of clothing cruise around the building until the correct one lands in front of us.  Up to the roof, down to the floor, around corners, over walkways.  It's awesome.  It really is.

Son of a...

I've been informed recently that I don't write much anymore.  The reason for this, of course, is that I don't really have anything to write.  Most of what disturbs me is political and there are numerous political authors who are far more eloquent than I am.  Most of what amuses me is ridiculous and much of this ridiculous amusement has probably already arrived in your inbox at one time or another, through various unnamed sources.  So I don't find much blogworthiness in the remaining humdrum world that I inhabit.

Alas, I find myself encountered with a conundrum.  I could simply blow off the people who have noted my lack of blog posts.  Aside from the ten or fifteen cents that I get each month from you folks, this blog is an uncompensated venture.  But then, on another level, it does give me a chance to get things off my chest from time to time and I get a kick out of the occasional feedback that I receive.  What to do?  What to do?

I concluded, as I've previously concluded, that I'll write when I have something to say and I'll keep to myself when there's nothing to say.  Simple enough, right?  Sure, except that there's apparently hardly ever anything to say.

I was informed not too long ago that I should go back to how this blog began and just start writing a few words about the daily grind, trying to make it as interesting as possible.  Hogwash, I say.  I used to go from coast to coast and border to border.  The daily grind, as it were, tended to write its own stories.  Now every day seems exactly like yesterday and tomorrow looks to be more of the same.  But I don't know.  I figured I might as well give it a shot once in a while.

So, here's a day in the life.  Enjoy.

I got out of bed yesterday afternoon.  You'll note that I said afternoon and not morning.  The previous night's workout had been a real motherfucker and I was in no state to sleep when I got back home.  It took until 8am or so to wind down.  So I slept for a while and then got out of bed in the afternoon.  Then I had a few things to do.  I had dirty laundry, of course.  So that needed to be washed.  And I had a paycheck to deposit.  And I had some mail to send.  And I needed to burp the air out of my car's cooling system (long story).  And I needed to help a buddy with some computer issues.  And I needed to help another buddy with some financial issues.

After all of the tedium had been handled, however, I would get the payoff.  A friend of mine had a pair of tickets to last night's Tigers game.  Beautiful weather in Detroit, Scherzer on the mound, the last-place Royals in town, what could go wrong?  Perfect day for a ballgame.

Then the friend who had provided the tickets ran into a minor scheduling issue.  No worries though.  I happen to have a retired buddy whose parents are now both dead, so I was pretty sure he could join me at the game.  I was right about that part.  He had nothing going on.  Off we go then...

After an early dinner at Mexican Village, we decided to head over to the ballpark and catch batting practice.  Apparently my recollection of my youth has been distorted, because I distinctly remember getting into Tiger Stadium at 5pm for batting practice.  The gates at Comerica Park were locked at 5pm, so we started walking around the stadium.  After passing the gate that would be closest to our seats, we found a shaded area beneath some trees and settled in to wait for the ballpark to open.  They would probably open at 5:30pm, we thought.

We stood and chatted about various topics for a while.  At 5:25pm, I suggested that we might start walking toward the next stadium gate - the one behind home plate.  By the time we got there, I surmised, it would be about time for the stadium to open.  Good idea, thought my buddy.  And away we were.  Err...

Son of a...!

I am still facing some lingering effects of a back injury that I sustained nearly a year ago.  I don't have the intense pain in my leg anymore and my back does okay for the most part, but the numbness that eventually settled into my right foot has never gone away.  I taught myself to walk without a limp and basically just ignore the fact that I usually can't feel my right foot.  I say 'usually' because, well, there are a few times that I feel it.  Like when I step on the edge of a curb and my ankle rolls over.  Yeah, I sure as hell felt that one.

Numerous bad experiences with that ankle have left me with a peculiar skill.  When my foot starts to roll over, I tend to react instantly - before the ligaments have a chance to get stretched too far or torn.  I can accept whatever consequences befall me afterward, but I immediately get all of my weight off that leg, to the best of my ability.  This is all done without thinking.  It's a conditioned response, or whatever.

What befell me in last night's case wasn't very pleasant.  I threw my leg up in the air as soon as my ankle started to roll.  Since I had already stepped on the side of the curb and lost my balance before throwing my leg in the air, I took a pretty wicked tumble afterward.  I have no idea exactly how I fell.  I just know that I fell hard.  Reverand Dan described it as 'awkward.'  I think he was pretty scared for me, but I assured him that I'll be okay.  Hopefully I wasn't lying.

The palms of both my hands are scraped and bruised.  My right wrist is a lovely shade of purple.  My right ankle is swollen and painful, but at least its components have remained intact.  My shins have some scrapes and bruises, but nothing too major.  Last but certainly not least, we get to my left thigh.  Holy fuck, does my left thigh ever hurt.  Somewhere in the process of falling, I must have twisted that leg or something.  Perhaps it's just bruised and it will feel better in a couple of days, but it feels suspiciously like a pulled muscle.  Just what I need.

One of the stadium workers saw me fall and then struggle back to my feet, so he pulled up in his golf cart and offered to give us a ride to the First Aid station.  That was rather kind of him.  I didn't think I would need any medical treatment, but a few Advils would probably help the cause.  Then he couldn't get anyone to open the gate and let him into the stadium, so he drove us out by the center field entrance and dropped us off.  "Just go in right there and hang a right.  First Aid is right down that way."  Hey, thanks for nothing, sport.  When I fell, I was in the general vicinity of where my seats were located.  By the time this guy helped me, I was all the way on the other end of the stadium.

We made the long walk over to the first base line and settled into our seats.  I had decided, after the golf cart fiasco, that cold beer would probably do more for my pain than Advil would.  I was not disappointed in this regard.  Prior to last night's game, I had actually stopped buying beer at the ballpark.  Obviously stadium concessions are bound to be overpriced, but at this point I think they've gone too far.  $8.50 for a pint is, as ole Walter Sobchak would say, over the line.  Better to hit a restaurant or bar after the game and knock back a few, I reckon.  Last night, however, I needed the medicinal effects.

I wasn't in too much pain as I sat and watched the debacle unfolding on the field before me (a 9-5 Kansas City victory).  When I got up to use the restroom, however, oy.  That was rough.  I could mitigate some of the pain in my ankle and thigh by taking each step very slowly and deliberately.  As I walked back to my seat with a full beer in my hand, it occurred to me that my tortured gait was probably making me look incredibly drunk.  I can only imagine what some of the other spectators must have thought.  Oh well.  No harm, no foul.

I dropped the reverand off at his house and then came back home to assess the damage to my body.  (As noted above - hands, wrist, ankle, shins, thigh.)  "Tomorrow morning's gonna be a rough one," I thought as I turned out the light and went to bed.

I woke a little while ago.

Son of a...