When I was flying back from the east coast last week, I tried to determine the three best superpowers to have. My conclusion was as follows:

1. Shapeshifting
2. Healing (yourself as well as others)
3. Teleportation

I thought this was a joke the first time I saw it.



Sadly, it's not. I think I'm going to pass on this one, kind of like how I pass on all video game movies no matter how awesome the original source material is.

People never notice or hear me.

When I was a kid, I became very good at sneaking around undetected. Sometimes I did this to eavesdrop, sometimes I did it because I was playing hide and seek or kick the can. As I got older, I would come home late and not want to wake anyone up as I went to my room and got ready for bed, so I tried to be quiet then too.

Nowdays, I'll be standing behind somebody in the break room waiting to get coffee, and they'll turn around and get really surprised that I've been there the whole time.

Maybe I should've been a ninja. Or Batman.

I've noticed that a relatively large percentage of posters in customers_suck are furries.

I wonder why this is.

Oh hi, I guess I still have this thing.

Being married is certainly different than being single. It's better, though. One reason I thought being married would be tough is the sudden lack of total privacy... along with the lack of time to myself. Neither of those have been a problem though. I don't value privacy as much as I thought I did, and I really feel like I have enough autonomy and "me time". We're both pretty independent people, so we don't need to be around each other all the time like some couples do. Often, I'm in the basement and she's upstairs just because.

It's also way, way better than being engaged. That was torture.

So a friend from my college days in Harrisburg/Philadelphia is coming into town tonight and staying with us. I invited him to my wedding (which was two months ago) but he couldn't make it.

The reason he's in town today is because he's going to a wedding.

I can't help but feel a little insulted.

Hope you liked the subject line, because that's what this post is about. Shit. Specifically, the giving of shit.

One thing I really miss about my high school years is giving my friends shit. We would call each other all kinds of names for virtually no reason whatsoever. Jesse was wearing a sweater over a collared shirt? Fag. Tony dropped his Coke on the floor? Retard. Jason missed our exit on the highway? Dumbass. Eric wanted to go home before midnight on a Friday? Pussy.

As I get older, I find it's less and less appropriate to give people shit. I can give my coworkers shit, but only about very specific subjects that aren't even remotely offensive. We give Betty shit for being old, we give Colleen shit for being short and cold all the time, we give Adam shit for being grumpy. Harmless stuff.

You certainly can't give girls shit the same way you give guys shit, and for that reason I don't think my wife and I will ever experience that bond that I had with my old friends. I have bonds with her that I'll never have with others, of course, and much stronger ones. But the "shit" bond can never be there. We try to stay on the side of encouragement and I really wouldn't have it any other way.

When I get together with the guys from high school, though, it's like an unending stream of shit-giving. And it's awesome. Watching baseball, playing games, just standing around talking. We just keep giving each other shit. It can't be replicated anywhere else in the world or with any other group of people with whom I regularly associate.

Eric fell off the face of the earth (and the word on the street is that he's a furry now, so it's probably good that he's gone or else we'd have entire dump trucks worth of shit to dump on him). Jesse doesn't come around much anymore. Jason's moving to Alaska in a few months. Tony is closest to me and we hang out, but it's just never the same when the other guys aren't there.

We won't always be together, but we'll always have our shit.

Back from the Bahamas.

Holy crap I'm tired.

brb, getting married

Well, my computer no longer has AIDS. Now it just has a treatable variety of cancer.

Remember when I built my computer? I still have it, for the most part. The original power supply was a POS to begin with and I remedied that situation immediately, the motherboard fried once and I replaced it, and I upgraded the graphics card on the cheap a couple years ago. Outside of that, it's been the same machine since day one. I've never done a fresh Windows install since the first time in February of 2006, because I've never had the need to. It's always run like a champ.

Sunday morning I caught some kind of ransomware which absolutely buttfucked my entire system into oblivion. Everything is slower, some programs just flat-out don't work, and I can't do anything on the Internet except read pages - anything even remotely interactive like Gmail, Google Documents, and Facebook is a no-go. I've tried everything I can think of and every free anti-spyware imaginable to get this crap off my system, but nothing takes care of it.

So I'm going to do a reinstall. I'm kind of nervous... I keep fantasizing about just going back in time and never catching the ransomware in the first place. Still, I think my computer could use it. Three years running the same OS means it must be incredibly bloated right now, even though I'm careful not to install stuff I really don't need.

Fingers crossed.

Kevin shook his head no.

"You sure?" Jameson, shaking the coffee pot enticingly. "It's two in the morning. You must be running on fumes by now."

"I'm sure. I'm usually up until one or so anyway," Kevin said.

Jameson finished pouring his own cup. He added a packet of sugar as slowly as he could manage, swirling it around and sipping it to check the temperature.

"I want to call my wife," Kevin said.

"You've had plenty of time to do that," Jameson answered.

"I did, three hours ago. I want to call her again. I didn't realize this was going to happen."

"You didn't realize what was going to happen?"

"This. The police station."

"Clearly," Jameson said, staring into his coffee.

"What the hell am I doing here, anyway?" Kevin protested, turning his palms up on Jameson's desk. "Your guy already took my statement on the street."

"And I read over his notes," Jameson said calmly, "and that's why you're here and not back at home with your wife."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Vehicular manslaughter, dummy."

"Ve..." Kevin stuttered, not believing what he was hearing. "Vehicular manslaughter? Are you out of your damn mind?"

Jameson finally moved towards his desk, blowing into his cup. He eased himself into his chair, opposite Kevin, and picked up a typewritten sheet of paper.

"Eileen Murphy was alive four hours ago," Jameson said, consulting the paper. "Then you hit her with your car, and now she's not alive anymore. So, yes, vehicular manslaughter seems like an appropriate choice of words here."

"Did you even read that?" Kevin asked, pointing to the paper. "Did you read the whole thing, or just the beginning and the end?"

"Refresh my memory," Jameson said.

"She told me to let her die. She said it over and over again for, like, ten minutes. It's all in there," Kevin stressed, motioning to Jameson's paper again.

"It is. I can see that."

"And you think I killed her on purpose? You think I just hit a little old lady on the way home from work because I felt like it?"

"Vehicular manslaughter doesn't imply intent all the time. Sometimes it implies negligence."

"She jumped out in front of me!" Kevin shouted.

"An eighty year old..." Jameson said, then shuffled around his desk for another piece of paper. He squinted at in and continued, "an eighty-three year old lady jumped out in front of you. Jumped. I don't know how many eighty-three year old ladies who can jump."

"So what are you implying? Jumped, shuffled, limped, I don't know. One second she wasn't there, the next second she was."

"In the middle of the crosswalk, to boot," Jameson said. "You hit her when she was in the middle of the crosswalk."

"I had a green light."

"You were the only one at the intersection at the time besides Mrs. Murphy. That's pretty convenient. You can testify to all kinds of shit when the only other person at the scene is dead."

Kevin's eyes widened. He sat back in his chair, sighing.

"Well, you've already made up your mind, apparently. You're telling me to 'refresh your memory'," Kevin said, making quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "but there's really no point in that, is there?"

"You tell me. Convince me otherwise."

"You're not a judge. You're not a jury."

"No, I'm not," Jameson said, taking a gulp of coffee. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. I can't be bothered to go give testimony in court. I just don't have the time these days."

I'm done with faith vs. atheism debates. Not because I don't enjoy them, but because nobody - myself included - ever brings anything new to the table. I'm pretty sure nobody has brought anything new to the table for thousands of years. It's pointless, really.

Also, these debates I find myself in always take place on the Internet, where everyone tends to be louder and more likely to insult and demean rather than actually debate. The folks who stay level-headed, reasonable, and understanding are few and far between.

I know the biggest issue lately has been the atheist/agnostic point of view that religious folks shouldn't let their religion get in the way of their politics because of the negative impact it can have on things like science and equal rights for minority lifestyles. Well, I don't hold other people to my standards of morality unless they claim my standards of morality as their own, so everyone else can do what they want. If you're not cool with the religio-socio-political climate of a particular country, you're free to not live there, or vote against the majority, or not trade with them, or nuke them, or whatever. The world's going down anyway.

If people want to change, they will. If they don't, they won't. Adapt appropriately and try to be nice to everyone in the meantime, please.

I want to take a psychology class taught by God.

While reading this, I realized how unnecessary I would be in any country or occupation that isn't service-oriented. Most of my job is talking on the phone, sending emails, going to meetings and doing various stuff on the computer, interspersed here and there with a business trip.

Y'know, there needs to be programs in Western education that deal with how to do stuff with your hands. Manly stuff, girly stuff, whatever. Stuff that would make you useful and productive if society were to suddenly collapse. How to diagnose a problem on a car, how to plant and care for a vegetable garden, how to paint a wall, how to dig for a well, how to fish... basically a low-level understanding of manual labor in all its forms. Not because we need to live in a culture of fear and worst-case-scenario, but because it's just useful knowledge.

Anyway, I would totally be one of those people who stayed back when everyone else evacuated. I've got my aluminum softball bat, a shovel, and a shitload of kitchen knives. I'd be fine.

Obama's going to be president in less than a week.

The redhead got me a Wii for Christmas, hence why I haven't been here much.

Also, Mike Shanahan got fired, so I changed my default user icon. If this one works as well as the last one did, I'll be switching it one more time:

There are a few ways to be pissed off because of a football game.

The redhead is starting to get used to my mannerisms. I think she realizes that I have mood swings, but only from September to February and usually only on Sundays. I went through most of them yesterday.

Screaming at the TV can either be a sign that something good happened or something bad happened. Usually, when I'm yelling at the TV, it's because the Broncos did something I wanted them to do. So when my volume goes up, that's a reliable indicator that I'm in a good mood, for the time being.

There are several different kinds of quiet, and I revert to all of them depending on the situation:

The "We Just Gave Up a 65-Yard Rushing Play on 3rd and 9" kind of quiet.

The "Cutler Threw an Interception Inside the Opponent's 15 Yard Line" quiet.

The "It's Halftime and We're Winning but the Other Team has Scored 10 Unanswered in the last 8 Minutes" quiet.

The "Resigned to the Fact that the Broncos Suck" quiet that happens in the 4th quarter of most games, even the ones we win.

I would hate the Broncos if I didn't love them so much.

The Fray are releasing their sophomore album soon. One of the singles is already getting airplay.

I hate how the one Denver/Colorado band I really don't like is the one that's the most famous.

I've been in NYC on business, thus I haven't been reading anything. Back in the swing now, though.

P.S.:



I've had a thing for Tina Fey since college. Screw all you people who only noticed her when she started doing the Palin impression on SNL.

Sexiest woman alive who isn't engaged to me.

The opening menu screen music in Civilization IV is the Lord's Prayer sung in Swahili.

Seriously.

Jimmy was getting hungry. He and his family had been on the road for a long, long time. The road winding into the mountains wasn't familiar at all. Jimmy had driven north before, to visit his aunt and uncle in Longmont, but this was completely new. His parents never took him and his younger brother to the mountains.

Jimmy turned around, struggling against his seatbelt to see the car behind his. Aunt Lauren and Uncle Mike had bought a van last month, one with a DVD player in the back. Jimmy could barely make out his cousin Charlotte in the middle row, who was staring up at the little movie screen in the ceiling. He wondered what she was watching. She was wearing a blue dress.

"I'm hungry, mom," he said, turning back around.

"We're not stopping, Jimmy," Mom replied. "We're not even halfway there."

"Where are we going?"

"Jimmy, be quiet, okay?" Dad said.

Jimmy had already been quiet for the last hour. Back home, he'd tried to tell Dad that the sweater Mom picked out for him was itchy and too hot, but Dad told him to deal with it. Aunt Lauren, Uncle Mike and Charlotte had come to his house while he was still getting dressed. Dad had a tie on, but it was Saturday, not Sunday. He knew this had something to do with Grandpa dying last week, but why they were driving up to the mountains didn't make any sense. The funeral already happened a couple days ago.

"This really is idiotic," Mom said in the voice she used when she was trying to make sure Jimmy couldn't hear her. He looked to his left to see if Steven was listening, too, but Steven had his eyes closed.

"Why?" Dad said.

"Because your father never said anything about Breckenridge before. He never suggested that we go there for family trips, he never..."

"Honey, come on."

"Aaron, I don't understand this. He hasn't even been there since I met you, which was, what? Twelve years ago?"

"He may have gone up there without telling me."

"He took the senior bus up to Central City to gamble on Friday nights. That's the closest he's been to Breckenridge in at least twelve years."

"You don't know that. He..."

"You should have buried him in Arvada."

It got quiet again. Mom adjusted the air conditioning in the front of the car. Dad had that look on his face that he got when he was about to leave the house and not come back until late.

"Kathy, first of all, don't interrupt me."

"Aaron, you..."

"My turn to talk," Dad said, and he stared at Mom briefly before looking back towards the road. Jimmy focused at the floor and pretended not to listen.

"Second, you've been a real source of stress for me the last couple of days. I don't just get over my father dying. You were sad with me for one day and then you acted like it was back to business as if nothing had happened. A little continual support would be nice."

Mom folded her arms and looked straight ahead.

"And I know you're really disappointed that you had to cancel your spa date with Jennifer, but my fucking father just died!"

"You didn't even like your father, and don't swear in front of the kids!"

"I liked him enough to actually do what it says to do in his will."

"This has nothing to do with the spa date. You're inconveniencing you entire family..."

"Inconveniencing? Are you sure that's the word you want to use right now?"

"The entire family is coming up here to pay homage to someone who didn't care. He never made any effort to come visit and he never asked us to come up there. And he certainly never made the effort to tell us what Breckenridge has to do with anything."

Jimmy stretched himself around again. Charlotte had stopped watching the movie. Her mouth was moving and her mom was smiling.

Dad rubbed his forehead.

Some girls strip their way through college. This is kind of like that, excpet I get to keep my clothes on and the hours are better.

The appeal of the restaurant - and here I'm talking about restaurants in general, not mine specifically - is that people can eat and drink with their friends without having to clean their house first. People, especially the type of people that come to The National Bar and Grille, pay top dollar for this luxury. If they knew the markup we put on alcohol and appetizers, they'd probably sue.

Table 33 gets sat with a couple law students with haircuts straight out of GQ, who are too cool for frat parties and have already graced our presence four times this week. It's a quarter to eleven and I've had just about enough of the heels I wore today, but this is an easy ten or twelve bucks. I tell the girl whose section these two are occupying to go ahead, I've got this, go home and go to bed. She's in enough denial to believe that coming to work in black dress pants and a pair of flats is really going to help her put her two kids in a private middle school. I'm doing her a favor here. Statistically speaking, it doesn't make financial sense for her to stay another hour.

After I threatened legal action against my boss and my boss' boss if he ever got anywhere near my legs with a ruler again, I started keeping a spreadsheet. The first week, my hem was three inches above my knee, which is technically the shortest we're supposed to have them. I averaged 18% tips from tables of women, 21% from tables of mixed genders, and 27% from tables of just men.

Week two: three and a half inches, 17%, 22%, 29%.

Week three: four inches, 16%, 24%, 32%

Week four: four and a half inches, 15%, 26%, 36%

I'm a mathematics major. I couldn't help myself. You should see the graph I made.

The first GQ haircut sees me approaching with a bullshit smile and whispers to his buddy, breaking eye contact and failing miserably in his attempt to make me think that he's not talking about me.

I act like I'm glad to see them. I pretend that the story about their day in class has me engrossed. I make them think that the Manhattan and the Black Russian I'm about to go get for them are the two most important things in the world.

Every job, when it comes down to it, is a form of prostitution.

Eighty minutes, a plate of hummus, and six drinks later, I'm up fourteen dollars and they're removing themselves from their table for the time being. I'm rolling silverware in the bar. A couple cooks are out here too, along with three of my fellow servers, giving a hefty portion of the money they made tonight right back to the restaurant. This is amazing to me.

They're not the types to keep their houses clean, I suppose. Or this is the most convenient place for them to comiserate about the awful shift they just had. They're lifers. They came into the game assuming that they'd be around for just a few years until they finished school, until they could afford to move out of their parents' house, until they can get a real job, until until until. They talk about the interviews they had at some tall building, the audition for a community theater thing, whatever.

I don't have too many friends here.

The manager comes out from the back and I yank my skirt down as far as I can. He tends not to notice when I'm working the tables, so I was safe until now. I'm pretty sure I was bordering on my own scale of indecency for most of the night; but hell, I'm walking out of here with well over two hundred bucks, which is unheard of for a Wednesday.

ok, damn it, i'm going to start writing again.

maybe just short vignettes for a while before i try doing anything as daunting as a novella. with God and google documents as my witnesses, i am going to do this. i have no excuse not to.

i'm taking a walk right now, but i'm almost home, and i'm starting right away when i get there.