The one about the blog

A blog that once existed but no longer does used the phrase “The one about” to title every post. It was somewhat clever, if not just a tad limiting. I feel it’s time to start ripping off that blog that no longer exists because a) he’s not likely to care since he’s no longer doing it and b) the next few posts will probably be big summary affairs.

I hate when I find myself staring at a site that has offered up fewer updates for months and think about all of the things I wanted to post. It makes me feel like a lazy ass. And when I feel like one, I just sit on the couch and stare at the static on our TV and dream of what it must be like not to be a lazy ass. Oh, dare I dream such a lofty life?

This may very well be the dumbest post I’ve ever bothered to write, but it’s meant to kick me in the behind (I’m running out of synonyms for buttocks these days) and force me to go through all of the topics that have been cloggin’ my noggin these days (yes, I did just write that with a pathetic smirk on my face – and no, the spell check does not like the word cloggin’).

For now, I’m just going to head home to grab my camera and Lisa’s guitar so that I can meet up with her for a rare OpenMic appearance tonight. Hey, maybe I should write about that?

The immutable law of poop

No matter how uncomfortable those hard ones are, the messy ones are the worst. Yes, I am talking about my guinea pig. Specifically I’m talking about the second load of you-know-what that I’ve had to remove from you-know-where in two weeks. Being soft certainly made removal easier, but the smell… for the love of all that is holy… the smell! How can such a little critter produce such a foul odor? He’s so tiny, but his tush packs a mighty punch… (the new built-in spellcheck for Firefox 2.0 just told me I should use tush over tushy – it also told me that spell check is two words)

Alrighty, enough of this crap (pun intended). I need to talk about movies or football or something like that…

The suburban life

A couple weeks ago I was hanging out with a friend from my old Hoboken bar crowd and mentioned that I had to mow my lawn the next day. She laughed and said that I was probably the only person she knew who had a lawn big enough to mow. And there was probably only one other person who had any grass to begin with.

Of course, bragging about my massive one-eigth acre stretch of land does not actually get the work done. That requires me hauling my push mower (yes, I am becoming a luddite) out to walk around in increasingly shrinking circles that never quite line up right in order to catch all stray blades. I actually do enjoy it on some primitive manly level, but my backwards technological outlook makes it a priority to mow every week. When you skip it for a month, that push mower basically shakes a metaphorical fist at me as it has to work one foot at a time.

Nevertheless, yesterday I managed to unevenly shave the front yard, rip out several pounds of ivy intent on tearing apart our brick steps, and trim the bottom half of an evergreen with some sort of grudge against our driveway. I just hope I’m not going overboard as some sort of payback for my Mom always stopping me from really going to town on the trees and bushes around the house. That’s right, I’m doing things my way, baby. This is my house and my rules, and the glasses get put in the cabinet I want them in, and the ugly trees get removed when I don’t want them, and the walls get painted whatever color I damn well please…

Assuming Lisa says it’s okay.