I need an around-the-way girl. That's the one for me.

Well, I am no longer kinda-sorta seeing someone. It's for the best, really. I don't need to worry about violent reactions to anti-gaucho jokes and such anymore, which is an important facet of any relationship. And for once the breakup was a completely mutual thing, which is an odd feeling. It's almost like relief more than melancholy or something. That's one I'm gonna have to get used to. Well, not used to since that would entail ending lots of relationships and such, but you know what I mean. Amazingly, we didn't even get into an argument and both kind of predicted each others' reasons for ending it. Maybe we were compatible after all? Oh well. Either way, don't cry for me, Argentina.

With that said: I'm gonna go out and get REALLY fucking trashed this weekend. Jacksonville, beware. Somebody loan me cab fare or give me a ride home. I promise to puke out the window. Honest. Maybe I'll get drunk and let the comedian/hypnotist make me cluck like a chicken or something on Friday night. Sounds like a plan. It's been a while, after all.

Anyone got any hot, single female friends they can loan me for a weekend? No guarantees on me giving her back, though. Anyone?

Blogging is so 2004.

Holy crap, I still have a blog? I thought I totally abandoned this thing since everybody's got a blog nowadays. That means in order to maintain a thin air of superiority and coolness, I have to stop blogging. It's like how it was cool to listen to Coldplay five years ago but now if you like them you're totally lame because even your mom has a Coldplay CD and the more people that like something the less cool it is. That's why if you're in a band, you have to stay starving for the rest of your life because the second anyone other than the hipsters and college kids starts listening to you, you've sold out. You're not the same. You suck. Keep that in mind, aspiring band people. And aspiring bloggers. Don't get too many devoted readers because if too many people like you, that means you suck. Sorry. For the three of you that were here from the beginning, thanks for the memories. I know this blog isn't as good now because all those people looking for info on Iceman and Mr. Kicks or the Egg & Muffin Toaster keep turning up and messing up the scene. I know you all got really ticked off when the dorks looking for info on the Batman Titanium Flex Ring showed up. Even the guy looking to see if Beth Gibbons sang on DJ Shadow's "Midnight In A Perfect World" couldn't combat that kind of dork influx. (FYI, no she wasn't on that track). Now the blog has gone to hell, I tell ya. It's all gone to hell.

Actually, there's a simple equation, if you will, for what's going on here. When given the choice between A) doing nothing or B) doing something (for the sake of argument we will include "blogging" as doing something) then Maki will naturally gravitate towards choice A 99.9% of the time. Unless doing something gives him an ego stroke. Then, yes, he will do something. Such as referring to himself in the third person for no apparent reason. Or writing something moderately funny on his blog. This is the way of things.

I will now proceed to do nothing. Move along, nothing to see here. At least you got a song out of it.

The best-laid plans of answering machines and video games.

Alright. Yes, I am back in Jacksonville after loads of fun in South Bend watching the Fighting Irish whip up on the Orange (not men) of Syracuse on Saturday and then enjoying loads of fun delays in Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta on Sunday. It seems as if I brought cold weather back with me, though. Monday morning was warm and incredibly humid (as Florida should be) but by the time I left my cave that I call "the workplace" nine hours later that thing known as "outside" seemed to have dropped in temperature by about 50 degrees. This is further proof that there is a God somewhere out there and he (or she [or it]) does not like me very much. Cold weather is not my friend, even if I get to look damn sharp in my clothes that only get worn for a couple months a year. Once again, I am the fashion guru. Except with cold toes.

I discovered my answering machine was broken upon returning home. I found this out by attempting to play back the one message stored, which was approximately two minutes of dial tone before I shut it off. This thing was old anyway. It was so old that it still used a miniature cassette tape, if that gives you an idea. It was so old that it remembered when the only screwups our president made involved slightly overweight interns. (Oh, no he di'n't!) It was so old that it probably had the bassline from Roni Size's "Brown Paper Bag" stored somewhere as the background to a greeting. Ancient. Old. Damn old.

So I go to Best Buy to pick up a newfangled digital answering machine since I also received a 12% off coupon in the mail that would expire after Monday. Why 12%? Why the hell not? I guess 12% tested well in the applicable demographics. Whatever. As I'm pulling into the parking lot I realize that I'm there the night before the big Xbox360 video game launch. Being the video-game-savvy person that I am, I know that having one would be cool, but I also realize that $399 is a lot to spend on a system that has one, possibly two games available that I would want to play. This also means that I sure as hell would not be sitting outside Best Buy in 38-degree weather waiting for the next morning to roll around so I could buy one. That makes me very different from the 50-odd people I saw lined up around the building last night. I mean really, people. There was even one who had a tent set up. You heard me right. He had a fucking tent set up. This made him smarter than the fratboy in shorts and a t-shirt who will likely be paying off not only his Xbox360 credit card bill all throughout the rest of his college career, but likely his hospital bill for the damn hypothermia he was bound to experience by morning. You know your priorities are in a thoroughly messed up place when you're willing to risk your health in order to be one of the first people to have a video game system. I mean, damn, people. I could get into the whole third world country thing, but you've heard it all before so I'll stop here, lest you think I give a shit about the world and politics and all that other good stuff. Because I don't. Unless it affects me. Which it usually doesn't. Because I am a rock, I am an island, dammit. An island with an ancient tape-based answering machine. Crap.

As I'm bringing my carefully-selected newfangled digital answering machine with cordless phone and call-waiting caller ID up to the counter, I stop by the area near the video games and ask the girl what time they start selling these life-changing Xbox360s. She tells me that they will go on sale at 9am the next morning, and that is why all the odd people are lined up outside. I politely ask her if she'll sell me one right now so I can go outside, show it to the dorks in line and then drive home, pointing and laughing Nelson-style. She considered it a fabulous idea, but also mentioned that I was likely to get killed since one dork is easy to combat, but they can swarm me with numbers, zombie style. The store was also likely to become a riot zone of angry nerds if such a thing were to pass anyway. She really seemed to want to do it, though. I guess when the PS3 launches I'll just have to find a Best Buy employee a little less attached to their job. I pay for my answering machine (considerably less than $399) and head home, shaking my head at the miserable-looking nerds in line. I'm sure today brought them great joy of some sort. One can only hope.

I still wish I could've proved just how much cooler than them I am by flaunting a system in their faces a day early. But $399 is a steep price to pay for coolness. And I've still gotta buy Christmas presents. Such is life.

Side note: For those who wonder why I still have a home phone and not just a cell, I need it for the security system in my house to work properly. My cell phone is also only vaguely functional in my house. By "vaguely functional" I mean "the damn thing misses calls like that female NBA ref last season." (Oh, no he di'n't again!) I don't need that kind of frustration, believe me.

Another side note: You can all feel free to point to this post and make fun of me when I'm in line outside a Best Buy for a PS3 next year. Because it's bound to happen. Because I, too, am a dork deep-down. This post coveting a PSP is all the evidence you should need. I will not be pitching a tent, though. Mark my words.

One last side note: In the interest of full disclosure, I own a PSP. And a PS2. And an old Xbox. And a Gamecube. And a Gameboy. And a Dreamcast. I too am amazed that I wasn't in that line myself. I can now hypocritically mock due to the fact that I wasn't in that line, though.

Stop looking at me like that.

I can't feel my toes.

I think I'm going to move to Chicago. At least, I will if it means that I'll have easy access to Giordano's famous stuffed deep-dish pizza. Damn. I mean, DAMN. We had some before making the 90-minute journey from Chicago-Midway Airport to South Bend, Indiana. Highly recommended. Almost made it worth flying to Midway instead of direct to South Bend. Almost.

This afternoon I waited in line for tickets to the Notre Dame pep rally. It was 33 degrees out. Now, for those of you who live up north, this is warm weather. Balmy, even. For someone who has lived in Florida his entire life, this is cold. I mean, like FRIGGIN' COLD weather. Not the type of weather one spends two hours outside on his feet waiting for tickets to a free pep rally in. Not at all. But I did it anyway. It wasn't too bad at first, but by the time it was done I was quite convinced that frostbite had set in on my poor toes. Remember this, all of you that wear steel-toed boots: that steel will get cold. If it's right by your toes, they will get cold. Then you will have to walk around like a gimpy moron for the rest of the day because no matter what you do, short of setting them on fire, your toes will not warm up. Life is pain in the frozen tundra.

The pep rally was a lot of fun. It was one of those things that makes me regret going to a small school with no history and even less school spirit. When you can fill an entire on-campus arena with people who are only there to cheer on the team and listen to the coach speak, it really makes you wonder why you chose to go to a tiny school that had to move its games into an ancient gymnasium since they couldn't fill the arena they used to play in. Granted, I wouldn't trade a single one of the friends I made in school for that experience, but it doesn't mean I can't regret it just a little.

Tomorrow I sit in the student section and get to watch ND beat up on the Syracuse Orangemen. Oh, sorry, the Syracuse Orange. They are not men anymore. Now they are simply a color. At least I don't feel dumb having gone there, huh?

The keyboard on my sister's laptop sucks so I am ending here. Stay warm, kids.

Oh yeah, happy 30th b-day, PK. Damn, you old now and stuff. Sorry I'm not there to help you celebrate. Next year for 31, I guess...

Ah, crap!

The girl I'm kinda sorta seeing loves her gauchos. LOVES THEM. I screwed up and forgot that she wore pirate pants on our first date, thus proving that I am, as always, socially retarded when it comes to women. Hmmmm. In any case, I guess that's another person to add to the list of "do not let this person find out about Maki's blog" people. Should she feel privileged she's on a list that includes my parents and my drunk driving uncle now? Um, don't answer that. Please.

Funny how I'm more concerned about my thorough destruction of an article of women's clothing than my thorough destruction of my own persona throughout the history of this blog, though, isn't it? I've got some screwed up priorities, I tell ya. Either that or she probably likes her pirate pants more than me at this point and I'm simply projecting. Yeah, that's probably it. All you psych majors who happen to drop by can go ahead and have a field day with this one. I'll wait.

Yes, I broke one of my own blog rules by posting this, as I'm sure at least one of you will dutifully point out in the comments at some point. Thanks for that. I know I can count on you.

And now... Home improvement guru!

I am not dead. I still exist. In fact, I exist in a world filled with home repair goodness. I have successfully replaced the fill valve on my house's only toilet. This helps me maintain my good standing as a male in general. This had been in some debate lately, what with a post about women's pants along with gardening and general upkeep of house plants related discussion. It's good to be back as a man, screwing things in, testing water pressure, uttering words like "gasket" and generally showing that I do, indeed have the ability to fix things. I also avoided using caulk because I hate saying "caulk." Sorry. Well, that and the fact that caulk is generally not used in toilet tank fill valve replacement. But that's neither here nor there.

This little glimpse into my life is all you're getting tonight. I hope you've enjoyed it. I hope it has been life-affirming. You even get a picture of my whisper-quiet toilet refill valve. I know you are in awe. Try not to let that feeling linger too long. You don't want to spoil the rest of your life for other awe-inspiring things, after all.

Fashion guru, part deux

Ok, I will be the first to admit that I am not the most hip and fashion-conscious guy, though I do play one on TV. But something has come to my attention lately, and I feel the burning desire to blog about it. (As an aside, don't you love when somebody uses "blog" as a verb? It's like it's not writing, it's blogging! That makes it so much less dorky! Duh, people!) Anyway. Where was I? Ah, yes. A new fashion trend that I have recently become aware of.

Gauchos!

No, not the University of California Santa Barbara sports teams, either. It's these new pants the ladies seem to be fond of. Too lazy to click the link and have decided instead to say, "Gauchos? Will you please explain what those are, Maki?" Well, it's a good thing you've caught me in a generous mood. Let me enlighten you, compadre. Gauchos are pretty much a cross between capris (you know the pants that just kind of end at the calf, like they've been pre-shrunk or something) and bellbottoms (if I have to explain what those are, I hate you. Leave me alone.) In other words, you know what they are?

Pirate pants.

There, I said it.

Pirate pants.

I see girls walking around and I just want to say, "Ahoy, matey! We be swashbucklin' this afternoon at Publix? I'd join ye but me parrot is a-waitin' out in the car! ARRRRR!" And then I get slapped because I get caught looking at her ass. 'Cause damn if those things don't make a girl's ass look Jimmy Walker "Dyno-MITE!" They accomplish this despite looking rather piratish in general. Yes, I said "piratish." We're making up words here, people. This is fashion talk, dammit. FASHION TALK. Seriously, though. I figured they were part of some Halloween costume deal at first, since they could be somewhat worked into the whole hooker/slut outfit that Halloween brings about. Hooker/slut/pirate wench works for me. Speaking of hooker/slut/pirate wenches, let's bring on our first guest for "Gaucho Time!"

Here we have Jessica Simpson sporting the gaucho style. She looks as if she might be on the deck of a ship or some other such sea-based vessel. Interesting. Very interesting. I will say that her normally-quite-tight form is not flattered by the gauchos at this angle. If the photo had been taken from the back, well, that would be another matter entirely. But you get the idea. Swab the deck, ye landlubbers. Much deck-swabbing will occur. Get your heads out of the gutter, you deviants. Jessica is proudly carrying the gaucho torch for all to see. Will she pass it to our next guest on "Gaucho Time!"?

In a word? No. Here we have the world's friendliest pirate. Or the gayest. I'll take all of the above for $1000, Alex. The hands on the hips and the friendly smile really aren't doing him any favors. But, you will notice that the only difference between his pants, er, sorry, gauchos and Jessica Simpson's is that his have been frayed ever-so-carefully. I guess frayed isn't the word I'm looking for. "Carefully-cut-with-scissors-so-as-made-to-appear-frayed" is probably a better term to use, but that's a lot to say and I tend to be lazy when it comes to that. These gauchos are not flattering his form, either, but I'm not going to contemplate a shot from behind. Ladies and gay men who may be reading, don't let me stop you, though. I hear he likes romance novels, but only the ones with Fabio on the cover dressed as a pirate. And no, I don't have his e-mail address. Sorry.

All we need now is one last fusion of the two and I may have just started a new fashion trend here...

AWESOME. Avast, ye scallywags! I don't even know what that means, but I like it. Not only do we have the combined strength of the flowing gaucho pirate pants but we have the decorative eye-patch to really seal the deal. There's a reason the sunglasses stay on the head, after all. Gotta complete the look and nothing says pirate like a pair of gauchos and an eye patch. I'm sure Louis Vuitton will be all over this eye patch thing by next week. After all, if we can get the ladies to wear pirate pants, it's the next logical step. Trust me.

I feel like looting and pillaging already. Arrrrrrr!

I'm a natural.

You know, people are always coming up to me on the street, and they're like, "hey, Maki, how can I get my plants and stuff to grow so awesome like yours do? I mean, some people say that they're weeds, but we are educated and know better than that." I have to keep telling them that first of all, no, I won't sign any autographs, second, no they can't touch my green thumb and lastly, no, I can't give away my secret. Why is that, you ask?

Because my secret is very simple.

Being the good, loyal blog readers that you are, you're going to get the answer to that question I am so often asked by random strangers in the street. Feel privileged. Feel honored. Feel relieved. Especially knowing that you didn't pay for this knowledge in any way other than the time it takes to read it. It's going to change your life, though. Honest.

The secret is this: Don't do a damn thing.

Take your plants, make sure they're in a pot and just leave them outside. Trust me, the rain and sun will take care of the rest. I will repeat: do not do a damn thing. This is my method and you can see the results in my wonderfully artistic photo at the top of this post. There are some prerequisites to this method, though. Don't EVER take any of your plants inside the house. EVER. This is like sending them to the gas chamber. It's a death sentence. Keep them outside of the house or they will suffer the same fate as my ficus tree, my umbrella plant, my other umbrella plant, my bromeliad, my stick plant, my yucca plant and countless other victims of an indoor lifestyle. Just say no to indoor plants. The "don't do a damn thing" philosophy fails when it comes to indoors. Sorry.

My last bit of plant/gardening/what the hell ever advice? If someone tries to give you a Lantana plant, this can only mean one thing: They hate you. They hate your yard. They want you to suffer. Lantana is to your yard what German soldiers are to Paris. It will march in, take over, and it will take years to get it out. And you will suffer while trying. Lantana is the devil. Treat it as such.

Follow these simple steps and you too can have wonderful plants that don't do much other than look pretty. They also grow like weeds, but we know they're not. At least they'd better not be. Because I fucking hate weeding, dammit.

Field trip

Today was one of those perfect outdoor days. The weather wasn't too warm or too cool, the clouds were minimal, the sun was shining brightly. And there I sat, in my windowless workspace deep within the bowels of the building. I'm buried so deep in the building that my cell loses service completely. I can step outside and get 5 bars. That's the pit I've been enslaved to. Sometimes I feel like Frankenstein's brain-fetching assistant Igor, fearful of the light, only allowed out at night.

It kind of sucks being that guy, to be honest.

Luck was on my side today, though. There's the big Sea & Sky Spectacular air show happening out at the beach this weekend. There's the possibility of a photo shoot happening at some point. Only one thing can make it happen, though. Only one way that it can be properly pulled off. That's right... It was time for me to go on a field trip.

Those of you who have normal jobs with windows and chances to go outside and view the glowing ball of fire that floats around in the sky between the hours that I arrive at work and the time I leave will not appreciate how big this is. An entire afternoon to drive out to the beach, walking around and taking pictures? And I get paid to do it? You'd think I'd just won the lottery, I tell ya.

As I was walking around, it was as if I lived in a different universe from the people I saw there. The beach deck at Bukkets was completely full with people having a late lunch; an early dinner; maybe a beer or two. I was intensely jealous of these people who didn't have to hurry through their lunch to be back to the office in under an hour. People who could have a beer if they wanted. People who didn't have anywhere to be, any meetings to attend, anybody to appease but themselves. All they had to do was finish up their food and pay their bill. Not bad for 3pm on a Thursday afternoon.

I saw construction workers putting together the bleachers that would be used to watch the Blue Angels when they performed this weekend. I was jealous of them, as well. You know those guys don't take their work home with them. They don't have big projects months away that loom large in the backs of their minds. Once they're done with today, the only thing they have to worry about is tomorrow. The problem with being in a creative field like mine is that I can spend an entire week working on something until I feel it looks perfect. I can then turn it in and be told that somebody higher up the food chain than me doesn't like it, "because it's too subtle and not flashy enough," and I suddenly have another week of work ahead of me. I have to start over entirely. It can be terribly frustrating, especially when those with the least design sense are making the decisions. This was another part of the reason I was at the beach scouting out this photo shoot, hoping it would be my newer, less subtle, more flashy cover that hopefully wouldn't look like a tacky mess.

Once construction guys have put the bleachers together properly, their work is done. And they know it. Me? I never know if my work is done, unless it's already at the printer. Even then I worry if there's an error that snuck in. I worry that I may have forgotten something. I worry if I got the price quote and the invoice right. This is what makes me good at my job, because I care enough about these things. It's also what I hate most about it.

Then again, there are days where I get to walk around the beach. I get to help a little old lady find city hall. I get to talk to some beachgoers on the pier. I get to watch the Blue Angels practice a few nifty-looking aerial maneuvers. Even if I know that the photo shoot at the beach isn't going to work, it's okay now. I've got plenty of time to figure it out.

I hop back in the car, roll the windows down, hit shuffle on the iPod and head back to the office, my mind re-energized. It's amazing what just an hour or two of sun a day can do for your outlook, isn't it? Something tells me I need to really work on taking more field trips.