Scientific proof (among other things.)

I've started having strange dreams lately. I rarely dream because, as any good doctor will tell you, dreaming requires R.E.M. sleep. This is a state I rarely achieve since I get about 5 hours of sleep a night, at least on a good night. Of that 5 hours, it's broken up into segments of about an hour apiece since I wake up for no good reason about that often. It's good times, let me tell you.

Anyway, the dream I had last night involved me being late getting to the airport to board my plane. Of course, this stems from the fact that I'm flying up to Minnesota on Friday for the annual family golf tournament. This much of the dream analysis is clear. Turns out it's a charter flight, for some reason. What is that reason? Well, where things first get odd is when I realize that I'm supposed to be the pilot for this flight. (Editor's note: Maki does not know how to fly a plane. As if I needed to tell you that. In third person.) But hey, it's a dream and all, so I do what we normally do in dreams; choose the worst possible option. So I hop in the pilot's seat and check out the controls, figuring "hey, it can't be too hard, they do it all the time in the movies, right? Right? Right? Right...?"

So, who has chartered a flight and suicidally booked me as the pilot? I discover it's a WNBA player who has chartered the flight. At this point I realize it's a dream because there isn't a single WNBA player that more money than I do, (Editor's note: No, Maki doesn't make much money; not much money at all, sir) and I sure as hell know that I can't afford to charter a flight. But, being a dream I figure that my subconscious will reward me with one of those fictitious hot WNBA players, right?

Of course not. She's a beast, as is predictable for WNBA players. Such a beast that I wanted to pick up the fire extinguisher in the cabin, brandishing it as a weapon, lest the creature get too close to me. At that point I woke up in a cold sweat, my heart racing. So what does this prove? Two things: (A) that my subconscious is secretly plotting against me, denying me good luck and happiness even in my dreams and (B) that even on a subconscious level my mind recoils in horror at the thought of the WNBA. I'm sure Bill Simmons would be proud. And David Stern has already put a hit out on me. It's a shame, I tell ya.

Anyway, there you have it, scientific proof that the WNBA will never, ever work. And here I'm thinking an endless calvacade of high-excitement layups and missed bank shots would have been proof enough. Man, how wrong was I?

Maki: Incidental Jackass

aka Walking Zero.

I'm realizing that with the 3,587 things on my brain lately things I should be keeping up with and remembering are falling by the wayside. Even worse is when I remind myself about something earlier in the week and then forget it by the time it rolls around by the end of the week. Very bad. You'd think I'm a drug addict the way information keeps seeping through my brain like a sponge that's already soaked through. Yet I keep pouring that bucket of water on it.

So what was one of the things I reminded myself of and then forgot about? Um, well, my, um, parents' anniversary. It was their 33rd anniversary last week. I mistakenly thought it was Sunday but only realized I'd missed it on Monday... But I was more than a few days late at that point anyway. The worst part is I had realized it the prior weekend and kept reminding myself to get a card and mail it. I guess once I stopped reminding myself that knowledge immediately vanished from my alcohol-addled brain until my sister asked me if I'd sent anything. She conveniently does this AFTER the anniversary. Punkass.

Next up? E-mail. I will be the first to tell you I am generally HORRIBLE about returning e-mails unless I write the response immediately. When I wait and don't write back immediately? Well, may as well pick up a book because it's gonna be a week or so before I remember to write you back. Even if you're my distant cousin whom I never knew existed that found me while researching family genealogy and googling names (thanks to everyone who used my parents' full names in the comments) or a friend I haven't spoken to in almost a year, it seems that it's gonna take me a week or so to get back to you. Think of me as tech support, give me a week and I'll let you know the deal. Eventually. But don't rush me. Before you ask, yes, I did write both of them back before I wrote this post, thanks. Give me a little credit here.

On the same page as the e-mail thing, I was supposed to e-mail my RSVP for the family golf tournament about a month ago. Here's hoping tonight's e-mail counts or else I wasted a plane ticket and a bunch of vacation days!

It's a good thing I have automatic bill payment for all my bi.... Aw, shit.

Holy crap, man!

Officially 25,000 visits to this site. And I know at least 100 of them weren't me. How the hell did that happen? Utter craziness. I guess a year and a half of blogging has paid off handsomely. Yes, it has indeed.

Oh yeah, go here to watch the first 24 minutes of A Scanner Darkly. Trippy!

Of broken bones and broken promises...

Also known as: "I'm a reasonable man, get off my case."

Well, I'm back. Kind of. Let's just say it's been a busy week. One of those busy weeks that really shakes up the status quo. A week that literally kept me from blogging anything. Where to start? Well, first off, my air conditioning is definitely fixed. That's the good news. Of course, that feels like a month ago already. Which leads me to...

The bad news. Well. I've been spending a lot of time in St. Vincent's Hospital over the past week. I wasn't the one in there, though. Backing up and starting my story from the beginning, my parents drove up last weekend to help me finish painting my garage. They were also here to check out the last few condos I had visited, to help me decide which one I'd be buying. To make a long story short, my mom fell off a ladder about three minutes after we started painting the garage, fracturing the tibia and fibula of her right leg. This led to eight hours in the emergency room and six days in the hospital, including surgery that lasted three hours on Monday night. And guess who was expected to be visiting at the hospital pretty much every waking moment (including lunch breaks) if he wasn't at work? Yes, the guy on the major league guilt trip. Some would say deservedly so, considering she was helping paint my house and all. I still think them describing me to the orthopedic surgeon as "The Culprit" was a bit uncalled for, though. Either way, my garage remains unpainted and the condos remain unvisited. I did get six days of my dad staying at the house, which involved him tossing his dirty dishes in my sink and then complaining about how I need to clean up my kitchen because it's cluttered. As you can guess, he's in upper management at his workplace. Shocking, I know.

So, now that I finally have my own house to myself, I'm realizing that the list of jobs that were going to be completed last weekend is kind of sitting right where it was this time last week. Garage isn't painted (save for a few feet completed before the big fall), driveway still needs to be pressure washed, still some weeding and mulching to be done and still more boxes to be packed up and moved elsewhere. So really, I've got a shitload left to do around here. Not good. But it did bring me to a realization -- I'm not ready to move just yet. I need to sell the house before I go anywhere, and considering the interest rates right now, I might as well wait until it sells. So, as much as I'd like to pack up and go and let it sit on the market, that's just not happening this summer. Oh well. Better to realize it now than once I'm in a contract somewhere else and paying for two mortgages and considering the cost of shotguns and seven-day waiting periods, right?

Now, there was a benefit to all the time spent in the hospital. Since there was nothing else to do there except watch TV since my family isn't much for casual conversation and all, I discovered the joy of cable. Well, one show in particular. I have determined that this and another show which I'll be writing about soon enough (yes, another broken promise, call me on it in a few weeks) will make me break down and give the inevitable call to Comcast. What is this show, you might ask?

Dog The Bounty Hunter.

I know, I know, I know, I know. I should hate this show with every fiber of my being. But I just can't. Maybe it's from years of my dad watching Cops; I guess I've somehow absorbed that love of scum of the earth being chased down and tackled. Who knows? Whatever it is, this show is 500,000 times better than Cops. It's like Cops if the police were all white trash who called everyone "brah" and shined bright lights while screaming at anyone within a 25-yard radius of the criminal. It's amazing stuff. They even bring Dog's wife along, an immense woman whose head could fit inside either one of her breasts easily. The best part is she picks fights with the criminal's wife/girlfriend/baby's mama/whatever, then gets her sons to step in between them to tell the irate crackhead woman that their mom has no beef with her, they're just collecting a bounty. I swear to you, this is the second show going on my Tivo season pass after the aforementioned "Show Maki Will Blog About At A Later Date.™™"

It's a good thing I don't have cable already. I might not do anything else but watch this crap. It's like having a bag of "fun size" Snickers left over after Halloween. You know you should bring it in to work or just throw it away or do something to get rid of it, but instead you keep eating them, knowing how many calories and fat are in them. But you don't care because they taste too damn good and you're enjoying eating them too much. Dog The Bounty Hunter is that bag of Snickers for me. Awesome stuff. I don't miss the brain cells at all.

Oh yeah, the new Thom Yorke disc is really good, despite the fact that the man should probably be force-fed Xanax at this point. Ah, who am I kidding? He's probably more well-adjusted than me. He could definitely afford to buy a condo and keep the house. And hire people to paint his garage. Ones who know how to properly use ladders. I'll give him that much.

Arrrrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhh

My air conditioner is broken. Again. I just spent $150 to get it "fixed" two weeks ago and now something else went wrong with it. It is currently 92 degrees in my house. I will now go sleep in my refrigerator. Good thing I donated blood today and sweated out three times my body weight already, because keeping properly hydrated is a good thing to do after donating blood. Oh wait...

I can't move out of this godforsaken house soon enough.