Archive for category Friends

Top 11 reasons why I can't move to Canada

My good friend Philbin Dobby (who used to work here in town with my sometimes-buddy Keiler) up and got married to a Canadian girlie a few years ago, and the two of them migrated north, never to be seen again.

OK, well, I’ve seen them once since, but I don’t think that’s quite as dramatic a statement.

Anyway, he toiled in the oil fields of NoCanDu (that’s Northern Canada, for all you non-French-speaking-yuppie types) for a time before finally getting back into his chosen field: create-ery. First, he and his wife, Petra, worked independently for a while, putting out some really neat stuff. Then, fairly recently, he took a wicked gnarly job with a subsidiary of Bill Gates’ Corbis Corp. in Canada, doing UI create-ery.

I know how much he makes, but I’m not supposed to say because it would make Keiler vomit.

The perks are nice – great salary, discretionary cash for personal fitness and office purchases (like, an allowance for whatever he wants), high-end computational machines for both work and home, some of this, a bit of that, a little of the other AND free beer on Fridays. And some things I forgot, too. But what mostly makes me sick is the free beer on Fridays. And I don’t know why. But the twerp started IMing me last week as he was guzzling down a Guinness. Not always my drink of choice, maybe, but it’s good and refreshing and expensive enough to merit a gold on free drink day.

Anyway, so he’s been teasing me about moving to Canada for years now. Something about all Canadians sucking, and how my being there would turn his life around, etc., and something else about my presence causing the sun to shine, and how I was just the best and perfect, or something along those lines. I can’t remember all the arguments now. Then last Friday he cranked up the knobs on me, but still under the guise of jokery. I’d say he kicked it up a notch, but kind of in an Emeril-on-a-drunk sort of way. I think it was the Guinness. All fun, all fun, but the whole time he was encouraging me to watch for open slots at his company, the top 11 reasons why I couldn’t move to God’s deep freeze kept running through my mind (OK, so I didn’t actually think of any of them until later, and as I write this sentence I know of only 3 reasons. But they’ll come, and there will be 11 of them. Big Carter says top 10 lists are fantastic… so 11 should be even fantasticker):

11. I’d have to turn my cats out into the street.
The huge fat one would have a heart attack if we tried to move him that far. He nearly expired during the 10 minute car ride from Mom’s when we first got him, and would most assuredly do so in the future if he had to climb into another box or see another outside or meet another human being. And the smaller ones (just big fat, not huge fat) would be pissy for months.

10. French folks make me nauseous.
They just do. And I get a bad taste in my ears. But I’m full of American-style excuses for that particular bit of causal upchuckery. Until recently I believed that my father’s family came from Germany or thereabouts, and anti-French sentiment was always abundant in the day-to-day of my early life. My recent discoveries tell me that my not-German family were probably French after all, though, and the whole denial thing about that makes me want to keep all the separate more from the fictitious monsters of my troubled past.

9. I’d probably just get deported anyway.
Canadians don’t like me for some reason. Petra tolerates me some because I’m nice to Philby, but not many do. Deep down they know I’m just one of them pesky right-thinking conservative types, and that’s far worse than an unbathed Frenchman.

8. European travel would lose its zing.
The hate always stops pretty quick if the ‘Trashers think you’re not an American. And to me, really, the hate and narrow-mindedness of our loving and open-minded cousins across the many waters is the best part of traveling through Europa. I mean, a visit to the local pub just isn’t quite right if you don’t get a little German, French and/or Italian spittle on you. But that happens even when they’re pleased with you.

7. I’d have to learn to drive on the right side of the street.
I hear them Mounties wouldn’t take too kindly to my alternative driving style.

6. I’d have to sell all my shootin’ irons.
Barack Obama says that when white folks get frustrated, they buy guns. Well, I guess I’ve been frustrated about 6 times now, and I’ve finally got a fairly decent little collection of keepsakes and home defense implements put aside. But of course our friends up-North-a-ways don’t cast too many kindwise glances upon that particular freedom I so enjoy. I wouldn’t want to have to get all moved up yonder just to discover I need to learn to swing the nunchaku. Oh, but wait… those are illegal in Canada as well. Hmm… I guess I’d just have to train myself an attack moose.

5. They don’t know how to play hockey up there.

4. It would be a heck of a drive to come see my kinfolk.
I’d be completely cut off from everybody. It’s not like I could just jump in the car and drive for 36 hours to see them anytime I wanted to. Plus, with the price of gas, that would be one expensive trip.

3. I’m not ready for socialized medicine yet.
It’s true. But Obama’s zombies might get him into office this coming November, though (where he would continue to be completely unqualified, but make his peeps feel oh, so warm and fuzzy inside), so this list may become a proper ten-pointer someday soon. One thing’s for sure, though: I might actually consider moving up to Philby’s neighborhood if that ever happens. I’d much rather deal with Canada’s broken healthcare system (which is at least somewhat stable by now) than to go through the birthing pains of the ugly bastard of a social system that would replace our current medical machine.

2. It would be a salary cut for me.
Philbin tells me that a house equivalent to the one I own now would cost more than 3x what mine is valued. the $15k bump I’d get in salary wouldn’t cover that. Plus I’d have to deal with selling this one into a crappy market. Of course, if reason #6 weren’t on the table, I could shoot and prepare my own moose, thus saving big at the grocery store.

1. I would have to go by myself.
Seriously. Lynn just about freaked when I suggested moving to a different part of town once. An out-of-city move would be out of the question for her, not to mention an out-of-country one. And let’s face it: “No” wins every time. 

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Big Carter is just adorable

So I took Big Carter out last night for his 30th birthday, and was accompanied by TJ and Douschebag (nope, not his real name — how’d you guess?).

First we went to Doulie’s, a famous grease dive over where midtown intersects the foothills of downtown (aka the trendy ghetto), and stuffed ourselves with burgers and fries and onion rings and fried shrimps and itty bitty little bottles of Coke.

We sort of felt like little puntzes, drinking out of little sissy bottles like that.

Then we went to the Alien Abduction, which is a pretty cool bar at the old train station downtown. They have 200+ different beers to choose from, many of which are on tap, but we only tried 13 of them between us. Or maybe it was only 11… Big Carter kept ordering the same thing, I think.

Yes, he’s sort of a puntz.

TJ ended the night with some queer-as-Seattle apricot ale. I say that not because TJ is a fairy (though he acts that way a good bit of the time) but because Pyramid apparently comes from Washington State.

Yes, he’s also sort of a puntz.

We found a free couch in the “biergarten” area, and most of us snuggled up on it together. Douschebag sat separate, though, which was good. He had a good mackin-on-the-waitress vantage point, and pushed that as far as it would go. At one point I think she asked him if her boobies were too big.

What a puntz.

We sat there for a while, stinking up the place with our magnum-sized cigars, and then the cover band from Waukeegan started up in the other room. It wasn’t good. But then, neither was the conversation it was interrupting.

We were mostly telling Douschebag what a puntz he was.

Then after a spell, a decision was made on high to move the band from the main bar out to the room we were in, and we were asked to vacate the comfy little spot we had stained with beer, cigar spittle and bodily fluids. Very unrighteous. Douschebag complained to the not-owner-but-maybe-manager-or-something-chick, though, and scored us another round on the house.

What a puntz. A helpful one, I reckon, but still a puntz sumprema.

Carter with his puddy tatNot-manager came by later, and by then Big Carter was sitting by himself on a couch they had relocated to the bar area for us. The rest of us were a little too self-conscious to lounge out in the open like that, but Carter’s different in the head, and he had no problem. He was all stretched out and chewing on the little smoldering chub of a cigar he had left, and not-manager thought he looked just like Jason Alexander. “He’s adorable,” she proclaimed, and almost sort of squealed a little bit. “Look how cute he is with his little cigar and poofy little hair. Awww…..”

She thought he was just the cutest little puntz she’d ever seen.

Of course, when I told our waitress her boss thought Carter was a cutie, she finished with, “…Like a little baby!”


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All a boy needs

I’ve been neglecting the other blog I set up for my son-to-be. Just absorottenlutely neglecting it. We’ve been given all kinds of incredible things – clothes, goodies from the two baby showers that have been thrown for us so far (including some really big ticket items), furniture, etc. – and I haven’t yet gotten around to posting pictures of all our great booty. For that failure I’ve been harassed by my dad, Lynn’s family, and now the Nicole. No introduction or discussion of the Nicole is necessary… she’s just… well, the Nicole. She’s a wonderful person and all that, but convicted enough about what I should be doing with the babyblawg to make me want to correct my deficiencies to date… and as soon as possible.

Anyway, so yeah, Lynn and I have literally been showered with affection and gifts and whatnot ever since I got her “into trouble” last summer, and from people who mean more to us than I could possibly express, wannabe-writer and all. We’ve gotten tons of really thoughtful and well-selected purchases and handicrafts (some of which look like they came from one of them there Bevery Hills stores), and I’ve just been overwhelmed by all of it.

I think I’ve mentioned before (or maybe I just thought it real loudlike) that the reality of my impending fatherhood has been developing in stages: the ultrasound images; the changes in Lynn’s worklife and in our home; my grandpa Israel speaking the baby’s name for the first time. Tonight, finally, after we had gotten home from the shower Lynn’s office threw for us, the reality became complete for me. It was both wonderful and devastating, and I bawled my eyes out. What happened? Our wonderful friend Addy made Little Carter a teddy bear named Teddy (who is a lot more brown than he looks in my crappy photo):

Teddy in the crib

And before you tell me Teddy’s ugly, have a look at his role model:

Teddy and Mr. Bean in the car

Teddy and Mr. Bean on a mystery holiday

For those of you who don’t know it, that’s Rowan Atkinson (as Mr. Bean) with Bean’s best friend, Teddy. It’s a pretty good likeness, I think, and is the perfect custom-made accessory for the culturally literate child that Little Carter is sure to be. It’s also an item that I will probably be stealing from my young one on a regular basis.

It’s not the sentiment of Addy’s gesture that shook me up, or even the time spent researching and hand-crafting the perfect gift for us, but rather the function Teddy will fulfill: Little Carter’s first, best and probably favorite companion.

I’m a big old manly man, but I’ll admit to a soft spot in my heart for teddy bears. My mom was supposed to be here to celebrate her first grandchild’s birth with us, but God was ready for her before He blessed us with our little fellow. She used to make teddy bears of all varieties and, whenever I think of my childhood, I remember great happiness for both of us as she would unveil a new teddy. Some wore overalls, some wore other kinds of little outfits and some were even colored up in very un-bearlike ways, but every single one of them meant the same thing to me: I was a little boy and I had a happy life in a happy home.

I guess I always figured that when it was time for me to raise my own child, there would be a teddy bear involved. It’s silly, I know, but now that I have Teddy, I know I’m going to be a father. 

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No title necessary

*used without permission from my good friend Michael.

EDIT: Michael gave me permission after the fact. Not so much fun that way, I think.

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Opportunity Lost

My trip to the baby doctor with Lynn yesterday was fairly uneventful. The little dude still has a great heartbeat, and his mother is doing about as well as can be expected under the circumstances. Apparently it’s normal for a pregnant woman’s internal organs to get squished up into the roof of her mouth as the baby gets bigger and bigger.

Anyway, the nurse had her teenaged daughter there at the office with her–something about a lame pep rally, classes weren’t being held, etc.–and sometime during the general pre-pee-in-a-cup chitchat, it came up that the girl attended Bush-Mann High School in Middleboro. It was interesting, because we have some friends who live and work in Middleboro now, and one of them actually teaches at that school. Even more interesting is that it turns out our good friend, Adeline Novak, is one of the girl’s teachers, and is actually among her favorites.

Cool, great, yay, and Lynn was happy because she knew it would make Adeline happy. But I had a grand opportunity there that Lynn wouldn’t let me explore… and I’m sure I’ll regret it for years to come. You see, it’s the easiest thing in the world to start rumors–hurtful, funny as heck, whatever–amongst little kiddies like the one we had access to yesterday. For some reason, at her old school some little stoogie asked if Addy’s husband, Carter, was a Jew. And, no, I had nothing to do with that, unfortunately. Anyway, the rumor got out that my curly-headed friend of jackboot-wearing German descent was actually Jewish. I’m not sure what impact, if any, that particular bit of silliness had on Adeline’s career at that particular school, but obviously any of a number of other potentially damaging falsehoods could just as easily have come up. And I wanted so badly to start one myself, given the unrepeatable opportunity that had so unexpectedly presented itself to me. But I didn’t do it. Lynn was all, “That’s mean” and “you’ll damage our friendship” and “why would you do that, you fat-headed gravy sucker,” and it kind of got me off my game a little bit. Before we left, I told the girl to treat Addy well. Honestly, I said that, and that’s all. Of course, what I wanted to say was, “Treat her well because she has a mentally handicapped husband to tend to at home, and can’t put up with any foolishness out of you.”

That would have been awesome! But then, maybe it wouldn’t have been. Maybe Lynn was right after all. She did have some good points… and I do like my gravy…

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42% Success

Meya L you really freaked out our dog sitter/mail taker-inner.
Eugene BS    did he think the devil left you his favorite cassette tape?
Meya L he thought we were home and he didn’t understand why the objects on the table changed.
Meya L please tell me that condom was not visible. he was one of my students last year.
Eugene BS nooo it was at the bottom of wayne’s goody basket
Eugene BS those weren’t from your wedding were they? they were from somebody’s
Meya L what?!? the condom? we got married in a church of christ.

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This One Goes out to Big Dubya

Here’s to you, Wayne Tollibert LeBoeuf, Jr., wherever you are.

You’ve got a funny tasting purple beer waiting for your return… or an alcoholic energy drink… or whatever you’re into these days.

Have a good trip…

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Road Trip 2007.1!

I just found out Wayne and his wife Meya will be accompanying Lynn and me to the other end of the state next weekend. It’ll only be like 7 hours in the car, though, so unfortunately none of my preparations for RT2007.0 will be any good.

Except for maybe my Mr. Fancy Pants loop CD. And my buttnut repellent.

Ed: I originally reported that Perry, not Wayne, was joining us. Fortunately this is not the case.

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It's Not Easy Being Yellow

Here’s a group shot of some of my friends and family, courtesty of Burger King.

Group shot

Of course there are people missing, and I don’t really like some of the people present, etc. But it’s all the folks I had easily-accessed pictures of, and it was really too much work to keep adding people anyway… yeah.

Click for full size image. 🙂


Sand Fleas in My Shorts

I just discovered my friend Wayne’s brother is still mobilized in Iraq. He’s got a job (or at least he did… shows how little concern I’ve expressed over the last two years to not even realize he had never come home like I thought) that brings him in close proximity to potential no-goods-its, and in my not-so-humble opinion, the man doesn’t get paid nearly enough. Better equipment and training are essential, of course, but when we ask men and women to endanger themselves again and again and to carry out unpleasant exercises against an enemy who doesn’t distinguish himself from noncombatants, it’s also important to pay like we appreciate the sacrifice. Of course, proposing to increase military spending would make me evil. And Islam is a religion of peace, Americans are the true bad guys and we don’t need a standing military anyway. Right? Plus, poverty is just so dadgum ennobling!

In related news (sorry), my father’s Drittefrau announced that he was going to go be a contractor in Iraq. She said the first $80k or whatever was tax-free, so I guess that makes it okay. I haven’t heard whether my father actually knew about it before she started telling the family of the career change, or even if it really ever was (or still is) a possibility. I guess it’s his business, but I hope it’s his decision if he winds up doing something so idiotic. I mean, taking insane risks for an unappreciative public is one thing, but doing it for money is something quite else. It makes the reasons for all the jeopardy two-dimensional and really subjective.

Hey, can’t we all just be rich without getting shot at?

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