Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
To be clear, yes I did send that email to McBicep.
To be fair, I debated about whether or not to post McBicep's response. I don't want to make him public enemy number one, seeing as how I already get so much flack from people about it; but at the same time, I revel in the fact that it is blaringly obvious why McBicep chose to major in computer engineering and not, say, sensitivity, feelings, and basic people skillz.
That being said, please to enjoy McBicep's response. And let the ridicule begin. Sigh.
"Hey, I'm still alive – just been busy w/ family stuff. I’m driving up tomorrow and I’ll give you a call. TTYL
Before you say anything, I know.
I'm not making excuses for him. I think that beyond the age of 13 there is no appropriate reason to use the phrase "TTYL". Ever.
At this point, it's not so much that I'm dating a self-absorbed, inconsiderate guy. It's not that I'm dating a guy who can't remember to practice common courtesy. It's not even that I'm dating a guy who doesn't see the need to call when he's out of town for two weeks.
It's that I'm dating a guy who says "TTYL."
at 11:28 AM
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
I HOPE YOU HAD A NICE TIME IN HAWAII, BUT AFTER TWO WEEKS OF NOT HEARING FROM YOU, I'VE NARROWED THE POSSIBLE REASONS DOWN TO THE FOLLOWING:
A) YOUR FLIGHT WAS REROUTED TO AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE THAT HAS NO PHONES, COMPUTERS, TELEGRAPH MACHINES OR SOUP CAN TELEPHONES;
B) YOU DIED;
C) YOU LOST YOUR HANDS IN HAWAII AND HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO PICK UP A PHONE OR WRITE AN EMAIL DUE TO THE LOSS OF YOUR OPPOSABLE THUMBS;
D) YOU'RE TRAPPED UNDER SOMETHING VERY LARGE, WHICH, CONSIDERING YOUR SIZE, WOULD HAVE TO BE SOMETHING EXTREMELY LARGE LIKE THE ROCKY STATUE.
IF YOU HAVE IN FACT DIED, I'LL FEEL REALLY BAD ABOUT SENDING THIS EMAIL. OTHERWISE, SOME TYPE OF CONTACT WOULD BE APPRECIATED.
- BONE JUNIOR
PS - I'M MAKING LABELS AS I'M WRITING THIS AND I'M TOO LAZY TO TURN OFF THE CAPS LOCK, SO THAT'S WHY THIS IS IN ALL CAPS.
at 10:05 AM
Thursday, August 23, 2007
A coworker came over to my desk to show me this big rubber stamp that he had. He was trying to demonstrate but when he stamped it, it was all blurry and I couldn't read it.
Bone Junior: I cant even READ that!
Coworker: Well, its too big and its hard to get it all down.
Bone Junior: That's what she said!!
I asked the same coworker to plug in my little black jump drive thing (which has since been named Pablo Negrito).
Coworker: Why cant you just plug it in?
Bone Junior: Remember you had to do it for me last time? It's a funny angle and I couldn't get it in right....snicker snicker....That's what she said!!
Later on, I asked the same coworker to plug in Pablo Negrito again.
Coworker: I really don't understand why you can't just do this yourself. It's not that hard.
Bone Junior: That's what she said!
Coworker: (After several minutes of trying to plug it in) It went right in last time!
Bone Junior: That's what she said!!
Coworker: You know, you're really not being very helpful.
Bone Junior: That's what she said!!
Coworker: (Dryly) Wow. That just gets funnier and funnier every time you say it.
Also, at staff meeting today, the other counselors and I were doing group notes and trying to come up with a better way to describe a client who'd had an emotional outburst that was misdirected against staff.
"Inappropriately projected? Improper projection? Projected outburst? Bone Junior, what do you think?" the clinical director asked, and all eyes turned to me.
In that moment, I was caught off guard at being asked my opinion; and I kid you not, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.
"Emotional ejaculation?" Blink. Blink.
Yeah, I know. I know.
at 3:32 PM
Monday, August 20, 2007
You know it's going to be a good day when the planets align and all of the following happens:
a) You see a DeLorean on the open road;
b) You accurately predict that when Bone Senior reads your blog, she'll ask, "What's a DeLorean?";
c) You type in a search for 'Elvis Presley' on a certain website, and the response comes back, "Did you mean Olives Parsley?" at which point you tell your friend that you really loved the American Idol duet of Olives Parsley and Saline Dijon;
d) You find out that your love child Samuel is in good hands;
e) You got to see one of your longstanding wishes come true when the guy sitting across from you accidentally squeezed his butter packet too hard and squirted butter all over his face;
f) You went to the movies and practically peed yourself when you saw the teaser for The Dark Knight;
g) You've spent nearly the entire weekend in bed with your new boyfriend.
Allow me to elaborate.
Last week, I had to make a very difficult decision. I had the invitation to go to Sacramento for next weekend. The idea was to fly to Sacramento, stay with my good friend G, check out her graduate program, then spend time with McBicep and all that entails.
As I was looking for tickets and trying to make scheduling arrangements, it became apparent that making the trip wasn't going to be as easy as I'd thought. Ticket prices were going up, I was trying to work around schedules, and in the end, I had to make a painful and somewhat embarassing confession to G and everyone else involved.
There's been someone else in my life for the past year. Someone with whom I've spent my nights when McBicep was busy or out of town. And it's someone I've discovered I can't live without.
Except he didn't belong to me. So when the opportunity came for me to have this someone in my life permanently, I finally had to choose - the opportunity wouldn't last. So would it be Sacramento?? Or....TiVo.
I did what I always do when making a tough decision - I made a list. In Sacramento, I'd have G, McBicep, I could visit the graduate school, plus I'd never been there before and it would be a lot of fun. But TiVo....ah, TiVo. TiVo would love me unconditionally.
I had a limited amount of time to act on the TiVo deal and tickets to California were steadily increasing, and I didn't want to spend the money on both at once. What to do, what to do.
Bone Senior helped make up my mind when she said it best and with much wisdom: "Sacramento is only for a weekend, but TiVo is forever."
Besides, I'll see McBicep in two weeks anyway and I can go to Sacramento when the tickets are cheaper.
After adopting TiVo on Friday afternoon, I named him Joaquin El Tivo the Divo [to go along with our other appliances: Miguel Motion (the Cocoa Motion, otherwise known as the best purchase I've ever made in my entire life), Fabio (the DVD/VCR combo), and Antonio (the quesadilla maker)]; I spent Friday night hooking him up and setting up my programs.
My favorite part is setting up my Wish List. Joaquin seeks out and automatically records everything with Elvis Presley, Christian Bale, Vin Diesel, and the Philadelphia Eagles. He surprises me with shows he thinks I'll enjoy, and I can use him at my leisure.
I love him.
And we spent all weekend together, watching TV Land's Elvis specials and reruns of Scott Baio is 45 and Single. It was pure heaven, and I never had to leave my room.
Now I just have to figure out how to break the news to McBicep that he might have a little competition when he comes back...
at 11:04 AM
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Discovering The King postmortem
By KEVIN O'HARE
The Republican (Springfield, Mass)
It's too bad I didn't keep a diary that year.
For I have absolutely no idea where I was on Aug. 16, 1977, when I heard that Elvis Presley died.
That may not be that weird to you, but I've spent almost my whole life either playing or writing about music. As the 30th anniversary of The King's death approaches, it strikes me now as incredibly strange. Almost incomprehensible.
I remember exactly where I was when John Lennon died.
I was only 6, but I can tell you every single detail about where I was and how I heard that President Kennedy had died. Heck, I even remember where I was when I heard that Princess Diana had died.
But Elvis? One of the greatest musical icons of the 20th century?
The truth is, I barely cared.
Oh right, the overweight guy in those ghastly jumpsuits had checked out.
He seemed closer to the singers of my parents' generation than any rebel. He had his picture taken with Richard Nixon. We later found out he offered the president drug surveillance tips on rock stars. He played Vegas.
I scoffed at the idea of seeing "The King" perform in my hometown, preferring to spend what little extra cash I had on Jethro Tull, Traffic, Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen concerts.
Besides, the last time it seemed like Elvis mattered was during that brief comeback in 1968, when he lost weight, got back in black leather and started singing songs that actually reached out to a new generation, like "In the Ghetto" and "Suspicious Minds."
Then he got fat and doped up.
You would have had to have lived through it to have known that for years there was a huge schism between fans of 1950s rock and fans of 1960s rock. They had Elvis. We had the Beatles. They had Buddy Holly. We had Bob Dylan. They had the Everly Brothers. We had the Rolling Stones. They had Little Richard. We had the Doors.
They didn't care about our heroes and, for the most part, we didn't care about theirs.
But something changed when Elvis was carried through Memphis in the famous white hearse accompanied by 14 white limousines. The people who knew Elvis before he went in the Army in 1958 already felt the loss. For most of the rest of us, there was a whole new world to discover.
There's something about dead rock stars that makes them more alluring, even when they're incredibly famous to begin with.
And so, with all the media hype about the passing of Presley, there was something intriguing about it all. They started playing his old records on the radio.
And suddenly, I was left to wonder: What in God's name did I just miss?
Elvis was like a flash of light, this jolt of mesmerizing, tantalizing, sexually charged, totally over-the-top fury from Tupelo to Memphis and beyond. My friends and I started to realize what we all had just lost.
I saved my money and I bought a compilation of his early work that contained all those amazing 1950s songs. And I bought "The Sun Sessions," another compilation of his brilliant early work for Sun Records.
This wasn't the fat guy from Vegas. This was arguably the most essential figure in the history of raw, stripped-down rock 'n' roll, sung by a guy with a voice that made my house shake. At the time, punk rock was just starting to gain huge momentum all over the nation. But punk had nothing on Elvis singing "I Got a Woman," "Blue Suede Shoes," "Lawdy Miss Clawdy" or "Promised Land."
And with that discovery, there came a new awakening to all the other wonders of the 1950s. I had to own everything Buddy Holly ever recorded. I bought Everly Brothers albums and Chuck Berry albums and Little Richard albums and LPs by everyone from Carl Perkins to Ricky Nelson. And I realized that without all of them, there would have been no Rolling Stones, no electric Dylan, and certainly no Beatles.
John Lennon once said, "Before Elvis, there was nothing." Lennon also famously said, "Elvis died (when he went) in the Army."
Lennon was pretty close to being right on the money on both counts. Presley was never near the same after he enlisted in the Army in 1958. It wasn't the Army that necessarily ruined him. It was what happened afterward.
When he was discharged in 1960, there were still some hits but he went Hollywood, immersing himself in a career of mostly absurd B-movies and unfathomably dreadful career moves, dutifully playing the good soldier to his misguided manager, Col. Tom Parker. Meanwhile, the music world was changing meteorically, blown away by the British Invasion of 1964.
The singer who seemed like he should have been the most powerful guy in the world crashed under the weight of greedy management, some of the most horrific career choices that any major star ever made and his ever-expanding entourage of sycophants who catered to his every prescription-drug-induced desire.
Elvis Presley died on Aug. 16, 1977. He was 42. There were plenty of good moments in the last 19 years of his life, but plenty of disastrous ones as well.
His death opened a whole new world for my generation. And that world focused on the extraordinary body of work he created before the bad movies, before the Army, before Vegas and before the big belts, sweat-soaked scarves and dreadful jumpsuits.
Thursday is a night for playing "Mystery Train." It is a night for playing "Promised Land."
It is a night for playing "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"
Kevin O'Hare is a music writer for The Republican of Springfield, Mass.
He can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.
at 4:12 PM
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
With the 30th anniversary of Elvis' alleged death** coming up tomorrow, I've spent most of my day listfully thumbing through photos of last year's pilgrimage to Memphis. I've also accepted a challenge to listen to only Elvis music all week - a challenge which I'm kicking ace at.
I don't care that this is the third time I've posted these pictures. They are still tasty, wonderful, and also my favorite.
Our very first Elvis sighting. Ah, the memories.
Ah, the souveniers.
Memphis is where I was exactly a year ago, and it's where I wish I was right now, instead of sitting at my desk, craving unattainable Cola flavored Pez...
Wait just a minute. What, pray tell, is this??
It's my very own Elvis Pezley collection!! Cola flavored Pez!! Army Elvis, '68 Comeback Elvis, and Vegas Elvis all in the same collectible tin!! CD included!! # 28,565 of only 400,000!
It is my traysured keepsake memento and quite possibly the most awesome thing I've seen since Graceland. The sight of my Elvii Pezley - along with two bottles daily of Diet Pepsi Max - is the only thing getting me through this week.
**And by "alleged death", I don't mean that I believe Elvis is still alive (although he'd only be 72, which is ten years younger than Paul Newman, and only one year older than Robert Redford, and two years older than Jack Nicholson, so Elvis could still potentially be a fox in that sexy-older-man kind of way); however, I do not believe that Elvis died when they say he did. This is something that requires a lengthy explanation sprinkled with interesting facts and figures and is better left for a rainy day, and also a day when I officially have a boyfriend and not just a Huge Bald Guy With Biceps As Big As My Head Lit'rally who likes to take me out on dates; and therefore you will have no reason to claim that I don't have a boyfriend because of my interest in Elvis conspiracy theories.
at 2:13 PM
Friday, August 10, 2007
In the world of Bone Junior, mayo = heaven's nectar. I love it. I dip my fries in it and it's like sampling a bit of paradise.
But I didn't realize how much I loved it until last week, when I went to The Mayan Adventure with the girls. (Previously, the only reason I had to go to The Mayan was to oogle at the hot divers in speedos. But now that they serve American food, I'm more willing to go for the menu and not just the men).
I ordered a burger & fries with a side of mayo, "ca-CAW"-ed at the bird man who was getting ready to dive, and settled in for an evening of entertainment. The waiter brought us a basket of tortilla chips with sides of salsa and sour cream and I'd already downed 2 diet cokes.
I started happily munching away on chips dipped in sour cream, enjoying the scantily clad men who were jumping off the rocks next to us; when Elizabeth dipped her first chip into the sour cream and made a sour face. I didn't notice because I was too busy stuffing my own face with chips, but apparently it was a pretty sour face.
Elizabeth: Um (slightly gagging) That's your mayo.
Bone Junior: Really? (upon closer inspection, discovers that the perceived sour cream is, indeed, mayo). Huh, so it is! No wonder I loved it so much!
In other exciting news, McBicep came back into town on Sunday for a brief 24 hours before getting back on the road to California. We uncovered the Camaro with a flourish, where I proudly demonstrated how I'd kept it in perfect condition in his absence; how no one had walked within three feet of it all summer for fear of scratching it with the divets on their jeans pockets; how the mere sight of it's shiny red paint struck fear into the hearts of my roommates.
I told him all this with broad sweeping gestures, and right as I said, "See?? No dings or scratches or - - - " I promptly smacked my hand into the passenger door and cringed as my ring made a crisp 'DING!' sound when it hit the door. Leave it to me.
Despite that, McBicep took me for a ride with the top down. Unfortunately, that's not a dirty innuendo. He did, however, let me drive - which is a huge step because he loves this car almost as much as I love Elvis. And the plan is for me to fly to California at the end of August and drive back with him. And meet the family.
Excuse me, I just threw up in my mouth a little from nervousness. Just call me Brundlefly.
Speaking of Elvis, today officially marks the start of Elvis Week 2007, and my bosom is filled with a longing to be back in Memphis. To distract myself from this longing, I fill my days with Gmail chats like this little gem, which took place after I emailed G a fradulent coupon to Blockbuster:
Bone Junior: Take this coupon with your special friend and enjoy a night of breathing eachother's buttery popcorn breath.
G: Can we just talk about how I almost wrote that very thing to you in my reply, but decided I didn't want to make you throw up in your mouth. Now i need some listerine- thanks...
Bone Junior: If you wanted to make me throw up in my mouth, just talk about picking out each other's eye sleepies and such.
G: Never mention eye sleepies again...if you do so, you will be dead to me. That is not a threat- it's a promise.
Bone Junior: What if I call them eye boogies? Is that better, worse, or the same?
G: What if i call them eye meat - would that be worse, better or the same?
Bone Junior: How about eye crusties?
G: In my opinion, there is nothing worse than the term 'eye meat'. This will be my last response - that is all.
at 3:49 PM
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Today's question comes from myself, which is "What's the most awesome thing that's happened to you recently?"
The wheels in my heed began turning when I eavesdropped on a conversation between security and stage crew...
To give you an idea of our view, we were in the third row. The Fray was beautiful. I wanted to make something out of all of our skeeeeens.
Another perspective of our view. Look how much fun I'm having.
And then...something amazing happened and my plot came to fruition as The Fray ended their set and I sneakily sidled over to the security guy and showed him my boobies, and we got on stage for the encore.
Just kidding, I didn't have to show him my boobies, but we did get to go on stage for the encore. We were some of the first to get up there because thanks to my eavesdropping before the show, we sneakily positioned ourselves right in front of the stairs and beat everyone else to the stage.
It was the most awesome thing that's happened to me recently, and I didn't even have to show my boobies. I just like to keep saying "boobies" because I know G hates that word.
at 12:08 PM