No, I'm not making any predictions in the final run-up to next Tuesday's midterm elections. No matter who wins, dumbasses will be going to Washington.
Rather, I'm talking about our favorite local hotel mogul dumbass:
Bush to appoint Wynn to Kennedy Center board
This, mere days after he punches his elbow through a painting worth $140 million.
I suppose a "blind leading the blind" joke would be far too obvious.
10.31.2006
A Very Scary Halloween
How could I be so stupid? How could I not have checked this before?
Today, I found out there is a registered sex offender in my neighborhood. He was convicted of four counts of lewdness with a child under 14.
My neighborhood is lovely, middle-class, with mature landscaping, a small park, a sherriff named Andy Taylor and blah blah BLAH. It's also full of KIDS. And it's about 200 yards from an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.
There should be a fucking law about that. Much to my dismay (and anger, and a whole lot of other rage-based emotions), there isn't one in Nevada. In fact, as far as I can tell, there isn't a law addressing sex offender/school proximity in 43 states.
Oh. In case you want to know who this guy is, here's his court case.
update: link doesn't work. of course not. fuckers.
I'll go a little further. His name is Gerald J. Mason.
Some people may think I'm wrong to be this angry. That "he's served his time" and "paid his debt to society."
Bull-fucking-shit.
No group of criminals has a higher recidivism rate than these fuckers. And to let one anywhere near a school is absolutely insane. It's common sense, isn't it? Isn't it just common sense to keep the Cookie Monster away from the fucking bakery?
At least the house was all closed up with the lights off when the trick-or-treaters started coming around. Oh, hell yes, I checked that.
There's no other point to this, other than to point out that I'm pissed. Later, I'll have time to worry. I'll have every day to imagine someone looking out the window of that house, paying special attention to the children that walk to school and home again. I'll have random moments to wonder if he's ever heard my boy's laughter, had it catch his attention. There will be plenty of days when my boy asks me if he can go out and play with his friends, and I'll reconsider. And I'll have plenty of time to protest to the District Attorney, the governor's office . . . whoever.
Common sense. How can a state have so many laws that lack it?
Today, I found out there is a registered sex offender in my neighborhood. He was convicted of four counts of lewdness with a child under 14.
My neighborhood is lovely, middle-class, with mature landscaping, a small park, a sherriff named Andy Taylor and blah blah BLAH. It's also full of KIDS. And it's about 200 yards from an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.
There should be a fucking law about that. Much to my dismay (and anger, and a whole lot of other rage-based emotions), there isn't one in Nevada. In fact, as far as I can tell, there isn't a law addressing sex offender/school proximity in 43 states.
Oh. In case you want to know who this guy is, here's his court case.
update: link doesn't work. of course not. fuckers.
I'll go a little further. His name is Gerald J. Mason.
Some people may think I'm wrong to be this angry. That "he's served his time" and "paid his debt to society."
Bull-fucking-shit.
No group of criminals has a higher recidivism rate than these fuckers. And to let one anywhere near a school is absolutely insane. It's common sense, isn't it? Isn't it just common sense to keep the Cookie Monster away from the fucking bakery?
At least the house was all closed up with the lights off when the trick-or-treaters started coming around. Oh, hell yes, I checked that.
There's no other point to this, other than to point out that I'm pissed. Later, I'll have time to worry. I'll have every day to imagine someone looking out the window of that house, paying special attention to the children that walk to school and home again. I'll have random moments to wonder if he's ever heard my boy's laughter, had it catch his attention. There will be plenty of days when my boy asks me if he can go out and play with his friends, and I'll reconsider. And I'll have plenty of time to protest to the District Attorney, the governor's office . . . whoever.
Common sense. How can a state have so many laws that lack it?
10.24.2006
Boy will be Boy
He did a face plant at school yesterday. He was running up a ramp that leads to the playground equipment and he lost it.
I found out when I picked him up from Granny after work. My mom met me at the door and said, "he fell at school today." And even though I know such things will happen, and if it were bad, the nurse (or the hospital) would have called me, my heart still stuttered. I wanted to push my mother out of the way and scoop him up, but I maintained with that eerie Mom Calm that rises when you need to be strong for your child.
"How bad is it?"
"He scraped up both knees and his face, but he's fine."
"Did he go to the nurse?"
"No, he tried to clean it up himself and we put peroxide and band-aids on his knees when I picked him up."
He tried to clean it up himself. I had the saddest little image pop into my head - of my little boy, pained and trying to be brave, wiping at his scrapes with those lousy washroom paper towels. You know those towels. Those towels were good for one thing: soaking, wadding and tossing to get them stuck on the ceiling.
That's when he peeked down the hallway, saw me, and ran into my arms. I crooned sympathy into his hair and inspected the large bandages on both bony knees. I fussed over the scratches on his upper lip and cringed at the scuff on the tip of his nose. The wounds weren't that bad, but I still think he was brave.
There was much to-do over Boy when I got him home: spaghetti for dinner, seven chapters of Captain Underpants and the Preposterous Plight of the Purple Potty People, three games of Yahtzee! (Pokemon Edition), and careful re-bandaging of his knees after he took his shower. I think he really enjoyed all the extra attention. I know he did. Because he couldn't stop hugging me.
He wasn't badly wounded. This stuff happens all the time. Which is probably why I won't be suing.
I found out when I picked him up from Granny after work. My mom met me at the door and said, "he fell at school today." And even though I know such things will happen, and if it were bad, the nurse (or the hospital) would have called me, my heart still stuttered. I wanted to push my mother out of the way and scoop him up, but I maintained with that eerie Mom Calm that rises when you need to be strong for your child.
"How bad is it?"
"He scraped up both knees and his face, but he's fine."
"Did he go to the nurse?"
"No, he tried to clean it up himself and we put peroxide and band-aids on his knees when I picked him up."
He tried to clean it up himself. I had the saddest little image pop into my head - of my little boy, pained and trying to be brave, wiping at his scrapes with those lousy washroom paper towels. You know those towels. Those towels were good for one thing: soaking, wadding and tossing to get them stuck on the ceiling.
That's when he peeked down the hallway, saw me, and ran into my arms. I crooned sympathy into his hair and inspected the large bandages on both bony knees. I fussed over the scratches on his upper lip and cringed at the scuff on the tip of his nose. The wounds weren't that bad, but I still think he was brave.
There was much to-do over Boy when I got him home: spaghetti for dinner, seven chapters of Captain Underpants and the Preposterous Plight of the Purple Potty People, three games of Yahtzee! (Pokemon Edition), and careful re-bandaging of his knees after he took his shower. I think he really enjoyed all the extra attention. I know he did. Because he couldn't stop hugging me.
He wasn't badly wounded. This stuff happens all the time. Which is probably why I won't be suing.
10.17.2006
Dumbass, thy name is Wynn
Wynn accidentally damages Picasso
Reminds me of a sign I once saw at a Christmas specialty shop:
You break it, you bought it
Ho Ho Ho
Pablo Picasso's "dream" painting has turned into a $139 million nightmare for Steve Wynn.
In an accident witnessed by a group that included Barbara Walters and screenwriters Nora Ephron and Nicholas Pileggi, Wynn accidentally poked a hole in Picasso's 74-year-old painting, "Le Reve," French for "The Dream."
A day earlier, Wynn had finalized a record $139 million deal for the painting of Picasso's mistress, Wynn told The New Yorker magazine
The accident occurred as a gesturing Wynn, who suffers from retinitis pigmentosa, an eye disease that affects peripheral vision, struck the painting with his right elbow, leaving a hole the size of a silver dollar in the left forearm of Marie-Theresa Walter, Picasso's 21-year-old mistress.
"Oh shit, look what I've done," Wynn said, according to Ephron, who gave her account in a blog published on Monday.
Wynn paid $48.4 million for the Picasso in 1997 and had agreed to sell it to art collector Steven Cohen. The $139 million would have been $4 million higher than the previous high for a work of art, according to The New Yorker.
Cosmetics magnate Ronald Lauder paid $135 million in July for Gustav Klimt's 1907 portrait "Adele Bloch-Bauer I."
Wynn plans to restore "Le Reve" and keep it.
Reminds me of a sign I once saw at a Christmas specialty shop:
You break it, you bought it
Ho Ho Ho
Heroes, Ep. 4
This is how we all know a fanboy is writing the show.
"SAVE THE CHEERLEADER"
From the previews of upcoming happenings, this is the crux of saving the whole world. Or so they'd have you believe.
Indulging high school fantasies much?
Other than that, things are really starting to come together. We know without a doubt that Scylar (sp? whatever.) is in league with the government flack. We know that mirror girl functions like a split personality, both halves taking turns inhabiting the same body. We know that you can be killed at a beer bash 30 miles from home, end up splayed on an autopsy table, and your mom and dad will never find out. We know that Hiro eventually becomes a self-styled ninja badass with excellent English. And this show is trying to disprove the tagline, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
(here's a little hijack of my own post: I know who thought that up. I know how hard it was to get that concept to leave the agency and get to the client. It's just amazing how that line has seeped into the national vernacular. Every time I hear politicos and celebrities use it, I giggle.)
In "Heroes," what happens in Vegas affects the future of the planet. Cool.
It was a good show, overall. Let's hope they keep it moving at a nice pace.
Oh, and guys: can you tell me the appeal of the mirror/stripper chick? Because she looks a little hard to me. If I were a guy, she'd scare the crap out of me.
"SAVE THE CHEERLEADER"
From the previews of upcoming happenings, this is the crux of saving the whole world. Or so they'd have you believe.
Indulging high school fantasies much?
Other than that, things are really starting to come together. We know without a doubt that Scylar (sp? whatever.) is in league with the government flack. We know that mirror girl functions like a split personality, both halves taking turns inhabiting the same body. We know that you can be killed at a beer bash 30 miles from home, end up splayed on an autopsy table, and your mom and dad will never find out. We know that Hiro eventually becomes a self-styled ninja badass with excellent English. And this show is trying to disprove the tagline, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
(here's a little hijack of my own post: I know who thought that up. I know how hard it was to get that concept to leave the agency and get to the client. It's just amazing how that line has seeped into the national vernacular. Every time I hear politicos and celebrities use it, I giggle.)
In "Heroes," what happens in Vegas affects the future of the planet. Cool.
It was a good show, overall. Let's hope they keep it moving at a nice pace.
Oh, and guys: can you tell me the appeal of the mirror/stripper chick? Because she looks a little hard to me. If I were a guy, she'd scare the crap out of me.
10.13.2006
Creeps. Big fat creeps.
Poached Pumpkins
Few gourds left after thieves raid orchard
Big FAT creeps.
Big fat nasty asshole creeps.
Nice. Those are really fun to carve. And when you toast the seeds? YUMMY!
Big fat nasty asshole dickface CREEPS.
Few gourds left after thieves raid orchard
With Halloween just around the corner, thieves raided the landmark Gilcrease Orchard in northwest Las Vegas on Monday and stole hundreds of would-be jack-o'-lanterns from the pumpkin patch. The thieves left only a sprinkling of smallish, mostly green gourds for parents and children hoping to pick their own perfect pumpkins.
Big FAT creeps.
Orchard workers were making a daily batch of fresh apple cider when they noticed a strange truck parked near the property's fence. The workers headed for the truck, but it sped away before they could reach it.
Big fat nasty asshole creeps.
An orchard worker tried to remain upbeat. The orchard planned to raffle off a collection of large pumpkins -- 40 pounds and up -- that weren't in the pumpkin patch at the time of the theft.
And other fresh fruit was still available.
"We've got lots of apples," she said.
Nice. Those are really fun to carve. And when you toast the seeds? YUMMY!
Big fat nasty asshole dickface CREEPS.
10.10.2006
This is getting ridiculous
Heroin chic is so 1994. We have a new standard of beauty to acheive:
The dress is Guy Laroche. If you can call it a dress. It looks more like a napkin. In fact, it looks like a white version of that bib on a chain you wear at the dentist.
As for the skeleton?
Come ON. I know runway models are supposed to be walking clothes hangers, but . . . well . . . check the post title.
This girl looks SICK. Physically sick. Malnourished, third-world sick. And the people that are paying her to look like that are sick, too.
Listen, girlie: have a protein shake or twelve. Have a pot roast. And keep away from the cocaine, for GOD'S sake. Get some self esteem and a taco salad. Because whoever told you that was pretty was dead frickin' wrong. You look like you're going to die. That is not an exaggeration.
And while I'm giving advice, here's a little something for Guy Laroche. Guy, you know how you can make me happy? Take a wheel of camembert and shove it up your ass.
The dress is Guy Laroche. If you can call it a dress. It looks more like a napkin. In fact, it looks like a white version of that bib on a chain you wear at the dentist.
As for the skeleton?
Come ON. I know runway models are supposed to be walking clothes hangers, but . . . well . . . check the post title.
This girl looks SICK. Physically sick. Malnourished, third-world sick. And the people that are paying her to look like that are sick, too.
Listen, girlie: have a protein shake or twelve. Have a pot roast. And keep away from the cocaine, for GOD'S sake. Get some self esteem and a taco salad. Because whoever told you that was pretty was dead frickin' wrong. You look like you're going to die. That is not an exaggeration.
And while I'm giving advice, here's a little something for Guy Laroche. Guy, you know how you can make me happy? Take a wheel of camembert and shove it up your ass.
Okay. So the shirt's a little much.
But this guy actually has a point.
He's a candidate. A third-party candidate for Nevada governor. His name is Christopher Hansen, and boy is he pissed.
The Independent American wasn't invited to participate in the second gubernatorial debate, so he rushed the stage just as the festivities were beginning.
Hansen had one chance to get his message out. He had about five seconds before security grabbed him. So he grabbed the mic and screamed,
"I'm running for governor too, and I deserve the right to speak too!"
That was all he was able to say.
Yeah, buddy. You're right. You do deserve the right to speak. You may be just a little nutty, but we voters should be able to decide that for ourselves.
Don't sweat it, though. It wasn't a real debate. It was just a forum for speechifying, since the Dem and Repub candidates had received the questions in advance and had plenty of time to figure out their answers.
I heard this morning on NPR (and darn it, I can't find the backup -- forgive me) that fundraising for this election season hit an incredible one BILLION dollars. A midterm election season. And almost all of it is backing candidates from the two major parties. More than ever, our representatives aren't REALLY representative of us. They're part of a numbers game, with their only function to tip the legislative balance to one side or the other.
It seems as if I've been voting for the "lesser of two evils" ever since I came of age. For almost 20 years I've made decisions based on who was electable. Am I just now realizing what everyone else has known for decades: that we're so mired in the two-party system that the lesser evil is the best choice any of us have? Or am I just now tired of it?
Have these people, with their insane money and their attack ads and their studied "positions" become more craven and greedy, or am I just now noticing?
If I've been that blind all this time, then shame on me.
Thing is, now what do I do? What do any of us do? How do we get the candidates we want . . . instead of the ones we deserve?
10.09.2006
A Very Fuggy Monday
Go Fug Yourself is brilliant. Better than brilliant. You must read it often.
Things like this are why.
Things like this are why.
10.07.2006
I'm finally ready . . .
. . . to talk about the horror that was last week's UNLV/UNR game.
It took almost a week to come to terms with what a big barrel of suck it was. And I'm not really talking about the 31-3 thrashing UNLV experienced on our home field. I expected to lose to UNR. I'd been in Reno the week before to watch them dominate Northwestern. Seeing that game live and in person was all the convincing I needed that UNR had the superior team.
But, being the masochist and mildly guilty alum I am, I decided to buy tickets and go. They were 30 bucks apiece, with no discount for kids under 12. Or kids at all, for that matter. My 8-year-old's ticket cost the same as mine.
Fine. What-frickin'-ever. So I got on the freeway and headed out to the stadium at about 5 last Saturday. The game was at 7. Two miles from the exit, the freeway came to a standstill. Some car, which had once been on fire, was sitting on the shoulder. That smoldering wreck was enough to get the looky-loos to slam on their brakes. Cripes.
From there, it took 20 minutes to get from the freeway to within sight of the stadium. That's easily three times what it would normally be. From that point, it was another hour. Another hour to go one mile. My son was in the back, and God love him, he knew better than to ask when we were going to get there.
At kickoff, I wasn't even parked yet. As I, fed up, pulled out of line and drove by one of TWO stadium entrances, I noticed that one guy in an orange vest was directing traffic: six lines of cars trying to jam into one entrance. Good Lord. I couldn't get into the other entrance because NOBODY was directing traffic there. And of course, nobody was going to let me in. "Nice" had officially taken a powder out on the streets outside the Silver Bowl.
Fifteen minutes later, I found a parking spot on a patch of dirt about a half-mile away. Two-plus hours after I left my house, Conor and I began walking to the stadium.
That's when the fun really started.
I wasn't surprised to see thousands of people milling around. The UNLV/UNR game is the big state rivalry. There is real, boiling HATE there. You would not believe how much Reno hates Las Vegas -- they hate everything about us. We're bigger, brasher, we get much more attention, we're seen as the upstart, barely literate bastard child who somehow (because of dumb luck) enjoys a success he doesn't deserve. And Vegas, for our part, can't stand Reno's unfounded arrogance: they're smug, backward, their economy is a joke, and they're pretentious fucks who crow over the one sushi bar in town and hold power meetings at the new Starbucks.
Hm. Can you tell which side I'm more familiar with?
The crowd was ugly that night, my friends. It was a sea of rough-looking, weaving people, all drunk and ready to break into a riot. I found Miles, who (thank Christ) was sitting with us, clutched Conor's hand, put up my forearm and pushed our way through the crowd. Miles' and my main goal was to get the boy to our seats without having beer spilled on him.
At the end of the first quarter, we sat down. And then we were forced to listen to an extremely loud, very inebriated, foul-mouthed moron who let everyone in the entire section know what he thought about his buddy's whore girlfriend, how he really needed another beer, how to find Osama bin Laden and sometimes he even talked about the game. This guy never let up.
Then Conor wanted a glass of water. God, why didn't I bring one? But Miles wanted (needed) a drink, too. So I offered to let the boys watch football while I got in line.
There I stood, in another crush of people, buffeted on all sides by the drunk and sweaty, some calling out for Reno and more for Vegas. There were TV screens in the tiny space above the liquor line, and I watched UNR go up on UNLV 17-0. Perfect. I don't know exactly how long it took to get to the front and place my order, but I did have to fend off at least two people who thought it would be okay to cut in front of me.
Just a couple of minutes into halftime, I had refreshment in hand and I made my way back to our seats. When I got there, Loud Moron was still going. I raised an eyebrow at Miles as I sat down and he rolled his eyes back at me. I pulled Conor close and gave him an icewater. He, blessedly, seemed mostly oblivious to how bad everything was. He had been having a conversation with Miles (which means he was talking at Miles without Miles saying much back) about every little thing that popped into his head. I love my child's ability to chatter on; I love hearing how he thinks. That night, I was thankful he was so busy talking that he didn't have to pay too much attention to Loud Moron.
The last straw for me was when, just before second-half kickoff, the field temperture was flashed on the big screen.
I spelled it that way on purpose: temperture. Because that's how THEY spelled it.
Field Temperture 89.
I may have gone a little mad at that moment. "This is a COLLEGE game," I squeaked. "This is for a COLLEGE and they can't spell TEMPERATURE correctly? AAAAAAAAA!"
That little slip on the part of the guy in the booth seemed to perfectly sum up that abomination of sporting event experience. I've felt safer at tractor pulls. I've had an easier time getting in and out of Dodger Stadium at the final Giants series of a playoff year. And how the HELL does the guy that runs the board, who has very little to type in the first place because everything else is some strange canned graphic, misspell tem-per-A-ture?
The game went nothing but downhill from there. Both on the field, and off. As Reno scored more and UNLV got more frustrated, little fights began breaking out around the stands. So we left.
And on the way home, Conor and I hit a standstill on one of the two major freeways through town.
On a Saturday night in Las Vegas, Nevada DOT thought it was the perfect time to push four travel lanes into one at the I-95/I-15 interchange. It took us over an HOUR to get to our freeway exit. And we proceeded to hit every traffic light -- every last one was unsynchronized.
Nevada DOT is on my shit list, big time.
And never, ever, was I so glad to get home.
I think I'm terrifically brave to relive all that.
It took almost a week to come to terms with what a big barrel of suck it was. And I'm not really talking about the 31-3 thrashing UNLV experienced on our home field. I expected to lose to UNR. I'd been in Reno the week before to watch them dominate Northwestern. Seeing that game live and in person was all the convincing I needed that UNR had the superior team.
But, being the masochist and mildly guilty alum I am, I decided to buy tickets and go. They were 30 bucks apiece, with no discount for kids under 12. Or kids at all, for that matter. My 8-year-old's ticket cost the same as mine.
Fine. What-frickin'-ever. So I got on the freeway and headed out to the stadium at about 5 last Saturday. The game was at 7. Two miles from the exit, the freeway came to a standstill. Some car, which had once been on fire, was sitting on the shoulder. That smoldering wreck was enough to get the looky-loos to slam on their brakes. Cripes.
From there, it took 20 minutes to get from the freeway to within sight of the stadium. That's easily three times what it would normally be. From that point, it was another hour. Another hour to go one mile. My son was in the back, and God love him, he knew better than to ask when we were going to get there.
At kickoff, I wasn't even parked yet. As I, fed up, pulled out of line and drove by one of TWO stadium entrances, I noticed that one guy in an orange vest was directing traffic: six lines of cars trying to jam into one entrance. Good Lord. I couldn't get into the other entrance because NOBODY was directing traffic there. And of course, nobody was going to let me in. "Nice" had officially taken a powder out on the streets outside the Silver Bowl.
Fifteen minutes later, I found a parking spot on a patch of dirt about a half-mile away. Two-plus hours after I left my house, Conor and I began walking to the stadium.
That's when the fun really started.
I wasn't surprised to see thousands of people milling around. The UNLV/UNR game is the big state rivalry. There is real, boiling HATE there. You would not believe how much Reno hates Las Vegas -- they hate everything about us. We're bigger, brasher, we get much more attention, we're seen as the upstart, barely literate bastard child who somehow (because of dumb luck) enjoys a success he doesn't deserve. And Vegas, for our part, can't stand Reno's unfounded arrogance: they're smug, backward, their economy is a joke, and they're pretentious fucks who crow over the one sushi bar in town and hold power meetings at the new Starbucks.
Hm. Can you tell which side I'm more familiar with?
The crowd was ugly that night, my friends. It was a sea of rough-looking, weaving people, all drunk and ready to break into a riot. I found Miles, who (thank Christ) was sitting with us, clutched Conor's hand, put up my forearm and pushed our way through the crowd. Miles' and my main goal was to get the boy to our seats without having beer spilled on him.
At the end of the first quarter, we sat down. And then we were forced to listen to an extremely loud, very inebriated, foul-mouthed moron who let everyone in the entire section know what he thought about his buddy's whore girlfriend, how he really needed another beer, how to find Osama bin Laden and sometimes he even talked about the game. This guy never let up.
Then Conor wanted a glass of water. God, why didn't I bring one? But Miles wanted (needed) a drink, too. So I offered to let the boys watch football while I got in line.
There I stood, in another crush of people, buffeted on all sides by the drunk and sweaty, some calling out for Reno and more for Vegas. There were TV screens in the tiny space above the liquor line, and I watched UNR go up on UNLV 17-0. Perfect. I don't know exactly how long it took to get to the front and place my order, but I did have to fend off at least two people who thought it would be okay to cut in front of me.
Just a couple of minutes into halftime, I had refreshment in hand and I made my way back to our seats. When I got there, Loud Moron was still going. I raised an eyebrow at Miles as I sat down and he rolled his eyes back at me. I pulled Conor close and gave him an icewater. He, blessedly, seemed mostly oblivious to how bad everything was. He had been having a conversation with Miles (which means he was talking at Miles without Miles saying much back) about every little thing that popped into his head. I love my child's ability to chatter on; I love hearing how he thinks. That night, I was thankful he was so busy talking that he didn't have to pay too much attention to Loud Moron.
The last straw for me was when, just before second-half kickoff, the field temperture was flashed on the big screen.
I spelled it that way on purpose: temperture. Because that's how THEY spelled it.
Field Temperture 89.
I may have gone a little mad at that moment. "This is a COLLEGE game," I squeaked. "This is for a COLLEGE and they can't spell TEMPERATURE correctly? AAAAAAAAA!"
That little slip on the part of the guy in the booth seemed to perfectly sum up that abomination of sporting event experience. I've felt safer at tractor pulls. I've had an easier time getting in and out of Dodger Stadium at the final Giants series of a playoff year. And how the HELL does the guy that runs the board, who has very little to type in the first place because everything else is some strange canned graphic, misspell tem-per-A-ture?
The game went nothing but downhill from there. Both on the field, and off. As Reno scored more and UNLV got more frustrated, little fights began breaking out around the stands. So we left.
And on the way home, Conor and I hit a standstill on one of the two major freeways through town.
On a Saturday night in Las Vegas, Nevada DOT thought it was the perfect time to push four travel lanes into one at the I-95/I-15 interchange. It took us over an HOUR to get to our freeway exit. And we proceeded to hit every traffic light -- every last one was unsynchronized.
Nevada DOT is on my shit list, big time.
And never, ever, was I so glad to get home.
I think I'm terrifically brave to relive all that.
10.05.2006
Icky Sicky
So I got the Annual Report mostly done, except for a couple of sections. I thought that the dizziness and fatigue were caused by four days of staring at one year's worth of press releases and patient interviews, then staring at my computer screen.
Wrong, apparently. I've been home for two days, lying on the couch and trying to keep my eyes open. Last night, the backache hit. The inescapable conclusion is this: I'm sick.
Ick.
I'm not feeling particularly guilty about how much I stayed home. But tomorrow night is Friday night. And it's not just any Friday. It's First Friday -- the local downtown arts festival, and a friend of mine is showing some paintings in a small gallery. There's going to be an opening of Ed Ruscha works at another. And Mr. Swank himself, Shag, is supposed to be hanging out.
So this is when the things you learned as a kid come back to haunt you. Like, for instance, if you stay home from school you can't go out with your friends that night. It's simple logic. And I'm trapped by it at 37.
I still feel like crap on a cracker, but darn it -- I don't want to miss First Friday. So I guess I'm hauling my butt out of bed tomorrow and into the office.
Ick.
Wrong, apparently. I've been home for two days, lying on the couch and trying to keep my eyes open. Last night, the backache hit. The inescapable conclusion is this: I'm sick.
Ick.
I'm not feeling particularly guilty about how much I stayed home. But tomorrow night is Friday night. And it's not just any Friday. It's First Friday -- the local downtown arts festival, and a friend of mine is showing some paintings in a small gallery. There's going to be an opening of Ed Ruscha works at another. And Mr. Swank himself, Shag, is supposed to be hanging out.
So this is when the things you learned as a kid come back to haunt you. Like, for instance, if you stay home from school you can't go out with your friends that night. It's simple logic. And I'm trapped by it at 37.
I still feel like crap on a cracker, but darn it -- I don't want to miss First Friday. So I guess I'm hauling my butt out of bed tomorrow and into the office.
Ick.
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