Sometimes things are just a little too surreal around me when they are combined

 

At the gym,  there’s always a lot going on. People walking and driving by in front of the gym, people working out, several TVs on, and like most folks doing cardio I listen to music. Set iTunes to shuffle and go.

This afternoon I was trying not to sing along to iTunes on the elliptical. (Trying not to sing in public takes up a lot of my mental energy)

On the TV in front of me, they were interviewing the sister of one of the fine upstanding young men who killed someone for no reason in Oklahoma. She was saying that she didn’t understand why her little brother was in jail for Murder 1 because he didn’t do the shooting.

Behind me, a personal trainer and his client were laughing hysterically about something. Not even noticing what the woman on TV was saying.

The words to the song I was listening to  went like this:

Chi è che sa di che siamo capaci tutti, vanificato il limite oramai?

(Who knows what we are all capable of now that the limits have all been nullified?)*

 

So I stopped.

 

Fuck.

Who does know?

Pretty much anything, it seems.

 

 

 

* C.S.I/Memorie Di Una Testa Tagliata.

 

Vacation reading update, because I know you’ve all been fretting about it.

 

If you want to double check what my reading list included, it’s over here.

I am feeling like a bit of a failure, because I only finished about half of the books on my list. I got half way through 2 others, and also re-read a few Austens.

Yes, I know it’s a very long list for a week. Yes, I know some people do other things when they are on vacation. I won’t criticize how you spend your time, if you don’t criticize how I spend mine. I probably think that you spend too much time doing shit like building housing for the poor and hiking, and not enough time listening to children on the teeter totter and drinking IPA.

I also eat a lot of potato chips, so it’s not like my activities aren’t varied.

Don’t be a hater.

Right. Reading list.

The hits?

Smoking Ears and Screaming Teeth, The Wasp Factory, Bossypants, Odd Thomas and Johannes Cabal the Necromancer. (Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion and Mansfield Park were all as wonderful as they are every time I read them, as was A Prayer For Owen Meany.)

The misses?

Nothing was horrible. I enjoyed Bag of Bones, but it wasn’t scary. When I read Stephen King, I would like to be scared. You knew there were ghosts, you knew who the ghosts were, and even the hero of the story was not afraid of them. The Silver Linings Playbook was also fine. Not great. Fine. I still can’t get into Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk. It may be time to give up on that one.

 

The one big failure of our vacation this year was not with reading or beer drinking. We did great on both of those. Our one big failure was with spirits.

We did not have one cocktail or shot of anything during the entire week.

I KNOW. It’s HORRIBLE.
I promise to do better on that next year.

We made up for it on the evening we returned.

Sorry, Stuff. We weren’t very helpful on the unpacking, but we did enjoy your deck immensely. And the sipping whiskey.

 

Uh.

Oh.

Just one more thing: it’s Wild Turkey American Honey. Get some and drink a fifth of it. Even if you don’t like Wild Turkey.

I hear it’s also delicious with pineapple soda.

You’ll feel great.

 

I am going, I am going
Any which way the wind may be blowing
I am going, I am going
Where streams of whiskey are flowing

–The Pogues/Streams of Whiskey

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s a what?!?

So I was listening to the song “Brick House” on my way to work this morning, and something has always bugged me about that song.

No, not that it’s a Commodores song and what was it doing in my ipod.

Well. Actually.
Yes.

But no.

The babe in question is supposed to be 36-24-36, right? But isn’t the song title taken from the expression “built like a brick shithouse?”

I don’t get it.

A brick shithouse is a very large rectangle. Meatloaf is built like a brick shithouse. Not a hot chick with a big rack and tiny waist.

I’m over-analyzing again, aren’t I?

I’ll go back to singing along.

But in my mind, Lionel Ritchie is totally singing about Meatloaf.