It pays to procrastinate

Waiting to vote here in a local nursing home. Volunteer says line now (10:40) shortest it has been all day.

Those motivated and responsible early birds who showed up at 7 were greeted by a line halfway down the block.

Suckers.

One of those suckers who waited 90 minutes to vote made an Albertson's run and brought chocolate for everyone. This election brought to you by Hershey's Bliss.

On today's for this establishment's residents? A coffee social, bingo/stimulation and group chatter. Oh, and presidential triva, of course.

Overheard while in line...

Person A: Do they check ID?
Person B: I'm sure they do.
A: OK, I wasn't sure. Almost left home without it.
B: At least I hope they do. Otherwise someone might have voted for me.
A: Someone dead.

Nice comment, especially considering where we are right now.

Meanwhile, I get my ballot, but another poll worker accidentally almost rips my receipt part off prematurely. She said, "It's dangling, but it's OK." My reply: "Dangling? I've already been disenfranchised!" Laughing, she said, "It's OK, I trust you.

Her mistake.

By the way, that chocolate was insanely good. Appropriately named, indeed.

Oh, and voting was pretty damn fulfilling, too.

Vote Day

Typed out a whole long rant about politics, about which issues are truly important, about people calling either candidates ridiculous names or labeling them with ridiculous tags. It was cathartic. But I'll refrain from posting it here. Trying to keep this a happy place -- especially if Julie Bowen shows up.

All I'll say is this: I truly believe that one candidate (who does care deeply about this country) is trying to win an election while the other is trying to change this country for the better on a fundamental level.

One candidate wants the best for the U.S. but doesn't always understand how to best accomplish that goal, while the other is logical and levelheaded enough to push for policies that really will make a difference.

Personally, I have nothing against the former -- his horrifying running-mate choice aside -- but I hope his supporters are able to take a step back and see what happens should the latter happen to win this election.

It might just turn out OK, Red Staters. Many, in fact, believe it will turn out far better than OK. And after these last eight years, hope and belief ain't such bad things, are they?

Air sensitivity

On a plane. I walk toward the back of the plane looking to dispose of my refuse, if you know what I mean!

That's not a euphemism. Pretty straightforward explanation. I had garbage I wanted to get rid of.

Anyway, I see a flight attendant.

Me: "Garbage?"
Him, in a slow, sad monotone: "That's the first time I've been called that before."
Me: "It won't be the last, bitch."

Me (really): "That's not what I said! Sorry about that."
Him: "That's OK. I'll just talk behind your back when you sit down."

Then some lovely young lady tried to scoot by him.

Him: "You can fit – I've slimmed down."
She looks at him and his belly skeptically.
Him: "Wow, she called me fat."
Her: "I did not! But you are. Now move it, fatass!"

I fell in love immediately and asked her into the bathroom (we actually were roughly over Denver at that moment).

I awoke 38 minutes later with a splitting headache and a knot on my noggin the size of a tennis ball. As I tried to focus, I was partly blinded by Garbage Man's 63 pieces of flair. Damn Lumbergh!

Earlier, as we took off, the guy across the aisle from me stood up and gestured for flight attendant to come over. She got on the PA and said, "Sit down now! Quickly!" So he did (though he didn't buckle up – bastard!). And we were off the ground about four seconds later.

Apparently he believed there was a problem with something on the wing – some issue that could manifest itself during takeoff. It didn't. Still, he communicated this to the flight attendant, who brought it to the pilot, who apparently send some sort of reasonable explanation back to our (anti-hero). And all was fine. Of course, I type this while still in the air.

Still, I'm not worried. Now had it been William Shatner or John Lithgow sitting there …

Who knows – maybe this plane has no left phalange.

OK, so we did land OK. And as soon as we did, the same crazy dude – seen in that washed out pic above – immediately got up and went to the back of the plane while we were still going however fast it is a plane goes right after touching down. WTF, dude? Garbage Man, I'm gonna need you to go ahead and get on that.

**THIS ENTRY WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY LORNA DOONE SHORTBREAD COOKIES FROM NABISCO. LORNA DOONE – GREAT SHORTBREAD WHEN YOU ARE SHORT ON BREAD … OR IF YOU HAVE THE MUNCHIES.**

GD Goose

Why did the animal cross the highway?

To cause a spectacle.

Brief slowdown on I91 north this morning. A goose – at least I think it was a goose – made its way to the median strip. With his car parked on the southbound side, a policeman was, well, observing.

He had an "OK, what the hell do I do with this thing?" demeanor.

Suggestions?

1. Tackle it
2. Imitate it in an attempt to communicate
3. Discharge sidearm into the air
4. Discharge sidearm into the bird
5. Discharge something completely different from a body cavity
6. Continue to stand there wondering what the hell to do, thinking about where your life went wrong, how you never should have begged off dispatch and gone on patrol
7. Get in squad car and leave
8. Have a picnic
9. Go to search.yahoo.com and enter "goose preparation recipes"
10. Wander in circles muttering, "duck … duck … duck … " until the animal decides to play along.
11. Say "Marco!" in an effort to confuse the bird and amuse yourself
12. Do the chicken dance in an effort to anger the bird
13. Flap your arms wildly and bat your eyes in an effort to mate with the bird
14. Call Anthony Edwards (explaining as he picks up that "no, for the last time, this is not your agent calling.")
15. Call Carmelo Anthony
16. Eat a Caramello
17. Call it Mellow Yellow, quite rightly
18. Drink a Mello Yello, unSpritely
19. Engage in an out-of-control pursuit of the bird. You know, a wild goos...
20. Bow humbly, drop to your knees and acquiesce to its omnipotence

---

Meanwhile, discovered today that moments during which you aren't supposed to laugh at/with children include a 3-year-old girl saying "god damn" over and over, giggling wildly each time as her mother and grandfather desperately try to get her to stop.

There are few things funnier and more fulfilling than the laughter of a child. This was one of those things.

I was cracking up in the seat in front of them, waiting for the girl's twin sister – who has an aversion to seat belts but not to repeatedly kicking the chair in front of her – to join in.

"Where'd she pick that up," the mother asked rhetorically and uselessly, as this was a Jersey woman we're talking about.

"I don't know," the grandfather, likely just as guilty, answered.

The things elders inadvertently teach children. Come on, people, be more careful. I mean, god damn!

[insert sound of cackling 3-year-old girl here]

Tom Wilkinson?

At tonight's Who show ...



30-ish hours later: So I wasn't able to convince myself that this actually was Tom Wilkinson, but I wasn't able to definitively say that it wasn't. Either way, The Who put on two damn groovy shows in two nights -- and they played Sister Disco! Wacky, wild schtuff.

Happy dude working on the car

Well, he smiled and waved right before the picture.

The middle part is whited out to protect the guilty.

(Literally dozens of minutes later I would find out his hame is Willie.)

What's worse than a blown tire?

A blown tire on a rental car.

What's worse than that?

Blowing the spare an hour or two later.

After first flat...

ME: I put the spare on. Do you want me to take the car to one of your local offices?
RENTAL CAR LADY (after apparently thinking towns 163 miles away are "local"): You can drive up to 1,500 miles on the spare.
ME: Really?
HER: Yes, up to 1,500 miles. Just don't go faster than 65.
ME: I am returning the car in the morning anyway, so I'll just do that.
HER: Sir, I couldn't care less what you do.

OK, that last line was made-up. Anyway ... I trodded along in the slow lane (keeping it around 55-60) behind an 18-wheeler, which limited the line of sight. So I didn't see the staggeringly enormous pothole until it was too late

And boom went the spare (shown above).

Get towed to a Pep Boys (where I blog from now). My dad says, "I hope it's not the one I use. Those guys move at the speed of light. You can almost see their feet move."

I tell him where it is. After asking me to explain exactly where the cashier is in relation to the waiting area in relation to the truck flaps with the dancing women on them, he confirms our fears.

"That's the one. Bummer."

I almost stole my mother's car for this trip. Either I lucked out by not doing damage to it, or it being far better built that this damn Chevy Aveo that is under constant threat of being blown off the road would have meant it could have handled the impact.

Oh well. Next chapter of this story could be me fighting with the rental car folk as to who will pay for the tire.

I might have to pay cash, but they will pay with their souls, damn it!

Or something like that.

The Who better rock again tonight.

Pete looking like a ghost

Quote of the night after Pete notices members of the crowd drinking beer out of bottles: "The Native Americans have got it sussed, huh? Gamble a little, drink some beer and go see The Who."

The Friggin Who!

About to see 'em for the X-teenth time (will try to count later) but for the first time in Connecticut! Which means little to many, but I get a thrill out of it.

Bought a great ticket when they went on sale, figuring maybe I will be able to make it back east for the show. But last week decided it would be too much hassle and that I should sell the ticket.

Look for ticket. Can't find it.

Figure it must me an email/printable one. Find the email confirmation.

My ticket is at will call.

Crap. Can't sell it.

Oh well. If I must see The Who, I'll see The Who. With a big assist from Mr. Pearce at work, got a Southwest freebie. And here I am.

And tomorrow I will be in NJ seeing the band again.

And next month I will see them twice in L.A.

Take that, Jess Klein!

Out of 'Practice'

I have no intention whatsoever of this becoming some sort of voyeuristic celebrity blog. But I can't help if it I see one.

Especially if he steals my hair gel.

That's right, Dylan McDermott. I'm calling you out.

OK, so he didn't actual steal the gel. But due to security line confusion at LAX a couple days back, he very well might have ended up with my one-quart plastic bag full of dude bathroom stuff (OK, toiletries. Whatever).

The toothbrush? Replaceable. Though not by the hotel. Sure they have all I need in case I "forgot" something. All I needed was a damn toothbrush, some paste (which they did have), arguably deodorant (they had that too), the nearby bridge to actually cross the highway and some hair product.

Managed to get the brush, paste and deodorant, but the bridge across the highway still is in ruins, I lost a since-refilled/replaced prescription, and my clay and spray might now be in McDermott's stupid actor hair (while I had to "borrow" gel from a coworker one day, try to use hotel-issued moisturizer the next before spending upwards of $10 on a tiny bottle of hairspray at the Atlanta airport).

(Incidentally, on an ensuing trip, that coworker ended up having to borrow gel from a bald coworker. Dylan never would stoop to such depths.)

All this after I caught his falling luggage. Seriously!

So, what to do. As far as I can tell, my choices are:

1. Let it go and move on with my life.
2. Write a letter to Entertainment Weekly.
3. Contact Mr. McDermott's publicist.
4. Stalk ol' Dylan and steal his damn hair product
5. Forget about this post, only to come across it a few months later and finally finish/post it

Guess I went with No. 5. Oops.

Dogs, blogs and mooses

It begins with this?

"My dog's nails are pink!" exclaims my little sister upon seeing what her mother did to their Bichon.

OK, not exactly the way I envisioned kicking off this blog, but who can plan for anything, really? The dog ran in, the exchange happened, all while I mussed with this blog rather than paying attention to my actual job responsibilities.

So after enjoying the experience of blogging my trip to Europe – not to mention receiving kudos, worldwide acclaim and several Webby nominations (I lost to the damn Huffington Post) – I figured I'd try to provide record of and commentary on the inane and senseless non-events that make up a good deal of my existence.

Such as, you know, dog manicures.

I may cheat a little and fill in some initial blanks with absurdities from recent days – including my take on a blockbuster and my wacky airport follies – just to get this going. And maybe that will cost me a Webby, but I'm not in it for the glamour. It has more to do with boredom than anything.

So follow along, comment away, vote in the polls and enjoy the ride. Because I probably won't do any of those things, so it's up to you to make this tolerable.

Your (presumably) dedicated scribe,
Moose del Mar