One Giant Leap

So now that Lindsey and I have new jobs, we are in the process of searching for a new home.  Unfortunately, my recent and prolonged stint as a Job Search Specialist took us out of the market to purchase our first home for at least a little while, and keeps our status (at least temporarily) as renters.  We're hoping this status lasts no more than a year as we continue to save and build our modest nest-egg.  So anyone out there still planning on surprising us with wedding gifts, our arms remain outstretched for your delayed charity.  Tick Tock, people.  Tick Tock.

The catalyst for our move is not only to save money, but more urgently to improve our respective commutes to work.  Lindsey's new job is in Bridgewater, NJ, which is in the center of NJ (east to west) due west of northern Staten Island (how's that for topographic gibberish?).  My job, which I'll be starting in late June, is in Plainsboro, NJ, which is a neighbor of Princeton about 30 miles south of Bridgewater.  So the logical place for us to consider our relocation would be in the middle of those two points, right?  Well, that would be perfect if our interests included boredom and cow shit.  We gave the towns along that path a fair shake.  Towns like Hillsborough, Flemington, Manville, Somerville.  But what we saw in these towns was either wide stretches of farmland (nice to look at, if you're a turnip), industrial parks, highways with congested traffic circles and occasional strip malls surrounded by desolation, or places where a classy night out would include dinner at the VFW hall followed by slugs of bourbon in front of the 7-11. 

The real problem in the commuting equation is the polarity of our two work locations.  If we both worked in the vicinity of Bridgewater, we'd be very quick to gather our stuff and move to Morristown, NJ.  A town I lived in for years, where friends of ours live, and that has everything anyone would want in a hometown. Unfortunately, that would involve a 90-minute commute for me with average traffic.  If Lindsey worked near Plainsboro, I'm sure we'd be thrilled to live in Princeton which is one of the nicest towns in NJ, and home to one of my favorite stores - The Princeton Record Exchange.  However, then her commute would be over an hour, due largely to the cholesterol-like congestion clogging every major artery of the New Jersey grid.

And so after a great deal of searching and compromise, we've decided that we'd like to live in the area of Westfield, NJ.  An upscale town with mostly well kept Victorian homes, quiet neighborhoods, and an active and pleasant town center with plenty of restaurants, bars, shops, and parks.  Close by is Cranford, a similar town minus the upscale snobbiness, but with a nice town center with fewer attractions than that of Westfield, but still nice and convenient.  And so last week we started looking at available apartments, and while it would be misleading to call the search thus far fruitless, it hasn't been overwhelmingly encouraging.  But it's early yet for a July 1st move-in...we're optimistic that the listings will perk up in the next week or so.

What we did receive, in lieu of being shown the perfect apartment, was a memory that will not be going away for a very long time.

On this particular day we were taken on a tour of available apartments by a realtor who for the sake of this entry we'll call Judy Bell....because that is actually her name.  Judy Bell was in her late-50s/early-60s and stood at an estimated 2 foot 5, with brilliant chemically-assisted red hair.  From time to time, as she showed us moderately-priced two-bedroom apartments, she would randomly bring up friends who had recently passed away, discuss annoyances she was having with family members that seemed to relate to nothing, and awkwardly segue into stories about jobs she held before she was a realtor.  At one point, as we exited her car as she was in the middle of one of her unwanted anecdotes, I whispered to nobody in particular "please shut up".

And then we entered a building where Judy was to show us a third floor walk-up.  As we entered the building Judy mentioned how dimly lit the stairway was, with a sense of ominous foreshadowing.  The stairways were long and steep with very narrow steps and they were, in fact, very dimly lit.  As we reached the top, Judy realized that the lockbox with the unit's key was downstairs...back on the first floor.  As she attempted to catch her breath for the inevitable descent back down the stairs, she quietly cursed whoever had the stupidity to hide the lockbox in the first floor entry way, at which point Lindsey compassionately told Judy that she saw it down there on our way up.  I asked Judy if she'd like me to run down and get the keys, but she explained that she'd have to go get them.  I didn't argue. 

And then it happened...

As Judy took her first step down the stairs, she misjudged the first narrow step and awkwardly lost her balance and started to stumble forward.  Momentum quickly took over as her compromised balance had her scrambling for the railing or anything to hold onto to control, or at least limit, her imminent plunge.  Unfortunately for Judy, she was unable to grab anything except air, which led to an impressive, frightening, prolonged, extended, exaggerated, and fantastic tumble that would make any stunt person proud.  Her feet went over her head, her head over her feet, she twisted and turned, sliding and crumbling all the way to the bottom of the staircase.  All I remember is thinking how exhilarating and frightening this spectacle was, occassionally seeing flashes of red hair, and hoping deep down inside that this apartment had ample closet space.

Once she reached the bottom of the stairs my instincts kicked in and I raced down the stairs, throwing aside the notebook and pen I had been holding.  As I approached the red-haired pile on the second floor landing, I could see that she was conscious and attempting to move.  Good signs from what I could tell.  And given the less than flattering position of her tangled body, all I could think was how thankful I was that Judy hadn't worn a skirt to work that day.  Luckily for Judy Bell, this particular apartment hunter has watched every episode of House and had enough fictional training to comfortably and confidently deal with this potentially high-trauma incident.  I believe my first words were: "Hey...are you ok?", followed by: "OK, don't move.  Unless you think you can move...then move".

Actually, I think I did quite well considering the potential severity of the situation.  I asked her if she could wiggle her fingers and toes.  I asked her if she felt any significant pain.  I asked her if her commission fee was negotiable.  All of the things that needed to be ascertained before we could move forward.  Once it was clear that she was conscious, aware, and in reasonably good shape considering the really impressive fall, I helped her sit up.  At this point my inner-EMT took over and I told her to grab onto my finger and squeeze it with each hand.  Lindsey later asked why I did that.  My answer was, 'I have absolutely no idea'.  My actual thought at the time was to do that to: A) Confirm that she had strength in her hands which would indicate that no bones were broken; B) Confirm that she was able to follow simple instructions; and C) Give her the belief (false as it may be) that there was someone there that knew what he was doing.

At this point we called the paramedics who arrived within minutes.  Their response time was really quite impressive and a very positive reflection on Westfield living.  After about 15 minutes the EMTs had Judy Bell strapped to a board and began carrying her down the final flight of stairs.  I'm not proud to admit it but while I was on the phone with the police requesting the paramedics, once I was convinced that Judy was alright and I began to replay everything in my head....my bout with the giggles started, and would last for the rest of the day.  Judy was loaded into the ambulance, we told her everything would be ok.  We promised that we would go back to her office and tell her assistant what had happened.  As they shut the doors and drove away a tear slid down my cheek and, unable to restrain my emotions any longer, I burst out laughing.  For a second Lindsey looked at me as though I were a monster....until she too succombed to the pent up tension, stress, and ridiculousness of the situation and broke out in reserved laughter that she could no longer continue to suppress, as much as she may have wanted to.  I'm sure it was very surreal sight for the crowd that had gathered outside of the building to gawk at the situation.

We quickly started replaying the entire event and going into detail about everything that we had just witnessed.  It was here that Lindsey asked me about my finger-squeeze technique.  Lindsey also explained her first reaction upon witnessing me throw my notebook and pen aside as I ran down the stairs to check on Judy Bell.   Apparently she didn't quite know what to do and in a moment of panic and with a desire to participate in the call to action, Lindsey admitted to following my lead and did the only thing she could think of, which as it turned out, was to take the piece of paper that she had been holding in her hand and throwing it behind her.  That was the extent of Lindsey's assistance.

And so as we ate lunch and continued to reminisce about The Great Fall of 2010, we descended further into inappropriateness and began coming up with jokes about the situation.  Such things as referring to our realtor as 'Judy Fell', or wondering if Judy's middle name happened to be 'Rang-her', or suggesting that Judy be confined to showing only ranch-style houses, and so on and so forth.

We went back to the apartment later that afternoon with Judy's assistant and sadly, what the apartment had in hysterical memories, it lacked in closet and storage space.

A couple days later we checked in on Judy and she is doing well.  And, as it turns out, is building a lawsuit against the building owners for their poorly lit stairwells.  I will actually be seeing Judy tomorrow for the first time since the incident.  Hopefully all of the properties she has to show me are on the first floor.

And so our search for the right apartment continues.
Wish us good luck and happy landings.

Hopefully my next post will have good news about a successful hunt.

Until then,
Blah, Blah, Blahg!

Yes.  I get it.  I suck at updating my Blahg!  I've heard your complaints and I apologize.  But in my defense, you would not have wanted to hear the whiny and pitiful bitchiness that has been my inner dialogue for the past few weeks.

Whaah!  I don't have a job. 
Whaah!  I'm just a spectator watching everyone else's perfect lives.
Whaah!  I forgot to go outside today.
Whaah!  I was so busy moping around that I missed a new 'Modern Family'
Whaah!  I'm out of Midol.

Basically I have been a depressing douche.  So to anyone that has suffered the toils of hanging out with me over the past few weeks....deal with it.  That's what friends and loved ones are for.  It's not like all of you are shiny, happy colored marbles.  But I will apologize for neglecting this Blahg, it may have been a good outlet for some of my mental cancer.

In the time since my last post, I'm happy to say that my wife was recruited, interviewed, and accepted at a fantastic new job that she has coveted for quite some time.  I don't know how much I'm allowed to say about it -- so I'll just say that she's a generously paid drug dealer.   Way to go Lindsey! 

To facilitate getting to and from this new job, Lindsey had to trade in her two-cylinder, single-door Toyota Peesoshitt and got herself a Toyota Prius.  So basically, her new job has turned us into hippie, environmental idealists.  To counteract this reduction of our carbon footprint I am currently on the market for a Chevy Dolphin Killer with a diesel engine.

The other very new and exciting news is that I have accepted a full-time marketing position at a great company that I will start in a few weeks.  I will not be disclosing the name of the company on this site to protect the names of the innocent.  But I will say that I have not stooped so low as to sell drugs for a living....Lindsey.

So that's my update.  That's my apology for my lack of updates.  And this is me promising, as I do with each new Blahg post, to be more active and consistent in posting new content.

I have a good amount of time between now and when I start my new position and will be able to focus more attention to this site, in a positive mind set, but with the same ethical and moral superiority that should piss plenty of you off.

So until the next time that I neglect this site for a month or so...
Blah, Blah, Blahg!


Also - Be sure to check out my latest Yankee-related article from The Bill of Rights and Wrongs on The Bronx View website.  Click Here to access the article.

Without the use of a hot tub or a Delorean I recently had the opportunity to travel back in time.  All it took was a highly anticipated concert, a functioning liver, an empty stomach, and an equally stupid cohort....and all the sudden, I was 20 years old again.

A Recipe for Hilarity and Filthy Sheets

It started when my friend, let's call him "Marth", attempted to rally the troops weeks before to collectively take the day off from work and go see a show in NYC.  Frank Turner opening for Flogging Molly.  I'd never heard of this Frank Turner, but I've seen Flogging Molly five or six times and look forward to any chance to see them live.  Marth was singularly excited to see Frank Turner and did what he could to get his friends to the same frothing state.  As it turned out, nobody was able to take off of work....I'm fortunate enough to not have to ask for a day off.  So it would be just Marth and Me.

To get me in the mood Marth sent over some Frank Turner recommendations and insisted that I get excited about the prospect of seeing him live...twice...in one day.  As fate would have it, Frank Turner was not only opening for Flogging Molly at Roseland, but would be playing an in-store event at a small record store in Greenwich Village earlier in the day.  So the plan would be:

• Marth meets me at my place
• We head into the city in time for the 4pm In-Store
• End up at Roseland and complete our full and exciting day  

What isn't included in that list is, in between every bullet (unbeknownst to us at the time) would be copious amounts of alcohol...most predominately, Young's Chocolate Stout.

Before I go any further, as the going is just getting good, I will post a couple links to Frank Turner songs that I recommend you listen to as I continue to recount the downward spiral of this day...or upward spiral, depending on how you look at it.  All I know is, there were spirals.  As a bit of background, Frank Turner is a singer/songwriter from the UK very much in the vein of Billy Bragg.  He writes songs about real life that don't necessarily have happy-endings, optimistic lessons, or silver linings.  What they do have is honesty, occasional rebellion with integrity, disenchantment without disappointment, themes everyone can relate to, and they're damn catchy.  And they have an ability to uplift even when the themes are less than uplifting.  Here you go (Click to listen):
Long Live The Queen
Photosynthesis

Marth arrives around 1pm and we are quick to polish off the four remaining Keegan Ales Mother's Milk in the fridge (if you live in the Kingston, NY area - I envy you).  It's important to note, I've eaten breakfast, but not lunch, which I believe is more than Marth had eaten.  After an hour or so of catch up conversation, music listening, and drinking (as mentioned) we were ready to head into the city.

FRANK TURNER in GREENWICH VILLAGE
With a couple hours to kill before the live In-Store event, Marth and I parked ourselves in an Irish bar down the block from the record store.  After a couple pints of Guinness, Marth had a bit of a sweet tooth and while looking over the pubs extensive beer list he decided he wanted to try the overtly masculine sounding Cookie Dough Stout.  A perfect beer for any ovulating fatty.  The waitress, who had the weathered body type of a helium balloon 2 weeks after the surprise party, broke the news to our favorite future diabetes patient that they were out of Cookie Dough stout, but highly recommended the Young's Chocolate Stout....a beer that, as it turned out, we would be seeing for days, erupting from many orifices.  When it was delivered I drank reluctantly, and I'll be damned if it wasn't a delicious beer.

Thankfully, Marth invited a friend of his to meet us at the bar.  As it turns out this friend (let's call him "Don") and Marth have shared a lifetime of morally reprehensible and wildly entertaining experiences that upon hearing them revisit them over round after round of chocolate stout, I was envious of the fly on the wall that might have been lucky enough to witness any of them.  (It should be noted that upon arriving at the bar we ordered an inedible appetizer...so there remains little, if anything, in our stomachs except rapidly growing amounts of stout).  And so, after a couple hours at the bar (and as I understand it, a beer tab of over $150) we head over to the in-store.

After a short wait outside we are directed into the basement of the record store along with 60-70 other teens and twentysomethings.  We are clearly the oldest of the attendees.  The show itself, as you'll learn from the rest of this entry, is inconsequential.  The music was great.  Frank Turner exuded British blue collar charm and was instantly likable.  And my bladder was so full it pulsed with my heartbeat.  I just wanted to get out of there and back to the bar.

And so after about 45 mins, and a good 8-10 songs, Frank said his goodbyes and we rushed out of the store and headed back down the block. 

Round 2

Chocolate stout again flowed quickly and often, as did the classy anecdotes of Marth and Don. The ones I seem to remember the most involved a dentist with unique proclivities and some gentlemen with full bladders; A new use of the word 'iceberg', describing a female of a certain shape and descending attractiveness; and many wonderful things you might do for a dollar in a New Orleans bathroom.  Suffice to say, the three of us are now stinking drunk and we haven't even gotten to the Flogging Molly show.  Our drunkenness was surely tipped off when we started asking the waitresses and random bar patrons for their opinions and positions on some of debates of questionable taste.  It became clear to me how drunk Marth was when he followed me into the one person bathroom and attempted to jockey for position at the toilet, resulting in me having to repeatedly deny his request to "sword fight"...which he decided left him with no alternatives but to urinate in the sink about 6 inches behind me.  Good times.

Oh, as soon as I had the bathroom to myself - I puked a thick brown gullet-full of chocolaty goodness.

So after another 2+ hours at the bar it was time to go to the show.  But first we had to settle another tab of over $150 spent entirely on Young's Chocolate Stout (if you do the math of $6 per beer, that's conservatively 25 beers split 3 ways....plus close to the same amount just a couple hours before...so 3 guys drinking 50 beers on all but empty stomachs.  Do you see where this is going?  I think you do).  I personally think they may have padded these checks a bit...but I also think we drank a shitload of chocolate stout.

FLOGGING MOLLY at ROSELAND
The cab ride to the concert was essentially a 15  minute hate crime.  The questions surrounding religion, women, and deodorant should have led the cab driver towards an act of justifiable homicide.  Thankfully, in NYC, we were just a bunch of drunk douche bags that were barely a blip on his radar.

So we get to the venue, haggle with scalpers to get a ticket for Don, and finally arrive at the concert.  The place is packed yet somehow I quickly run into my sister-in-law and her friend.  Marth is nowhere to be found because when we arrived Frank Turner was already in the middle of his set.  So it's just Don and I and my sister-in-law and friend.  It's been almost 30 minutes without a drink, so I ramble up to the bar and order a round of beer for the 4 of us, and 2 shots of Jamison's for Don and I.  Guess what....Big mistake. 

The beginning of the end

Soon after these ill-advised shots Don goes missing, Marth is somewhere in the crowd of 3000+, and I am all alone.  Not a bad thing because I was really going at my own slow pace at this point and just looking for a place to stand and watch Frank Turner and not have to respond to anyone.  My focus was on standing still and, well, focusing.  Frank Turner seemed to be over as soon as it started and without much delay (or so it seemed) Flogging Molly took the stage.

Thankfully, about 2 songs into the Flogging Molly set, I found Marth.  I could tell from the look on his face that he was in the same state as I, and I'm sure my face was as easily read.  I believe the exact exchange upon finding each other was:
"Wanna getha fuggoudda here?" 
"Yes"
"Where's Don?"
"I don't know"
"Fuggim"

The Voyage Home
And so we stumbled the 10 blocks to where the van awaited to take us home.  As the world spun in one direction, my stomach spun in the other.  Marth sat on one side of the van and I sat on the other.  As the van startled it's seemingly violent roll towards West New York I started sweating more than usual (which is saying something).  I was forced to keep my eyes open because when they were shut I began plummeting through a dark unseen abyss which could only end in awkward apologies to the lucky person sitting next to me.

The sense of accomplishment that I felt as we got off the van, knowing that my mind conquered the matter that was churning in my belly and begging for sweet release, was short lived.  Soon after stepping off the van I informed my battery mate that he'd better move unless he wanted to go shopping for new sneakers.  And with just the slightest contraction of my abdomen, I opened a valve that wouldn't close for quite some time.  As Marth sat in a row of hedges, dazzed beyond consciousness, I continued my new favorite ab exercise.

Before long, we composed ourselves and finally arrived back at my apartment.  I was surprised to see that my wife, a typically early sleeper, was still awake.  I was even more surprised when she said "What are you doing home so early?".  In my mind we had wrestled the night and were crawling in mere moments before dawn.  It was 10:30pm.

So I responded to her in the only way I could.  With one word I explained what we were doing home so early.  One simple word that I repeated over and over:  Drunk.

"Drunk.  Drunk.  Just....drunk.  So......drunk.  We're drunk.  Both...drunk"
Chiming in behind me the other pathetic victim of the night, "Drunk.  Totally....drunk".

Thankfully, Lindsey had already prepared Marth's bed and we were able to quickly begin our approach to a terrible morning.  Before going to bed I took a bag of pretzels into Marth so he'd have something in his stomach.  But as I approached the bed, it looked briefly like Terry Schiavo was a guest in my home.  With his mouth wide open and a gentle hum coming from his mouth, Marth was gone.  Again props to Lindsey for having the forethought to supply our drunken guest with a bucket to leave by the bed.  As I was to find out the next morning, it was needed...and it was used.  Often.  Another thing I discovered early the next morning, after both Lindsey and our guest had left for work (did I mention this was a work night?) I went to where our guest slept only to see that Marth....marthed all over the sheets.

Throughout that day, and partially into the next, Young's Chocolate Stout continued to appear and surprise me in a variety of ways.  At one point I thought I might have colon cancer.  But luckily the black tarry waste that led to this assumption had a soft aroma of chocolate.  This too shall pass.

I regret no part of that day (or night) and had a great time reliving my youth.  If nothing else it confirmed that I can still have fun...and am lucky enough to have friends willing to do the same.   I don't anticipate getting that drunk again anytime soon....if ever.  But I'll be damned if we didn't have a great time.  And as bad as I felt that next morning, I knew it could be worse....I could be some weird dentist laying wet and naked in an alley between tractor trailers in Chelsea.  I guess you had to be there...

Oh by the way - "Marth" is Adam Carta.  And he's a bad man.  A very bad man.

And so I say now what I said many, many times on this night:

Blah, Blah, Blahg!

As I mentioned earlier in the week, I was recently brought on board the team at The Bronx View, a great site dedicated to podcasts and blogs focused on the New York Yankees and baseball in general.

I encourage you to go to their site and check out my recent activities.

Click Here to listen to the podcast announcing my joining of The Bronx View team, and discussing my background, some Yankees memories and 2010 projections, and my upcoming column for the site: The Bill of Rights & Wrongs.

And Click Here to read the first installment of The Bill of Rights & Wrongs, released today.

I'm looking forward to having another outlet to shock and offend unsuspecting readers and to generally lower the standards of journalism.  I've had a hard enough time keeping this blahg as current as I would like, but I will try to juggle both commitments and put up new posts regularly.

I hope you like the new column and, if you're a Yankee fan, check out the rest of The Bronx View website.  It's put together by smart and informed guys that really know their stuff.

The say real journalists need a good sign-off, so I'm going to be trying some out over the next few weeks.

Goodnight and Good Luck....and Go F Yourself,
Blah, Blah, Blahg!

I know, I know.  I haven't posted a new blahg for 2 weeks.  I'm sorry, but I have excuses.

Reason #1
My computer is in critical condition and potentially dead due to a virus I got while downloading files from Limewire.  Beware the 'Dr. Guard' virus.  It is one angry bitch.  It all started when my lovely and generous wife surprised me with a new iPod (160G!) and I decided to start downloading some songs I'd been meaning to steal for quite some time....but as my 30G iPod was full, I was in no rush to pilfer.  Early into my indiscretions, Dr. Guard latched on to my machine like a sorority girl with lockjaw and brought my computer to a nosediving crash.  Luckily, all of my important files are backed up on an external hard-drive.  The real frustration is that I haven't even had a chance to upload files to the new iPod, so it remains as unused and untouched as an alter girl.

Lesson learned: When stealing files, use my wife's computer.

An IT guy at Lindsey's office is in the process of trying to help me over the phone, but he's been less than responsive over the past few days.  So until I speak with him again, I really won't know the fate of my almost 10 year old computer.

Reason #2
I have a new blog starting very soon.  A friend of mine from many years ago approached me to contribute to his website.  His site, The Bronx View, is focused on the New York Yankees and general baseball related articles, blogs and podcasts.  Evidently, he was looking for fresh and exciting writers to be featured on his site because he emailed me and said "Hey, we need someone to increase the number of dick jokes on our website".  I said, "I'm your man".   I'll let you know when the new blog (entitled: "The Bill of Rights and Wrongs") debuts.  Should be in just a few days.  My features won't necessarily be focused on baseball or the Yankees, but I'll probably weave them in to some aspect from time to time.

HEALTH UPDATE
I had mentioned early on in my Blahging that I would keep you all up to date as to my health status, as I had recently been diagnosed with hypertension and general fat-assedness.

Since going on daily blood pressure medication, I'm happy to report that my blood pressure has improved from 140/100 to 130/90.  The latest blood pressure reading was taken a few weeks ago, so hopefully it's improved even further.  Still some work to do, but any improvements are good from where I'm sitting.  Following these improved pressure levels I had to undergo a stress test to see if there was any heart disease active in my system.  Thankfully there is not.  Everything looks good.  My weight, however, can still use some focus.  I definitely haven't settled in to a daily exercise regiment, so the pounds are pretty much in a holding pattern.  I really do mean to create an exercise routine that I can stick to in the upcoming week.  Does anybody have any suggestions?  I tried something called the "Milkshake Diet" last week.  The quantity I ingested of these delicious concoctions left me bloated and lethargic, and seems to have led to a drastic case of lactose intolerance.  Now I see where the weight loss aspect plays into the "diet".

This has really just been a post to let you all know that I am aware of my lack of Blahg activity lately, and that I'll be more focused on this and my other blog in the next week.  I'll let you all know when The Bill of Rights and Wrongs is live.

In the mean time, I'd like to ask you all for any album and/or book recommendations that you'd like to see reviews of in the upcoming weeks.  I'm currently in the midst of putting a review together for Shutter Island (the movie), and I should be finishing the George Carlin autobiography Last Words shortly.  So I'm anxious to hear any suggestions of new albums and books to focus my attention on.

Also, my next blahg entry will likely be a recounting and reflection of a recent drunken adventure I had with my friend Adam in NYC a few weeks ago.  The drunken evening include dozens of beers, urinating in sinks, puking in buckets and the dehumanizing of a cab driver....and those are just some of Adam's activities.

Sorry again for my lack of updates.  It won't happen again.

Until next time,
Blah, Blah, Blahg!

On September 4, 2009 my wife and I got married.  It was a wonderful day with it's typical ups and downs, drama and comedy relief.  It was the best day of my life.  That was 6 months ago.  The ink is barely dry on our marriage license.  But now, due to a dirty little secret I just uncovered, I have to wonder if we'll make it a full year.  This is not a joke. 

My wife is cheating on me.

Six months ago, I serenaded her to 'Fly Me To The Moon'.  Had I known then what I know now, perhaps I would have chosen the song 'These Boots Are Made For Walking', or 'Your Cheatin' Heart'.  Or maybe, I should have just walked away.  Because today, I don't think I know her anymore.  I hesitate to say that I may not even want to know her.  But that sadly seems to be the truth.  ("Truth"....recognize that word Lindsey?)  Maybe it's just the hurt talking.  Maybe that's my pride trying to steady my legs after being kneecapped by deception.  They say you never see it coming, but that would never be me.  I'm an intelligent and grounded guy.  I can see people for what they really are.  You can't get one over on me.  Nope.  Not me.  Never, never, never.....
That's what I used to think.

...But then I looked on her computer.

I'm not a jealous person.  I'm not overbearing.  I'm not controlling.
I am trustworthy and trusting, and therein lies my downfall.  Perhaps I need to start doubting others, questioning their motives and morals.  Because there's no other way to say it - I've been had.  I've been made to look like a fool, and worst of all, I have the evidence to prove it (if it comes to the point that I need to prove it).

A dirty little secret becomes a filthy and sickening reality, a life-changer, when you see it in black & white.  I didn't go into her computer to investigate anything or to confirm any suspicions.  I was ignorantly happy and naive until her laptop spilled its guts.  And then there it was.  And here I am.  And I'm devastated.

HOW CAN YOU LOOK AT YOURSELF LINDSEY?!?!

There I was, sitting in Barnes & Noble, doing some work outside of the apartment to get a change of scenery.  So I took her laptop with me.  Got a cup of coffee and powered on Pandora's Box.

I was going to login to Facebook, so I just clicked on the little arrow to the right of the web address field, knowing that she surely visited that site recently.  (Anyone who knows Lindsey knows why this was more of a certainty than an assumption).  Little did I know that Facebook is what actually led to her indiscretion.  As soon as I clicked that arrow, her recently visited websites appeared....and there it was:

Scrabble Helper - Literati Word Builder
www.WINEVERYGAME.com

A few weeks ago, Lindsey and I started playing Scrabble online via Facebook.  A harmless game.  Friendly competition.  We even joked: "We are such an old married couple, playing Scrabble".  Little did I know that Lindsey's definition of an old married couple was a relationship in which one person honorably and innocently participates in life with a snake.

I suppose I should have seen it coming.  All the signs were there.  Let me paint the picture for you.

February 23, 2010:  Game 1
Billy - 252
Lindsey - 199

February 25, 2010: Game 2
Billy - 299
Lindsey - 164

March 1, 2010: Game 3
Billy - 360
Lindsey - 166

Games 4 and 5 had similar results, but Lindsey was starting to score in the 200's.  And I think my jokes and jabs about her consistent use of 3 and 4-letter words were starting to aggravate her.  So much so that I started to see larger words being used which helped to take her scores into the mid-200's.  Words like 'oocyte' and 'merino' starting racking up some decent points.  'Good for her', I thought, 'I sure am enjoying these fair and competitive matches'.

And then she got greedy.

Game 7 included such gems from Lindsey as 'ozonise', 'pulsant', and my personal favorite, 'faqir'.  After these turns I actually said to her, "Wow!  Nice one.  That's a great word".  To which Cheaty McCheats-alot replied, "Yeah, I just threw some letters together to see if they'd work".  At one point she had a 40-50 point lead.  Towards the end of the game I was able to bring the match to a respectable 1 point defecit, with Lindsey ultimately winning 280-to-272.  She very graciously said, "You did a great job of coming back", and won with seeming grace and class.  I hope she was silently wracked with guilt and shame.

So now, I am forced to decide if I shall continue to play with the crooked liar that is my wife.

FYI - We are in the early stages of a new game in which her last turn awarded her 14 points for the word 'ohia'.

I'm curious Lindsey, if you had the following tiles, what word could you form?:
TRAHEEC

For now, I'm going to go about my other Scrabble games with honor and dignity and attempt with all of my might to save this marriage which has been sullied and defiled by infidelity and foul play.

Lindsey, you are so busted!

Hbla, Lbah, Blahg!

In the almost 4 months of my run of unemployment, I have learned a number of things about human nature, business principles, and the value of foresight.

First and foremost, if you're working for a company that seems to be on the verge of implosion, there is no benefit to loyalty or charity.  Self preservation is the name of the game.  Update your resume; Reconnect with any and all contacts; Find recruiter(s) (ideally, you already have at least one who knows your career path and status); Begin looking for empty boxes to pack up your shit, because once they drop the hammer most companies find your presence to be about as welcome as a fart at a funeral. 

One of the key hypocrisies of Corporate America is that any company demands of their employees unquestioned loyalty and dedication, however, these are two of the last things they're willing to offer you.  Too often, the singular focus of a corporation is the bottom line, regardless of the efforts and sacrifices made by the people assisting in fattening the wallets of the guys in the corner offices.  No more are the days when a person can expect they'll retire with a company.  No more gold watches, retirement parties, or good-luck balloons.  My consolation gift was that my boss told me that I could 'finish out the season' with my fantasy football team.  This was also basically the extent of my severance package.  For 5 1/2 years of loyalty and dedication, I received a firm handshake, a couple paychecks, a month of insurance, and the use of Payton Manning every Sunday for a few more weeks.  So, being the mature-type who doesn't hold a grudge, I quickly changed my fantasy team name from the Bayonne Wife Beaters to the Poughkeepsie Pink Slips.  What can I say - I'm a 'high road' kind of guy.

When it was my time, as described, the writing had been on the wall for months.  Sales down, quarterly revenues sliding sharply, non-billing consultants being let go, and one douche bag sales guy trying to save his own ass asking the CEO 'Do we really need marketing?' when the boss asked for cost-savings recommendations (another tell-tale sign of a doomed company).  And being that I was the entire marketing department, he was basically saying 'Can we get rid of Bill instead of me?'.  It's amazing how some people's survival instinct works.  In a burning building you can either attempt to create order and marshall people to safety, or you can create chaos and attempt to save yourself at any cost to those around you.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST.....RIGHT AFTER THE DOUCHEBAGS!

Thankfully, there were more people than not included in that 'cost-savings' meeting who insisted it would be a mistake to get rid of marketing (i.e. 'yours truly'), confirming that my job was getting done.  I was achieving what I was getting paid to do.  The disconnect was elsewhere, and in all honesty, caused by the state of the economy.  So, when the economy wasn't improving and clients continued to not spend money, the seed that Old MacDouchebag planted had grown to full bloom and finally and inevitably the CEO called my into his office and asked me to close the door.

What has happened since has been at times surprising, typical, awkward and infuriating.  Here is a brief collection of true stories from my time on the Unemployment Frontline:

• At that closed door meeting with my boss, after telling me that letting me go was one of the hardest things he's ever had to do professionally (what do you want, my sympathy?  Save it - To me, your empathy can be measured only by the size of the severance package you give me...which wasn't much.  So spare me your pity and give me something I can use), told me to go meet with HR.   I've never been downsized before, but I'm pretty sure it is not professional etiquette for the HR Director to shed a tear while going over your package.  That, however, meant so much more to me than the empty words and condolences that I just got from the corner office.  At this company, many of us were accustomed to being left out in terms of consideration and being rewarded for our efforts.  So the employees, for the most part, were a pretty tight-knit crew.  Unified by a foundation of abuse: Like hostages; kidnap victims; cult members - A band of brothers were we.  And so it was will sincerity and thanks that we hugged and promised to stay in touch.  And we have.  And I have been taken to lunch and been offered assistance from a number of other ex-coworkers who know what it's like to be in my shoes, and are anxiously awaiting a set of similar shoes themselves.  It really is a shitty situation to go down with a sinking ship.  You see lots of people you know, and sometimes even care about, dealt significant personal and financial blows; witness the often selfish and predatory nature of business and humanity that makes you really wonder why you subject yourself to the shallow world of Corporate America (something I've asked myself for years), and you really start to consider what your options are outside of the crooked streets and dark alleys that seem to form the landscape of CorpAm.  But the camaraderie and genuine outreach of support from (ex)co-workers, family, friends, and fellow victims helps to affirm the positive qualities of humanity.  In a way, I feel naive to want or accept their help, because honestly....there must be a better way to make a living.  But I have truly appreciated everything that people have done for me, be it through assistance, encouragement, or the donation of beer.
  
  And sometimes the "assistance" you receive is hysterically inappropriate.  Which brings me to my next true story...
  
  
• I received a call early on into my "situation" from a recruiter.  Someone who was a friend of a friend who wanted to help me in my search.  I had never heard of this guy before or spoken to him on any level, yet when he called he acted as if we were old pals: "Billy.  I heard what's going on, and I feel terrible.  I can't believe your company did this to you...but don't worry, we're going to find you something".   At which point I said, "Great.  Who is this?"
  
  He went on to explain who he was and how he was referred to me.  But his persona was so obnoxious and off-putting that I knew early on that I would not be using him in any way to represent me or guide me in my career growth.  And after an unsolicited and unfruitful 45-minute phone call, I was just about fed-up with his act of charity and kindness.  But had I hung up when I wanted to, I never would have heard the greatest piece of advice I've ever received from a recruiter....or anybody, for that matter.  EVER. 
  
  As he went through my resume and offered suggestions for how to improve it, like, for example, shortening it to 1 page, which in case you didn't know is (cover your eyes Ms. Palin) retarded.  Or, that maybe I should include a picture of myself on the resume.  Do you know who submits pictures of themselves during the interview process?  Models (which I am not....by choice), child molesters (which I am not...by choice), and (one more time Ms. Palin) retards (which I am not....by chromosome).  Seriously, what kind of recruiter recommends doing this?  But it was in his final recommendation that almost made me happy to be unemployed.  Because if I hadn't been, I never would have heard this piece of advice: "You know what I've noticed that you should probably add to your resume?  You should say somewhere that you're married...because then the company would know that they're not talking to a queer.  Which would make them feel better."  This, I swear, is 100% true.  And he wasn't doing it for a laugh.  It was a sincere recommendation to help in my job search...and to help shield potential employers from having to speak to queers.  As soon as he said it, I was filled with uncharted levels of joy, satisfaction, and amazement.  I may have just spent close to an hour on the phone with this idiot....but it paid off with one of the most fantastically inappropriate and hysterical sentences I've ever heard.  And I may be unemployed, and I may be feeling bad about myself....but it could be worse.  I could be this guy.  I mean, seriously...who says 'queer' anymore.  That's so silly.  Everyone knows they're called 'homos'....right?
  
  
• Interviewing has been a series of highs and lows. 
  The highs have come in seeing some companies that are structured well, seem to know how to treat employees and reward their sacrifices and efforts.  These have been rather few and far between...but they're there.  Unfortunately, one that I really liked came down to me and one other person for a great position that really fit my background and had a well established and well managed marketing department.  However, my lack of experience in working for large organizations was the factor that shifted the scales towards the other candidate.  It was infuriating that I have a successful and referenceable background doing all of the projects that the position required, yet it was my lack of exposure to supporting a salesforce of 100+ people that was the deciding factor.  My background is in supporting closer to 15-25 sales people.  They knew this before I met with 6 different people....but decided to wait until I got my hopes up before they let me know.  But that was still a relative 'high'.
  
  A moderate-low came when a recruiter set me up for a well paying marketing position at a nearby technical consulting firm.  I got to the interview about 15 mins early, told them who I was there to see, and was told to have a seat.  About 10 minutes later, a very confused and frazzled assistant came to me to confirm who I was there to see.  She then asked if this meeting was confirmed by the person I was meeting with.  When I told her it was, she explained that her boss, the person with whom I was scheduled to be interviewed by, was on a call but would be with me "very shortly".  Then she nervously drifted away.  So I stayed in the lobby area, but looked out into the sea of cubicles to get a view of the work environment.  At which point it occured to me that it was completely silent.  Nobody was on a phone.  Nobody was talking to anyone else on the floor.  Nobody was playing music.  Nobody was smiling or doing anything but staring at their computer monitor.  Oh, and EVERYBODY WAS INDIAN.  This wouldn't be a big deal usually.  I'm very culturally friendly to any and all nationalities, races, and religions.....except black Irish jews.  I hate them.  But I would be the ONLY white person amongst 100+ Indians.  Kind of like General Custer....except I'm talking about the other kind of Indians.  All of whom didn't talk, didn't smile, and didn't make a noise.  And anyone that knows me knows that I do all of those things....a lot.  It just didn't feel right.  Not so much the ethnic difference, but more that there was no pulse in the office.  So, I continue to wait and wait...and wait.  Every so often often someone would come around and ask who I was waiting for.  Ask if I would like something to drink.  The assistant came back to confirm that the person was still on the phone.  Finally, after a full hour of waiting, I left a very polite note for the person who had kept me waiting and said that I could see she's very busy and maybe we should reschedule for another time.  I went to my car, called the recruiter who then called the person who stood me up.  The recruiter called me back and explained that the woman was so extremely sorry and truly apologized for wasting my time, and would like to reschedule ASAP.  I explained to the recruiter that the vibe didn't feel right and that I didn't think I was interested in rescheduling.  And then, on my way home, I stopped somewhere for some awesome tikka masala.
  
  The low-low came via a job search that lead me to a company that provides virtual and visual networking services.  My expectations upon visiting their website were quite low.  Their site was shit, their profile of services was vague, and their overall corporate identity was lacking.  But, I figured, I could use this as good interviewing practice.  So I went to their office, was asked to wait in the dimly lit lobby and fill out an application (some places, both legitimate and bullshit companies, still require people to fill out resumes which is so demeaning and tacky in my opinion), and then I waited for the interview to begin.  I waited in the dark for 20 minutes.  Finally my interviewer, an HR rep, came for me.  He graciously apologized then led me to a conference room.  We sat for about 10 minutes, talking about my background and the position.  He then got up and said, 'OK, I am going to see if I can find someone else to meet with you'.  This resulted in me sitting alone in the conference room for 30 minutes.  However, when the next guy came in, he was surprisingly sharp and interesting and actually tricked me into thinking the company might have something going for itself.  So when they invited me back for a second interview, I reluctantly agreed.  This time, the interview didn't start until 6pm....a very bad sign.  What kind of overworked employee(s) are expected to go through an interview process so late in the day, versus going home to their family?  What kind of corporate philosophy is behind that?  So I show up, and again I wait in the dim lobby for another 20-25 mins.  The same HR dope came out finally, with another candidate for what I assumed was the same position.  Again we met for 10 minutes while he went over all the same questions again.  I asked him who I would be meeting with during this meeting.  His reply was, 'We're going to have you meet with a few people'.  Specifics were not this companies strong suit.  So he excused himself and went to go see if someone was available to meet with me.  Each time he left, it was clear that there was no agenda for who I'd be meeting with.  If Brian from Accounting was not actively crunching numbers, I would surely meet with Brian.  If Janice from IT wasn't actively playing Minesweeper, I would meet with Janice.  If Dan from Sales wasn't actively working for a decent company, i would meet with Dan.  So of course...I met with Dan.
  
  "Dan" was a 60 year old sales guy that I could only compare to The Simpsons' character Gil.  A dead-end guy in a dead-end job.  Nothing goes right for ol' Gil...and the same was true of Dan.  He was a broken and depressed man who, if I had to guess, was one lost sale away from killing himself and everybody in that office.  We met for about 30 minutes, and when it was over, I found that I had been involuntarily attempting to slice my wrists with my thumbnail for the past 15 minutes.  Suddenly, Dan got up and said. 'Oh, I need to see somebody about something before he leaves for the day...I'll be right back'.  After 30 minutes, I knew he wasn't coming back.  Honestly.  I waited for 30 minutes.  All I wanted to do was leave, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I stayed.  Clearly, that was a mistake.  Finally after 45 minutes (it is now, 8pm - I got there at 6pm....I've met with 2 people for a total of 45 minutes in these 2 hours) the next person comes it.  It's the HR guy again with a man who was about 5 feet tall, had a platinum-dyed crew cut, and was clearly hooked on some form of steroids.  This addiction was clear by his physique, his overly aggressive personality (with potential hints of cocaine), and the acne all over his face.  This, as I find out, is the CEO of the company. 
  
  Our conversation started like this:
  Steroid Douche: "Brad?"
  Me: "Bill"
  Steroid Douche: "Bill.  Sorry.  Ok, you've met with my guys.  They like you.  They say I should meet you.  If you were me, what would you ask you?"
  Me: "I'm sorry, what?"
  Steroid Douche: "Yeah, I don't do "normal", you should learn that about me.  So, this is how we're going to do this interview.  I ask you, 'what would you ask you if you were me?'"
  
  (I saw this was going nowhere, so I decided to see if he a) had a sense of humor, and b) understood sarcasm.)
  
  Me: "Well, if I were you asking me a question, I would ask me: 'If you were me, what would you ask you?'".
  
  He had no sense of humor.  What followed was a very awkward and ridiculous view into a warped man running a company full of warped personalities.  We exchanged some ideas about the position and some strategy Q&A, and when it was all over, I thanked him for his time and he said they would most definitely be in touch.
  
  To my surprise, they never did contact me.  I wasn't sure if I should be upset or relieved.  Either way, I was never going to pursue a job with the company...but it's nice to be asked.  It always better to be the dumper than the dump-ed, and after the time, effort, and awkwardness they put me through, I really wanted to be the one to dump them.  Oh well, always a bridesmaid never a coked-up platinum-haired Napoleonic sociopath.

Well, that's what's going on at the Frontline of Unemployment.
I suppose I could have made this a few Blahg! entries instead of one long one, but I'm still learning about how and when to post these things.  So you'll just have to deal with it.

These stories are 100% true and a glimpse into insanity behind trying to find a worthwhile way to spend over 50% of your life.  Finding a job is not something to take lightly.  I'm resigned to not take the first job offered, or the highest paying job, unless it happens to be one that I feel I will get some satisfaction from.  I have already wasted way too much time working for people that do not appreciate my time/effort, and receiving little fulfillment from the job to boot. 

Success, to me, is the guy that wakes up everyday and enjoys the job he's going to and has personal time to appreciate his life and everyone in it.  Money has very little to do with it.

Hopefully I'll be able to write about the stress and anxiety that comes with a new job soon, but until then...

Blah, Blah, Blahg!

Did you ever get the feeling that you were born in the wrong era?  Maybe it's an affinity for the styles, the music, the social attitudes and expectations.  Or maybe it's just a general feeling of not fitting in to where you are.

For me, I've always felt I was born a couple of generations too late.  I should have been hitting my stride right after The War....you know, the big one, WWII....or maybe a decade later, to have been hitting the sock-hops and parking at Inspiration Point with my best girl.  That's when I think the stork should have dropped me off. 

I spend a good portion of my tv time on Turner Classic Movies.  Watching the great black & white detective movies, screwball comedies, and epic masterpieces.  My iPod is filled with music from today, but also with a bunch of standards and oldies: Sinatra, Big Band, Coltrane and his fellow jazz hounds.  Progressing to the foundations of rock & roll with Chuck Berry, The Beach Boys, and Doo-Wop.  Music that to me is timeless because it set the standard for all modern music that was to follow it. 

These were times when art reflected a seemingly simpler time.  When society roles were clearly defined, but conformity was slowly fading away.  A time with innocence on the surface but an underlying unspoken and festering rebellion if you scratch the surface a little.  I picture it like living in a film noir.  Where men carried a certain weight on their shoulders, a result of the daily grind.  Caused perhaps from the street corner grifting and run-ins with the typically shady characters that seemed to paint the landscape, both the perpetually rich and the hopelessly broke.  A time when an implicit and understood caste system was in place.  And a man's life was spent defying his status or resigning to fate.  Either way, there seemed to be no struggle that a few high-balls and the company of a dame with questionable morals couldn't fix.  Every home had a bar with crystal decanters filled with scotch, rye, bourbon and gin.  And every room had a low hanging ceiling of Chesterfield or Pall Mall smoke.  And while men held their dominance, women were beginning to exhibit their own power.  A strength drawn from the awakening of their sexuality and embracing the liberation of showing off their gams above the knee.  There's a certain radiance that comes from women like Veronica Lake and Rita Hayworth, because they're among the first to make being unladylike very womanly.

I've always been drawn to characters and personalities that seem to exemplify these times.  Any character Cary Grant played was someone whose shoes I wanted to walk in for a few days.  One part confidence, one part charm, a dash of ne'er-do-well, and a twist of unapologetic selfish desire.  Or to be an entertainer in those days.  Dressed in a sharp tuxedo, hair slicked back.  Surrounded by broads willing to bend to your every whim for fear of being kissed by the back of your hand.  Being sent drinks by the local mobsters and taken out to eat with the infamous legends of the underworld.  To do that today, you'd be marked as a troubled risk and general douche bag.  But back in the day, you'd be looked on as, well...Sinatra.  Oh, how times have changed.

On the other hand I've felt a direct kinship with the polar opposite characters of someone like Holden Caufield who is in his formative years during this time (give or take a few years), or James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause.  The quintessential disenfranchised youth, who sees the hypocrisy, abuse, and false bravado inherent in personalities like those.  Looking upon the selfish and arrogant with a disdain that can only come from a history of neglect and disregard.  And there is still something comforting but exciting about women like Myrna Loy, Grace Kelly, Donna Reed, and Ingrid Bergman.  Powerful women who entice with their brains more than their frames.

Life seemed easier back them, even though it was a culture shaken by a global war, crippling economic struggles, and threats from the advancements of weapons, and mysteries of illness and disease.  I guess a lot hasn't changed.  The good old days might be alive and well...and just as scary and unsure as ever.

Well, at least we have polar ice caps that we can depend on, stable and loyal companies that we'll probably retire with, affordable homes to raise a family in, and a country that provides the basic needs that everyone needs to live, like affordable health care and education.

Maybe yesterday seems so much easier and simpler because today is so fraught with doubt, anxiety, and the potential for incomparable disasters.

Which is great because today I'm unemployed, have hypertension, and live in an apartment with no parking and inflated rent.  And if I've learned anything it's that tomorrow's problems will make today's look silly and insignificant.

You'll excuse me while I go look through my kitchen cabinets for some bourbon...or scotch....or paint thinner.

Here's to tomorrow being better than yesterday.  And good riddance to today.

Blah, Blah, Blahg!

For over 3 months now, I've been a member of an increasingly less elite society known as The Unemployed.  "On the Dole"; "Working for the State"; "Working as a Job Market Analyst", "Protecting the Couch".  Anyway you say it, the reality is the same.  To be perfectly honest, I did not expect this 'status' to last this long.  I assumed, ignorantly, that I'd be back to drinking free coffee in a couple of months....tops.  However, I'm a firm believer that any situation, no matter how depressing or dire, is not entirely bad as long as you can walk away from it having learned something from the experience.  These don't necessarily have to be life lessons or cornerstones of knowledge.  Sometimes simple, trivial lessons will stay with you just as long as the life changers.  And so, I'm happy to report, that in these less than ideal 3 months, I've learned a thing or two about a thing or two that I thought I'd share with all of my faithful followers.  Both of you.

Lesson 1:  Jesus Is Not Circumcised
Is this guy the worst Jew in in the world, or what?  It's true.  Last week I took a day off from interviewing and submitting resumes to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  And while I may in fact be the least religious person you'll ever meet, I was really impressed with the collection of religious-themed art at the museum.  From oil paintings by Jacopo Palma, Hendrick ter Brugghen, Gerard David, and Georges de la Tourto, to drawings and frescos by Giolfino and Ghirlandaio, to a variety of sculptures capturing Jesus in various stages of life, I was really impressed not only by the pieces themselves but by the sheer influence of religion on the artists.  But in all of the pieces, one thing was constant....Jesus' "piece".  In those that had the audacity to feature the holy rod, Jesus was uncircumcised.  Which begs the question, when the Three Wise Men journeyed long days and nights across a desert to visit the boy child, what the hell was the mohel doing that was so important?  I mean, wouldn't this be the schmuck of all schmucks to have on your mantle?  The schmuck of schmucks from the king of kings.  (A 'schmuck', by the way, is Yiddish for the clipped foreskin...how great is that?).  There was only a handful of paintings showing Jesus'...handful.  Most were of him as a baby w/ Mary.  But they all showed an intact and unmanipulated...holy turtleneck.  I found it interesting that images of a nude Jesus were ever commissioned, esteemed, and widely regarded as acceptable.  I myself have no problem with them, but in today's world, wouldn't the typical conservative religious zealot condemn an artist who had the gall to create a piece of art showing this side of Jesus?  Well, maybe not if it was a baby Jesus.  Explain that one.  At some point we've actually grown more conservative as a society, in regards to showcasing and admiring the nude figure.  More conservative than the days of crucifixions and inquisitions.

But back to my point.  Jesus, or more accurately, Mary and Joseph were terrible Jews.  The uncircumcised King of the Jews.  And if you look closely at DaVinci's Last Supper, you'll see that Jesus and his disciples are dining on a meal of shrimp cocktail and baked Virginia ham.  SINNER!!!!

Lesson 2:  Drew Carey Is On Celebrity Death Watch
I have spent enough time at home these days to confirm that this country is severely lacking in any decent daytime game shows.  That was always one of the best parts of staying home from school for me, after feigning a mysterious illness.  I would have a seemingly unlimited selection of game shows to watch: Card Sharks, Sale of the Century, Tic-Tac-Dough, Scrabble, Win Lose or Draw, Classic Concentration, The Joker's Wild.  So many great shows have now been replaced with Maury's daily paternity test, countless "Judge X" shows, and a variety of talk shows whose hosts have no qualifications to be doling out advice: medical, relationship, financial, or otherwise.  (PS - Have you seen this Wendy Williams?  What the fuck kind of head is that?  She looks like RuPaul and Skelator had an annoying, large-breasted, big-mouthed child.  Or the love child of Dionne Warwick and a kabuki mask).  And now the only daytime game shows are The Price Is Right with Drew Carey, which is just as monotonous and annoying a show as the original, with Drew Carey clearly depressed, phoning it in, and on the verge of a "Ray Combs".  And Let's Make A Deal, with the remarkably unfunny Wayne Brady whose 'Whose Line Is It Anyway?' heyday has clearly left him jaded and wondering how he can work an improvised song into any project to receive even a brief taste of those applause which used to come so easily.

Lesson 3:  Girls Have A Wenus
My lovely bride recently informed me that the little patch of Silly Putty on your elbow is called a 'wenus' which rhymes with...Jesus' unclipped member.  This lesson has nothing to do with my time on unemployment, it just happened to coincide with this stage in life.  Either way, I thought it was important enough to share.  Since laying this wisdom on me, Lindsey has taken to often pulling and playing with my wenus in public.  At which point I typically and enthusiastically tell her to "stop touching my wenus" at full volume.  Sometimes, public embarrassment is the best way to teach someone that it's not ok to touch your wenus.  No means no, you dirty wenus touchers.

Lesson 4: I Have Stuff To Talk About
Late into this 3 month employment challenge, I created this website and Blahg.  And while it's still gaining followers and finding its purpose, I am very appreciative to everyone who is reading and checking-in and commenting on its various components.  I'm glad to have found an outlet and reason to collect my thoughts and opinions and share them with everyone willing to read.  So, thank you for stopping by once and while.  Thanks for sending me your words of encouragement.  And thanks for being patient with me when I lapse on updating the Blahgs, Recommendations, and other yet-to-be-completed sections.  (FYI - I plan to work on the Food section this weekend...check back soon!)  My intent is to post new Blahgs at least once a week, but hopefully that will often be twice a week or more.

Thanks for checking in.  But now, I must log-off and resume playing with my wenus.

If any of this content offended you...I don't care.
Blah, Blah, Blahg!

The trip to the cardiologist was thankfully anti-climactic.  A few things were sorted out which I'll post to serve as an accurate document of my vital stats as I begin to track my progress toward improving my ticking time-bomb...I mean, ticker. 

My blood pressure was a more manageable, if not still elevated, 140/100.  Confirming that the 160/115 reading taken last week was either altogether wrong, or at least an isolated incident.  I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the walk-in clinic in Hoboken might not be renowned for their technical efficiency.  That being said, the blood pressure is still high.  My weight is a confirmed 234 lbs (with clothes)...so let's call it, an even 190 lbs.

Without going into full disclosure, the doctor was optimistic about my status and confident in a course of low-maintenance treatment to get some levels to where they should be.  While most things were in check, there were some things that he'd like to see improved.  So he started me on a minor dosage of meds to begin correcting my high blood pressure (aka hypertension), meds that I can plan on staying on for the rest of my life...give or take a few weeks.  In 2 weeks I'll go back and see how I'm reacting to the meds at which point, assuming I'm reacting favorably, I will undergo a stress test and echocardiogram to paint a more accurate picture of everything going on.

So that's where we stand:
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Blood Pressure: 140/100
Weight: 185 lbs (I lost another 5 pounds writing this blahg...exercise is easy)

I'll revisit this topic in a few weeks, once things start taking shape. 
But for now, I hope that my next few entries have nothing to do with my health.

Until then,
Blah, Blah, Blahg!