floorpie

The picture has nothing to do with this post other than the uninteresting or relevant detail that I watched a little bit of the U.S. vs Italy World Cup game over the weekend.

More importantly, if I learned anything from Tony Pierce’s list of lessons on how to blog (and, really, I learned more than one thing), it was that: #17. people like pictures.

Although, if it were my lesson, I would have changed it somewhat. I feel I can do that, even if I am but a small droplet in the ocean of Tony’s popularity because I’ve been blogging for… let me check… almost five and a half fucking years! Since nearly the beginning. Sad (or possibly) admirable that I still have the same 5 readers. At any rate, my list would read nearly the same with the following modification:

17. people like pictures… of hot chicks kissing.

I don’t think he’d protest.

I watched the aforementioned world cup game which this picture barely references in the waiting room of the tire place. After more than a week, I was finally able to track down a place that had the same tire as my other three, non-blown-up ones, and was determined to get the thing fixed. It’s hard enough to look like you have your shit together without riding around on an obvious spare.

It’s been a while since I’ve bought tires, so imagine my surprise when the total came to $270.

For one tire.

Without Armorall.

Or a tire rotation thrown in for good measure.

Write it out and it’s even more impressive: two hundred and seventy dollars for a single tire!

When I was given the total, I blinked slowly and said, “Is that for two?” because it is a well-known fact that tire guys like to sell you a pair with the explanation that it will provide more even wear. The guy (who, admittedly, was very cool) blinked slowly back, and said “Just the one,” without malice or ridicule, which I appreciated.

Someone else in the room offered the opinion that with the price of oil going up, rubber was also at a premium; which, though plausible, did little to soften the blow. $270 fucking dollars! It’s going to be hard to nurse my drinking habit with setbacks like this.

I have a statement to make; and, based on the statistics, you’re not going to like it:

The Da Vinci Code was a waste of my time.

Not the movie, which I haven’t seen, but the book. I couldn’t find an up to date figure in the 34 seconds I searched for one, but my borrowed copy proclaims “over 40 million copies sold” and “worldwide best seller”.

The problem I have with this? It was just your run-of-the-mill murdermysterysuspensethriller. Not particularly good, not particularly bad… and I am baffled. At least I was, that is, until I realized that the majority of people don’t read regularly (my own made-up statistic) and a lot of the bedazzlement might stem from the personal achievement of finishing a book almost 500 pages long. “Look at me! I’m reading!”

Perhaps I’m being too harsh and a bit of a book snob (both true). I’m not running off to the Louvre with a shovel, though, I’ll tell you that much.

Seriously, though, church groups are up in arms over this? News shows are dedicated to it? Hell, I’m bothering to even post about it?

I don’t get it. To be honest, I was even a little embarrassed to add it to my list thinking that I was duped in some way, and followed everyone else over a cliff like a lemming. Which is true, in fact. Luckily, I also just finished Underworld the same day… so I can add that one, too and hide my shame. 832 pages! Look at me!

Here’s a question: take a purely hypothetical situation like, say, you’re really in to this, err, TV show, and you like broadcasting it all the time, spending a lot of time examining the script, and generally watching the hell out of it. The problem is, the TV show is also broadcast on another network and…

Innuendos are hard work.

Again, only with the truth inserted: Say you’re really in to this girl. You like spending time with her, talking on the phone, and generally being wherever it is she is. You’ve gone out a few times, and work meetings in between both of your busy schedules as often as possible. The problem is, she’s dating someone else, (who could more correctly be described as her boyfriend). You didn’t know this at first, because she was always evasive about it… and you didn’t want it to be true, either. Obviously, she shouldn’t be hanging out with you as much, or like, she does. You both know it. You both even talk about it. In fact, you’ll probably talk about it when she comes over tonight.

The question is: is this my problem? Half of my friends say yes, half of my friends say no; but what of the internets? In the past, I’ve been doggedly moral, to the point of denying myself all kinds of good stuff for the undefined greater good. Global morality was not only my problem, it was my responsibility.

Nowadays, I have a different persepctive. I do whatever the hell I want (and beat myself up for it, later).

But seriously, is it my responsibility to make sure someone else does the right thing? Or is all truely fair in love and war?

Now serving Number FOUR

A few things of note happened last week:

.: My truck was rear-ended for the fourth time (here’s my post about the 3rd with subsequent links to the 1st and 2nd) in six months. This time, there’s some body-damage, and I’m still not even sure I’m going to bother with pursuing the guy or getting it fixed. The reason being that I’m still too busy trying to solve the problem that happened the day before which was that…
.: one of my tires exploded. Luckily, I have a full-size spare so I’m at least reasonably safe driving around until I get a new tire. Unfortunately, the model I have is apparently not all that common so it is more of a challenge than I would have though.
.: and I crashed on my friend’s bike (through almost no fault of my own). It turns out the machine had some rather spectacular mechanical deficiencies that resulted in a rather spectacular crash. The end result being that I’m limping around not unlike the time I sprained my ankle really badly, and will have to forego the ocean for a while what with the open seeping road rash.

Despite these minor setbacks, I remain in good spirits. The theory has been proposed that this is all karmic whiplash from how I’m living my life. The only thing I could think of that could possibly be construed as a source of negative karma would be the way I’ve been hanging out with the women of LA, lately. In which case, all this stuff is a small price to pay for the fun I’ve been having. I’ll accept the hit happily.

You know what’s weird? People’s voices. We’re all built with the same blueprints, the same basic genetic material, and the same organs and biological functions. Yet, like fingerprints we all have different voices.

These are the things I think about.

Have you ever really listened to people talking? Not necessarily to what they are saying but how? I found it fascinating in a meeting the other day, judging the tone and timbre of different people’s sounds and realizing how easily you could identify someone out of sight just with a few simple words.

I’m sure this is astounding absolutely no one.

The thing that freaked me out, though, was that, coupled with the fact that we’re all made from the same stuff, is that in a lot of cases we can emulate someone else. So, we obviously have the potential to sound the same, we just don’t for some reason.

Maybe I should stay out of the liquor cabinet.

.: Lisa Whiteman reminds me that I don’t do as much creative with my life as I used to. This is a good thing, and it is inspiring to the point of action. Watch her short film, The Follower, it’s a little bit brilliant, a little bit rock ‘n roll.

Penelope Cruz/Matthew Naked-Bongos split up

And you know what that means: I still have absolutely zero chance of ever meeting or coming in contact with her.

I’ll have to add her to the List of Never Happen which includes Jennifer Love Hewitt, Jessica Alba, Paris Hilton on good days, Pam Anderson 5-10 years ago, and that girl I met at Pasta Pomodoro.

Speaking of the above, I’ve simplified my life quite a bit by coming to an understanding with Miniature Golf Girl and putting an end to Rebecca Romijn. This leaves a few other non-nicknamed girls out there, but for all intents and purposes I’m continuing my streak of singledom prompted from my break-up with ADG. In the past, I typically went from one relationship to the next, some of them long (6 years) and some of them short (6 months); but none of them would be considered “just dating”.

Now, however, I’m completely the opposite and have shunned any kind of inkling of a relationship (as was expected of me with Minature Golf Girl and Rebecca Romijn… which is why I had to bolt). The more astute of you will probably surmise that this is predicated by whatever happened with ADG, and you’d be right.

When you get run over by a truck you try to stay off the freeway, you know what I mean?

Since the Break-Up of Ought-Five, I’ve dated [edited for decency] girls (yes, I made a list like a dork) with varying degress of success and interest. And this doesn’t include the handful of other, err, “experiences” that have been smattered in between. The fact that I’ve doubled my lifetime number before the break-up in the year since, is either admirable or alarming. Either way, it at least illustrates that I definitely got knocked for a loop… or got some sense knocked into me (depends on how you look at it).

Lately, I feel like I’ve been coming out of it a bit, and am maybe looking for something more permanent… though if you ask Rebecca Romijn or Miniature Golf Girl they might have an alternate viewpoint.

I don’t much remember my childhood. More specifically, the names or faces of my elementary school teachers, or the classes they taught. I assume I had classes, I seem to recall getting graded by checkmarks and stars; but the details of where they came from is a little hazy.

I feel like there’s something wrong for me for not remembering.

As long as we’re talking about not remembering, I also don’t remember having any childhood friends, though I must have for my parents to have the stories that they do. Unless, of course, they got together one afternoon and collectively decided to manufacture a life for me; one that didn’t reflect the truth of my lying in bed alone from age 4 to 10, or my successful childhood attempt of constructing my own reality replete with imaginary friends and entertainment.

That’s all in theory, of course.

The executive summary:

– The M Bar, Daddy’s, and TOT
– helping a friend move in Glendale coupled with getting to destroy a couch
– The beach
– Mountain biking
– BBQ at my house

Where, in the world, is Carmen Sandiego?

If she’s anything like me, she’s been working, more or less, for two weeks straight. Get up, go to work, put in 8+ hours, come home, eat something, put in another 3-4 hours, go to sleep, repeat.

It’s gotten to the point where I’ve even been working from home and it’s actually meant what I said it was (as opposed to the usual “working” from home, with exaggerated air quotes)… all because I can’t afford the hour and a half of combined driving time.

Because of all of this working, my personal life has, of course, suffered some casualties. Miniature Golf girl got sick of my not having time for her, and I can’t say I blame her. Rebecca Romijn’s look-alike is getting close to the same, and I can’t say I blame her, either. Thus, the horrors of war, you see.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m attempting to kick the caffeine habit, again. I thought I had this bastard licked; that I could cut out all caffeinated beverages (unless they had alcohol in them), and still have Pepsi in my fridge should guests want them (or if there was the aforementioned alcohol involved).

Alas, nay.

So fucking nay, in fact, that I plowed through a couple of cases before I realized that I was pretty much back on my 2-3 a day habit. I’d gained back a few pounds, as well, and I’m not going to be able to pass myself off as a seemingly well to-do 25 year old that way. So I had to quit…again.

“No problem,” I thought to myself with confidence and bravado, “One, it’s only been a couple of weeks; and, two, I’ve done it before… I can do it again.” And, I’m on Day Three.

The thing that amazes me, though, is that I have (again) been having excruciating, all-day, migraine-esque headaches. I’ve been back on the sauce for maybe two weeks! In the beginning of that span, it was only one every other day or so, and it eventually grew to about 2 a day, and 3 in one day possibly once. Granted, that’s no insignificant, but to be going through withdrawals?

Caffeine is a little whiny bitch.

As a reprieve, I’m going to be seeing the Thai Singer tomorrow night and I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up with a coke in my hand (with alcohol). Maybe there’s a god afterall.

There are only two people in the world that call me “David”. One is named “Mom” and the other is named “Dad”. Somehow, to everyone else I’ve always been a “Dave”.

Granted, when I was younger, teachers usually called me “David” or “Mr. Kleeman”… I have one of those last names that always goes with a Mr. in front of it, it would seem. Even the teachers, though, were not guaranteed, and many of them took to calling me Dave.

My friends call me Dave, my co-workers call me Dave, my boss calls me Dave, even telemarketers call me Dave.

I’m not sure how it happens, I introduce myself in equal parts David and Dave… David usually with the last name, Dave usually with just the first. It doesn’t matter, though, I’ll be Dave in mere seconds. “Nice to meet you, my name is David Kleeman.” “Hi Dave!”

In talking to some friends, what our parents almost named us came up. I was to be either a Peter or a Steven, if it wasn’t David. For everyone else, their alternate names seemed to work, but for me, it was only Dave. Not sure why that is… and what if I had been born a girl?