nuinca

Dear hospital

Hello St. Vincents. I want to formally thank you for the prompt reply to my billing inquiry. Why, just 344 days ago I had surgery on my birthday. That one surgery alone immediately maxed my yearly deductible and that one charge made for a fantastic pre-wedding present.

Two weeks later, you informed me that I had overpaid by some $84 dollars and the check would soon be delivered, akin to offering a band-aid to a man who survived a 400-foot fall down a cliff made of salt and broken glass.

Now, only 344 days later, I received said check.

You’re a special type of person, St. Vincents.

/grief

Egg toss champion!

Deathcab for Forrest

I’m talking about that guy up there. Forrest. My friend, your friend, all-around nice guy. Or so I thought.

As you probably didn’t read in my earlier post, I don’t dig the soccer thing, the World Cup thing and most definitely don’t dig the vulvazella thing. Well, this weekend Forrest came down to hang out with Diana and I. Beer flowed and good food fell from heaven. And along the way, Forrest got me to watch the America/Ghana soccer game. Since I’ve always considered myself the best thing that’s ever happened to Forrest (with the notable exception of Liz), I decided to give it a go; really get into a soccer game.

I asked questions, learned player names and actually felt happy when some guy, Donovan or something, scored on a penalty kick. After about 110 minutes of soccer action, I’ll admit to being hooked like a meth head after his first hit on the communal pipe.

Then we lost. And I blame Forrest, I think that’s fair.

A star is born then instantly collapses

This year, the 48 hour film festival was different. Different in a number of ways, mostly good, and in one way very bad. Let’s start with the good ways.

The Times-Union team featured an all TU staff this year, no professional script writers, actors or trophy-chasing producers. We were a bunch of hearty, motivated, sleep-depraved souls with more talent in a twist of our pubic hair than in the entire self-aggrandizing bodies of years past. That is to say, we rocked.

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Dear World Cup,

This is an open letter to the million, billions or trillions of World Cup fans out there:

Please leave me alone. If I was in Germany, Spain, or God forbid, France, I would be willing to pretend to give a shit. But I’m not. I’m in America, land of the free and home of the rotund. I shouldn’t be bombarded with people’s faux enthusiasm, overpriced Real Madrid jerseys and CONSTANT vevuzela references.

I don’t care about your single-score games, boring dive tackles or the “did you know the average soccer player runs 12 miles per game?!” facts. If soccer players were bigger they would play rugby or football. If there were faster they would be track athletes. If they had better coordination they would be baseball players. If they were any smarter they would have graduated elementary school.

There. That made me feel better.

Go USA!

Guatemala 2010!

Glorious

Things you should know about me

#1) When I have an expresso anything, my pee smells like tuna for the rest of the day.

#2) I have only friended 3 people on Facebook, one for each city in which I’ve had a permanent address. The rest is pure organic growth, baby.

#3) I have sworn off the booze this week. So I have lots of free, relatively clear-headed nights ahead of me.

#4) While we’re on the topic, I like the idea of Bold City Brewery much more than I like the beer itself. Also, RIP, Duke

How about you? What should I know?

Tengo sueno

That, my friends, is a highly ’shopped photo from Antigua, Guatemala. I’ve been home for a couple of days now, but between getting in ass late Sunday/Monday morning and Diana’s birthday today, I just got the chance to continue the Guatemala stories.

For those who can appreciate the comparison, Antigua is like Savannah or St. Augustine without all the stupid shit. A colonial city with the colonial, a city without the pretense. There’s no doubt about it – Antigua was easily the most tourist friendly spot of my visit, but I got the distinct feeling that if all the gringos went away, the city wouldn’t miss a beat.

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Tengo hambre

Today we saw Lake Atitlan. I know nothing about Lake Atitlan, so read everything in this post with caution. Lago Atitlan is 5,000 meters above sea level, making it the highest lake in the universe. Lago Atitlan, at it’s deepest point in the middle of it’s azure waves, is 5,000 meters deep, which puts the floor at sea level, but don’t bother telling the fish that – they don’t care.

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