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Land of the tomorrow!

I’m going to make this blog post a photo essay. You get three clues, each in the form of a picture. At the end of the third clue, I want you to give it your best guess (leave a comment, natch). Sometime between next week and never, I will post the correct answer.

Question: Where am I, and what sort of magical tour am I on? The first person to get both parts of that question correct will win one free at-home dinner prepared by yours truly. AND I MAKE A MEAN BOX OF MACNCHEESE.

Have fun guessing, snitches! Oh, and Luis, the only person who still reads my blog, don’t spoil it for everyone.

Birthday

August 15, 2010.

The first time in 27 years I didn’t get a birthday card from my grandparents. Getting old sucks.

On the doctor’s office

So thanks to the Internet power of my iPad, I’m blogging from my 3:15 doctor’s appointment.

I’m going to paint you a picture. Sixth floor of the Dillon building of St. Vincent’s. Heat index of 108. Pale yellow walls, worn carpet and the most desperate hallway in America. The waiting room is overflowing and children, who I’m sure are in the waiting room, but whose cries echo down the sad hallway like a shitty brass band, are running wild. And the air conditioning is out. Out as in prop-the-door-open-and-hope-the-patients-don’t-revolt sort of out.

My doctor has leased a small office on this floor. I can’t blame him for the choice of music since it’s probably piped in from hell’s elevators, but Edwin MCain is on. I clearly don’t go to church enough.

I’m through! Now done standing in the sweaty hallway and in an examination room so interchangeable that if the door opened and I was back at my family doctor in Travelers Rest I wouldn’t be surprised.

Except for the two model esophaguses (esophagi?) resting on the sink counter, this room isn’t so bad. Nevermind. Just noticed the “Internal and External Hemorrhoids” poster behind my head. Graphic. Gross.

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.

Continue reading…

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