TNSC
5.4.2k2
Wanna know a sure-fire way to ruin your day? Pull a muscle in your neck. There's nothing like it. If you're used to being comfortable and mobile, forget it. A sore neck torpedoes comfort and mobility.
Sometimes a sore neck sure seems nice, though.
TNSC Venue: Latin American Club
News: Robot is out of town for two weeks starting Tuesday. Moss has got the con.
Thursday, May 23, 2002
Thursday, May 16, 2002
Red? Black? What?
5.3.2k2
I suppose it has a lot to do with living in a city and walking the streets and taking the public transportation, but if one is paying attention, one can observe many strange things.
I gave an example of this last week and I’ve got another tonight: Just where do old people get the caps they wear?
I’ve been noticing this for some time. It started a few years back when I was on my way to a bar with Founding Member Alan C. We happened to pass an old-timer and he was wearing a Chicago Bears cap. Being the eternally diligent Bears fan that I am, gave the old coot a “Go Bears.” Of course Alan didn’t approve. “Why do you insist on talking to strangers,” he asked, “and in case you didn’t notice, the dude’s homeless.” I looked again and sure enough, the dude was filthy head to toe and had taken up rummaging through a trash can. I started to think of a reason why the dude could still be a Bears fan but gave up. He probably found the cap somewhere. I want to find a Bears cap.
Some time later, Alan and I were on our way to a bar and we saw an old lady wearing a Chicago Cubs cap. I naturally shouted, “Go Cubs!” but the old lady just looked at me blankly. Alan said, “Uh ... dude ...” and I said, “Yeh, yeh. Homeless.”
And they don’t have to be homeless to be wearing caps of unknown origin. Just on the bus the other day I saw a nearly-old Asian dude wearing a “Canada” cap. Complete with maple leaf. What the hell is he wearing a “Canada” cap for? Hockey fan? I saw a guy wearing a “I’m dum-dum” cap; an old lady wearing a “Johnny Walker” cap; another old lady wearing a “Megadeath” cap and I even saw some die-hard Democrat wearing a “Mondale/Ferraro” cap. Sheesh.
What I figure is that most of them folks (with the exception of the Mondale/Ferraro booster) have nothing at all to do with what’s on the hat, but rather the utility of the hat itself. Like they’d all be wearing straw hats if they were as cheap and plentiful as the generic (or non-generic as listed above) baseball-type caps. Look for Alan today and you may find him wearing a cap from tonight’s TNSC Venue: The Royal Oak
News: Anybody got a review for Kyra and Sara's party?
Tonight's Contest: Find the reference!
Porn Title of the Week: Hocus Poke Us
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Shuba!
We as a club have never been to the Royal Oak, and now we are going because a LOVELY List Member suggested it. See you there! bye-ee!
5.3.2k2
I suppose it has a lot to do with living in a city and walking the streets and taking the public transportation, but if one is paying attention, one can observe many strange things.
I gave an example of this last week and I’ve got another tonight: Just where do old people get the caps they wear?
I’ve been noticing this for some time. It started a few years back when I was on my way to a bar with Founding Member Alan C. We happened to pass an old-timer and he was wearing a Chicago Bears cap. Being the eternally diligent Bears fan that I am, gave the old coot a “Go Bears.” Of course Alan didn’t approve. “Why do you insist on talking to strangers,” he asked, “and in case you didn’t notice, the dude’s homeless.” I looked again and sure enough, the dude was filthy head to toe and had taken up rummaging through a trash can. I started to think of a reason why the dude could still be a Bears fan but gave up. He probably found the cap somewhere. I want to find a Bears cap.
Some time later, Alan and I were on our way to a bar and we saw an old lady wearing a Chicago Cubs cap. I naturally shouted, “Go Cubs!” but the old lady just looked at me blankly. Alan said, “Uh ... dude ...” and I said, “Yeh, yeh. Homeless.”
And they don’t have to be homeless to be wearing caps of unknown origin. Just on the bus the other day I saw a nearly-old Asian dude wearing a “Canada” cap. Complete with maple leaf. What the hell is he wearing a “Canada” cap for? Hockey fan? I saw a guy wearing a “I’m dum-dum” cap; an old lady wearing a “Johnny Walker” cap; another old lady wearing a “Megadeath” cap and I even saw some die-hard Democrat wearing a “Mondale/Ferraro” cap. Sheesh.
What I figure is that most of them folks (with the exception of the Mondale/Ferraro booster) have nothing at all to do with what’s on the hat, but rather the utility of the hat itself. Like they’d all be wearing straw hats if they were as cheap and plentiful as the generic (or non-generic as listed above) baseball-type caps. Look for Alan today and you may find him wearing a cap from tonight’s TNSC Venue: The Royal Oak
News: Anybody got a review for Kyra and Sara's party?
Tonight's Contest: Find the reference!
Porn Title of the Week: Hocus Poke Us
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Shuba!
We as a club have never been to the Royal Oak, and now we are going because a LOVELY List Member suggested it. See you there! bye-ee!
Thursday, May 09, 2002
1.0 gpf / 4.9 lpf
5.2.2k2
I know that people are really weird, but now and again I’m reminded of the dizzying heights that weirdness reaches. (Note: While this Venue Announcement references urination, it’s not really about piss. It’s about people being odd. I had thought that referencing urine would perhaps be too base a detail, it would maybe put some of you lovely List Members off ... then I reread some of the old Venue Announcements and figured that you were game for anything.)
What’s the most fun thing to do with four free tickets to the SF Giants game? Why, it’s to use two tickets to attend the game and sell the other two and buy beer and hotdogs with the proceeds. You might guess that this exact scenario played out not but a week ago. I’m no Giants fan, but I’m a fan of the game and I enjoy rooting against Barry, Jeff, J.T. and the rest of those goons.
It didn’t take too long to drink up the proceeds from the ticket sales, and not long after that I needed to “let one out and put one back.” (I learned that wonderful gem of an expression during a rain-delay at Wrigley Field: A beer vendor had camped-out near the men’s room exit and was hawking his wares to the guys exiting. It was a pretty clever sales pitch and I observed many astute Cubs fans realizing this and taking him up.) At any rate, I was full of beer and had to go.
There’s a misconception that the lines to men’s rooms are always short and the turnover is brisk. When there’s ten urinals and 100 guys that gotta go ... I think you get the idea. To this equation, though, you must factor in another phenomena: One wants to wait as long as possible, perhaps even enduring not a small amount of discomfort, before joining the queue, so as to miss as little of the game as possible.
So there I was, in line, waiting to take a piss. Sometimes the wait is excruciating, but this time it was not so bad. That is until a few berserker Giants fans came in and made a scene. They started to yell for the people in front to hurry up, started burping loudly, started swearing and carrying on. Now while I’m all for swearing, carrying on and burping loudly, I see no point to yell for someone to hurry up pissing. If you are alive, you know that pissing takes as long as it takes, and if you’ve got a full bladder that you’ve been holding for a while, you got low pressure. Then you got a Neanderthal yelling at you. Some folks can’t pee under those circumstances. Not me, though, I got no anxiety. I just got people ahead of me in line.
The line to my right turned out to be the little, “child’s size” urinal. As there weren’t any children, folks were using the shorty. I got no problem with that. I were in that line and it wasn’t broke, I’d let go.
Several innings and naturally several expensive Budweisers later, I had to revisit the john. Turned out I got in the same line, one next to the shorty urinal. When I got close enough, I noticed there was a dad helping a child pee in the child-sized urinal. Well I’ll be damned, I thought. Moments later the kid finished up and he and his dad left. And the shorty was totally open. The lines were eight-to-ten deep for the others, but the short one’s line was empty. (Here’s the weird people part, if you’ve been waiting for it.) Like I said, I have no piss-anxiety, so I mentioned to the jackass in front of me in line that the shorty was open. I was trying to be polite but this dolt’s reaction was as if I had told him, “Hey mister, you don’t fuck that dead pig in that alley, I sure will.” He visibly recoiled and stared at me. “It’s all yours, sport. Be my guest.” I didn’t let him scare me off. I jumped right on up and pissed in the shorty. (It was kinda like pissing on the floor, but that’s a different story.) I finished up and, lo and behold, there’s ten people in line for the shorty behind me. And the Puritan is still six deep. Ha.
It took me a few days before I remembered this little scene. And while at one time in my life such an interaction would really irritate me, now it doesn’t so much. Who cares? It’s not my job to figure on why some people are terrified of peeing in a short, child’s-size urinal. It’s my job to observe and report. It’s also my job to say this:
Tonight: Bloom's Saloon
News: News: Look for kin of Robot at tonight’s Potrero Hill meeting. Oh, and Happy Graduation to kin of Robot. Oh, and ... it seems I’ve used up all my time today. You merely get Find the reference!
And then, Porn Title of the Week: The Joy Fuck Club
And then, Satanic Word of the Week: He
And then, Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Sally C.
And then ... Linkey Loo!
And then ... no and then
5.2.2k2
I know that people are really weird, but now and again I’m reminded of the dizzying heights that weirdness reaches. (Note: While this Venue Announcement references urination, it’s not really about piss. It’s about people being odd. I had thought that referencing urine would perhaps be too base a detail, it would maybe put some of you lovely List Members off ... then I reread some of the old Venue Announcements and figured that you were game for anything.)
What’s the most fun thing to do with four free tickets to the SF Giants game? Why, it’s to use two tickets to attend the game and sell the other two and buy beer and hotdogs with the proceeds. You might guess that this exact scenario played out not but a week ago. I’m no Giants fan, but I’m a fan of the game and I enjoy rooting against Barry, Jeff, J.T. and the rest of those goons.
It didn’t take too long to drink up the proceeds from the ticket sales, and not long after that I needed to “let one out and put one back.” (I learned that wonderful gem of an expression during a rain-delay at Wrigley Field: A beer vendor had camped-out near the men’s room exit and was hawking his wares to the guys exiting. It was a pretty clever sales pitch and I observed many astute Cubs fans realizing this and taking him up.) At any rate, I was full of beer and had to go.
There’s a misconception that the lines to men’s rooms are always short and the turnover is brisk. When there’s ten urinals and 100 guys that gotta go ... I think you get the idea. To this equation, though, you must factor in another phenomena: One wants to wait as long as possible, perhaps even enduring not a small amount of discomfort, before joining the queue, so as to miss as little of the game as possible.
So there I was, in line, waiting to take a piss. Sometimes the wait is excruciating, but this time it was not so bad. That is until a few berserker Giants fans came in and made a scene. They started to yell for the people in front to hurry up, started burping loudly, started swearing and carrying on. Now while I’m all for swearing, carrying on and burping loudly, I see no point to yell for someone to hurry up pissing. If you are alive, you know that pissing takes as long as it takes, and if you’ve got a full bladder that you’ve been holding for a while, you got low pressure. Then you got a Neanderthal yelling at you. Some folks can’t pee under those circumstances. Not me, though, I got no anxiety. I just got people ahead of me in line.
The line to my right turned out to be the little, “child’s size” urinal. As there weren’t any children, folks were using the shorty. I got no problem with that. I were in that line and it wasn’t broke, I’d let go.
Several innings and naturally several expensive Budweisers later, I had to revisit the john. Turned out I got in the same line, one next to the shorty urinal. When I got close enough, I noticed there was a dad helping a child pee in the child-sized urinal. Well I’ll be damned, I thought. Moments later the kid finished up and he and his dad left. And the shorty was totally open. The lines were eight-to-ten deep for the others, but the short one’s line was empty. (Here’s the weird people part, if you’ve been waiting for it.) Like I said, I have no piss-anxiety, so I mentioned to the jackass in front of me in line that the shorty was open. I was trying to be polite but this dolt’s reaction was as if I had told him, “Hey mister, you don’t fuck that dead pig in that alley, I sure will.” He visibly recoiled and stared at me. “It’s all yours, sport. Be my guest.” I didn’t let him scare me off. I jumped right on up and pissed in the shorty. (It was kinda like pissing on the floor, but that’s a different story.) I finished up and, lo and behold, there’s ten people in line for the shorty behind me. And the Puritan is still six deep. Ha.
It took me a few days before I remembered this little scene. And while at one time in my life such an interaction would really irritate me, now it doesn’t so much. Who cares? It’s not my job to figure on why some people are terrified of peeing in a short, child’s-size urinal. It’s my job to observe and report. It’s also my job to say this:
Tonight: Bloom's Saloon
News: News: Look for kin of Robot at tonight’s Potrero Hill meeting. Oh, and Happy Graduation to kin of Robot. Oh, and ... it seems I’ve used up all my time today. You merely get Find the reference!
And then, Porn Title of the Week: The Joy Fuck Club
And then, Satanic Word of the Week: He
And then, Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Sally C.
And then ... Linkey Loo!
And then ... no and then
Thursday, May 02, 2002
Bad Math
5.1.2k2
I’ve regressed in a fairly important skill. I don’t remember the regression’s catalyst, or its duration to now, but I know now that it’s real: I got me a real problem with shoelaces.
It must have been kindergarten, or maybe even earlier, that my peers and I were forced, cajoled and ridiculed into learning how to tie shoelaces. I remember there was a little song or poem or rhyme about a rabbit running around a doghouse and ducking into a sewerpipe: Symbolic of the loops and knots and such. I remember there were two twin girls that could tie each other’s shoes but not their own. I didn’t have any trouble tying shoes. Didn’t need a corny rhyme or anything. It was a simple, repeatable process and it was within my young person’s capacity. That don’t explain why I’ve developed such a problem lately.
My problem lies in the untying part of the process. Tying is fine and has been but I make a mess out of untying. I end up tying the laces into little itty-bitty knots. Tight knots. Often, I’m balancing on one leg while trying to untie. I might get one shoe off clean, but the other I grab the wrong end that’s found its way through a loop, pull and render a knot. Then I lose balance and fall on head.
It doesn’t help that I routinely change my shoes at least three times a day: On with the bike shoes, off with the bike shoes. On with the regular shoes, off. On with the bike shoes again, off. Regular, off. I will turf one of the untyings fairly bad, but I will royally screw another one and end up falling over.
Two things going for me: The geeks at University of Bisbee just published Shoe Lace Untying Made Easy. Talk about timing! The other thing: My slippers are slip on!
Tonight: Wish
News: Wish is the new bar that’s taken residence in the carcass of (the) El Bobo. Some folks have been there and say it’s all right. Happy Birthday Bishop.
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Tama
Come and see your pals and curse the No-Kitchen-Fancy-El Bobo. See you there! bye-ee!
5.1.2k2
I’ve regressed in a fairly important skill. I don’t remember the regression’s catalyst, or its duration to now, but I know now that it’s real: I got me a real problem with shoelaces.
It must have been kindergarten, or maybe even earlier, that my peers and I were forced, cajoled and ridiculed into learning how to tie shoelaces. I remember there was a little song or poem or rhyme about a rabbit running around a doghouse and ducking into a sewerpipe: Symbolic of the loops and knots and such. I remember there were two twin girls that could tie each other’s shoes but not their own. I didn’t have any trouble tying shoes. Didn’t need a corny rhyme or anything. It was a simple, repeatable process and it was within my young person’s capacity. That don’t explain why I’ve developed such a problem lately.
My problem lies in the untying part of the process. Tying is fine and has been but I make a mess out of untying. I end up tying the laces into little itty-bitty knots. Tight knots. Often, I’m balancing on one leg while trying to untie. I might get one shoe off clean, but the other I grab the wrong end that’s found its way through a loop, pull and render a knot. Then I lose balance and fall on head.
It doesn’t help that I routinely change my shoes at least three times a day: On with the bike shoes, off with the bike shoes. On with the regular shoes, off. On with the bike shoes again, off. Regular, off. I will turf one of the untyings fairly bad, but I will royally screw another one and end up falling over.
Two things going for me: The geeks at University of Bisbee just published Shoe Lace Untying Made Easy. Talk about timing! The other thing: My slippers are slip on!
Tonight: Wish
News: Wish is the new bar that’s taken residence in the carcass of (the) El Bobo. Some folks have been there and say it’s all right. Happy Birthday Bishop.
Tonight’s Singled-Out List Member: Tama
Come and see your pals and curse the No-Kitchen-Fancy-El Bobo. See you there! bye-ee!
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