Oh dear, he’s done it again.

Missed it by THAT much.

Ah, puppies. God’s little trick on the unprepared. I have to say that, although endearing, a puppy of ten weeks of age can be…rather difficult to manage. After coming home from a Hellboy 2 premiere at the theater that I work at, I took the dog out one last time, not picking it up and holding it, but letting it walk out the door on its own, me having left the house first. Once successfully outside, I took broad steps out to the front lawn–the broad steps counting five–and waited. The exuberant little devil followed me halfway, and decided the patio was far enough. Having heard the Get Smart trailer the other day, all I could think of was, Missed it by that much.


Three is a spectacular number.

You see three in everything. Three is half of six. And three sixes make one of the satanic signs. There are three strikes needed to strike a batter out in a game of base ball. There are also three bases to a field. There are three religious figures in prayer (the father, the son, and the holy spirit, or the holy trinity for short). Pi starts with three, and it might end with a three too, if it ever ends. In comedic timing, there is a rule of three when listing things that happen. Its better to have three actions separated by commas than two or four.

Today happens to be the third time I’ve backed into my father’s van with my Mom’s car.

Chihuahua: Rat, or dog?

Let me get my qualifying statement out of the way: This is a one-dog scenario. In fact, chalk this up as a rant, just read for your leisure. If you feel the need to respond, vehemently supporting the miniscule pooches, feel free. Just be easy on the curses.

I was in New Jersey for a couple days, staying over at my aunt’s house. Now, I would have seen my four cousins, had they not been involved with every camp and extra-curricular activities excepting those dealing with the kitchen sink. Hope the punchline got across in the last sentence. Anyway. Moving on. Since no one was home for most of the time, my aunt driving her kids everywhere and my uncle going and doing whatever he does on a Thursday and Friday, I spent most of my time with their two dogs and the wonderfully mute gardener named Gustavo. Knowing the dogs a little better than the worker, I chose the dogs to play with. Naturally.

I don’t have a problem with Tobler, the Boston Terrier. He’s great. His life begins and ends with the tennis ball. It’s not a hard choice when it comes to getting his daily exercize. Just throw the ball with those hand-held catapults, because after twenty minutes, you’re not going to want to touch it. It may not even be the same color by then.

It’s a different ballgame when it comes to Georgie, the Chihuahua. First of all, she doesn’t get it to play much. But that isn’t her worst canine crime. Her worst canine crime is getting Mini-Me’s guard dog addicted to treats. That’s right. No exercise for Georgie, but ounces of doggie treats for the cutest little doggie in the world.

Because of this addiction, the dog is conditioned to think treats are natural occurences. No longer can you make the dog sit, or stay, or roll-over. No. It gets what it wants without having to do anything. I tried to get the rat to sit before it got its treat, which I took from its dog food. Didn’t work. At least she’s not picky, though I wouldn’t be surprised if the dog gets whatever caviar is left on the table at the end of the night.

Then I did something that dog hadn’t gotten in a long while. I gave it some much needed exercise. I got it panting a little. Poor pooch. It had to work a little bit. I brought the rodent sized canine outside into grass which I’m sure got up to its waist with a tennis ball that it seemed to favor. The ball-crazy Boston Terrier was playing siamese twin to Gustavo around the other side of the house, so I didn’t need to worry about him to come around and ruin the fun. To my surprise, Taco Bell started chasing that ball every time I threw it. It had a little trouble getting its finger-digit jaws around the tennis ball, but it scurried after the ball like a rat out of hell, or, more aptly put, bloodhound out of a bus full of sumo wrestlers.

It was amusing. I even laughed a little. I got past my frustration about the treats seeing this ratdog run after a ball that was as tall as its shoulder.

And then I thought of something. What if I had it chase a ball tied to the end of a remote controlled car? That would be worth the price of admission, I think.

Thoughts on my idea?

An answer to my questions.

Well, it seems my other post got some attention from other bloggers. Bloggers, who have been in the same position as I am now, wondering why they blog and if they should continue doing so. I am now certain that the truth of blogging resides in the desired result. For an example, many people do this activity solely for themselves. Anything else, recognition, feedback, is an aside to what is truly occurring. The others may blog for recognition. All recognized web comics started small, possibly in areas like WordPress.com or Blogger.com.

But what do I want out of this? Why am I doing this? I could be sleeping right now, resting from my wisdom teeth removal. Instead I am writing a blog, that may or may not be followed by anyone. Its one of those questions that is hard to answer, and may take a while even to approach a solution. I guess I am still looking for that answer, and it may be a while yet before I find one.

Cops and Me: Awesomeness!

I was designated driver for some kids massive birthday party last night. I don’t drink, and don’t suspect I ever will. Everything was going smoothly until the host of the party called me and told me that he needed a ride back to the dorm. I got there, collected some kids, and went back. But when we got near my dorm, the guys say they are hungry. So I make a turn and head to the Union. When everything is done, all the food eaten, I head back with the guys, and drop them off. The problem was that I forgot to turn on the headlights. Honestly, why can’t things be automatic?

In any case, I get flagged down. I pull over. The cop takes my license and the host’s registration; it’s his van. I tell him as many times as I can that I am completely sober. But he decides the best path is the one where he fucks around with me. The officer takes me out and has me perform the field sobriety test. I passed, I think. I’m naturally clumsy and was wearing work boots, which obviously didn’t help much. He lets me off with a verbal warning, after telling me that I would be fucked if I decided to drive anywhere again that night.

Sometimes I just don’t get it: if he had just given me a breathalyzer test I would have been cleared.


D-Day, day one, the beginning of a great journey in life, destined to be what many believe the best four years in life. And, after my first twelve hours here, I can’t say they are far from the truth. I’ve decided to write this for a couple of reasons: One, by writing down the experiences i’ve had, I can better remember them. Two, this will help me release some, if any, pain, homesickness, frustration that I may have in the future. Three, I’m sure that my parents and relatives would jump at a chance to see my feelings…every joy, exultation, stab of pain, or remorse that I may encounter in these upcoming days of the first eight of the best four years of my life. Simply put, this should, if I am faithful to the cause, be akin to a realtime experience of my life at UConn. Maybe it will spark some old memories that have receded past the new ones of familial rivalry and general in-the-house, day-to-day chaos. Let’s face it, no one wants to give up that eternal youth hidden in the depths of the looks in their eyes. When I arrived, I wasn’t sure what I felt, if I felt anything at all. Sure’s a weird thing when all those seminars seem to shine on the theory of the *overflowing* emotions. I guess, for the sake of putting a name to this emotion, this roiling whirlpool of activity behind the surface of my muscles, I’d say that I felt ready. Felt that I could handle things. Felt that for once, I could wipe the slate clean, act like I normally do and not attract unwanted attention. Felt like the phoenix of my past seventeen years had erupted in flame to give birth to a chick, featherless, and so ready to grow a new, healthier skin. As I hug my mom goodbye, I think,”Wow. Never envisioned this transferral to be so easy.” A warmth grew from my chest and rushed through my arms as I finished an embrace that held eighteen years of cherished memories, ripe with laughter, with love, with scolding, though strict, that had never been a step away from a hug, and a rub on my shoulder. I guess this hits me now as I write this, though it didn’t really before while still in the middle of saying goodbye.Then I looked at my dad, and in his handshake lived eighteen years of good-hearted ball-busting, advice, secret, sometimes dirty jokes about anyone that didn’t quite meet up with his definition of beauty, which, recent days told me, seems to be the image of my mother. Then, as his grip weakened, I looked at them both together, and felt a powerful aura of happiness, a goal reached, through thick and thin, to send their first kid to college. I watched them go back to their car, and I turned to head up to my room. I hadn’t told you yet about my little episode of bureaucratic BS.Nothing that would let my demons come out, but a little problem that would hinder my effectiveness as a student, had I not realized that all the problem really amounted to was a simple drag in the internet server. Following what my Dad told me, I and another student made our way to the Co-Op, thinking that would be the fountain of youth considering the internet connection hiatus. Step one of an overly long, dangerously hot adventure. A step, which my CA later told me, was not needed. Whatever. As long as I don’t gain that freshman fifteen. I get to the Co-Op. This is where the bureaucracy began. As soon as I put my laptop on the table, she pointed my two buildings across the street, to the McMahon resident house, where I should talk to the ResNet people. After stuttering awhile, forming my thoughts, *wait a minute-just wait a stinkin’ minute…Dad was wrong?* Not like it really mattered, no longer am I my parents’ marionette. I followed the techie’s advice, and went, with following friend in tow, to the dorm. I get there after turning my friend and I around almost three times, thinking that I actually know where I’m going, and the gust of fresh, cool air greets us just as eagerly as a warm hearth on a cold winter’s day. I learn at the ResNet desk that the problem didnt stem from a bad cable, it stemmed from a little snag, a little downtime in the system. Figures. Ya know what? I could have gone across the street to find that one out. I wouldn’t be adverse to let a well-placed curse penetrate that train of thought, except for the fact that I know that my parents are reading this…my grandparents are reading printed out copies, and, well, best not offend the adults.Problem solved though. I trudge back to the dorm, a walk that feels like half the globe existed between point A and point B, finding that the cool air in my dorm is just what I need. And a nice, chilled-to-perfection Coke. Sweet caffeinated love. I set up the DVD player, snigger at the cardboard rear of the entertainment closet, and travel my now-weary legs down to the game room where I partake in a game of pool. I win, can’t remember how, I suck at pool, and proceed to play a game of ping pong before the CA’s drag our collective, move-in-tired asses to convocation. Where I meet this girl. She’s a looker. Sweet fantasies swirl around the curves of her dress, my eyes envisioning what lays behind the folds of cloth. I shake my head. She said something to me. I was zoning, and didn’t notice her approach. I felt confident. Something that didn’t exist in high school. I might be able to talk to her, I think. And it wasn’t so hard, we talked for most of the way to convocation, choosing seats next to each other, any time I felt that something particularly funny had to be announced about the ridiculousness of these gowns, those embarrassing blue hats, crosses, I guessed, between a woman’s sun hat and an Imperial Navy Captain’s hat. Snippets of droning voice echoed under the realm of my conscience, I picked out only the stuff that would make the girl smile. I figure, what the hell. I’ll try my luck, see what these inexperienced, witty bones can muster, see how much I can make her giggle. The convocation ends, and we make like penguins to get out of there. The heat, again, seems to lay on us like a malicious glutton, and we wait in line to get something to eat. I listen to her friends, and listen to her, find that I’m kinda-sorta-not really listening, bringing back images of they way my dad looked when my mom talked during Orange County Choppers. Heh. Focus isn’t something I can brag about. Attention spans the length of my thumb to forefinger apparently. Whatever. I’m making a friend here. Some divine intervention, or a blatant act of Mr. Manly-Man on my part, leads me to get both me and the girl completely lost in the center of the damned campus. We walk and talk, stop, turn around, follow someone that I recognize, who’s lost but we don’t know it yet, so we follow until he walks right past us, and we laugh. Finally, through her, we get back. So much for the hairy chested image of the manly man. Guess I’m more of the sophisticated guy. With a knack for blundering about. Still talking like an intellectual, but goddamn if I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing. I think I made an impression today, in my small little way. I think that’s a good place to stop. I have to brush my teeth anyway. Signing off.