If one could somehow condense the six months Dougie and Ingie and I spent in Providence down to thirteen seconds, I daresay it would look something like this.
Olde Tyme Doppelganger-palooza
I've been extolling this one since they were both in their playing days...
Amelie Mauresmo, Paul O'Neill*
*In any order.
The Year In Review (As Prognositcated By Kurtis Blow)
Clap your hands everybodyIf you got what it takes
'Cause I'm Kurtis Blow and I want you to know
That these are the breaks.
Brakes on a bus, brakes on a car,
Breaks to make you a superstar
Breaks to win and breaks to lose
But these here breaks will rock your shoes
And these are the breaks.
Break it up break it up break it up!
If your woman steps out with another man
(That's the breaks, that's the breaks)
And she runs off with him to Japan
And the IRS says they want to chat
And you can't explain why you claimed your cat
And Ma Bell sends you a whopping bill
With eighteen phone calls to Brazil
And you borrowed money from the mob
And yesterday you lost your job
Well, these are the breaks.
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Throw your hands up in the sky
And wave 'em 'round from side to side
And if you deserve a break tonight
Somebody say alright!
(All right) Say ho-oo!
(Ho-oo!) And you don't stop!
Keep on, somebody scream!
(Owwwww!) Break down!
Breaks on a stage, breaks on a screen
Breaks to make your wallet lean
Breaks run cold and breaks run hot
Some folks got 'em and some have not
But these are the breaks.
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Break down!
To the girl in brown, stop messing around
(Break it up, break it up)
To the guy in blue, whatcha gonna do
To the girl in green, don't be so mean
And the guy in red, say what I said.
Break down!
Brakes on a plane, brakes on a train
Breaks to make you go insane
Breaks in love, breaks in war
But we got the breaks to get you on the floor
And these are the breaks.
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Break down! Yo!
Just do it, just do it, just do it, do it, do it!
You say last week you met the perfect guy
(That's the breaks, that's the breaks)
And he promised you the stars in the sky
He said his Cadillac was gold
But he didn't say it was ten years old
He took you out to the Red Coach grill
But he forgot the cash and you paid the bill
And he told you the story of his life
But he forgot the part about... his wife. Huh! Huh!
Well, these are the breaks!
Break it up, break it up, break it up!
Break down!
(pin drop)
While my home interweb access was out, I took the liberty of going through a bunch of old photos and videos and embarrassingly-overwrought term papers in anticipation of posting some of the choicest items known to the Fat Gallant. 'Tis amazing what one can do with a computer without the internet's constant Maybe-just-maybe-there's-a-Shakira-nip-slip-since-the-last-time-you-searched-let's-go-find-out-RIGHT-NOW nagging.
Sadly, AT&T's crack customer service department conspired against me and I am still in the decidedly-nip-slip-free Dark Ages. But stay tuned for awesomeness to come. Until then: excuse the lack of Smash.
On the bright side, the Fair Briana paid an unannounced visit on Sunday morning, which was like a ray of sunshine on an otherwise-cloudy day, assuming that you are sexually attracted to the sun and enjoy cooking shrimp linguine for it.
Also on the proverbial bright side, the United States' customer service department is on the up-and-up.
Sadly, AT&T's crack customer service department conspired against me and I am still in the decidedly-nip-slip-free Dark Ages. But stay tuned for awesomeness to come. Until then: excuse the lack of Smash.
On the bright side, the Fair Briana paid an unannounced visit on Sunday morning, which was like a ray of sunshine on an otherwise-cloudy day, assuming that you are sexually attracted to the sun and enjoy cooking shrimp linguine for it.
Also on the proverbial bright side, the United States' customer service department is on the up-and-up.
If It Pleases The Court
Let the record show, Your Honor, that my client was unaware that the co-defendant's denotation of "Wanging Chung tonight" involved incendiary devices and an armored car.
Radio Silence, Inane Chatter, Grumbles
While not having home interweb access for almost three weeks now should serve as ample excuse for not Bumping the Smash, truth be told I have had plenty of opportunity to do so from my desk at work.
Instead, I've been making an attempt to acquaint myself with the finer points of facebook, specifically those points which allow me to accidentally grant facebook access to my hotmail account and email "Check Out My Facebook Profile!" invites to every person I've ever known and/or boned. My actual inbox today: 388 new messages.
Lost somewhere in those emails was a message from Andrew "The Dandy Fop" Gallant linking to an enlightening-for-me/staggeringly-boring-for-you article about a kid name Andrew Ciarfardini (pronounced [sneeze]) I used to live next to in Cincinnati.
Since you, dear reader, presumably did not at any time live anywhere remotely near him, you'd no doubt rather watch NBC's New Year's Day programming than read the full article. Basically, it turns out that while I was busy establishing a career in the always-dignified world of television journalism, he was finding his niche in the Bush White House.
Anyway, since this is my blog and you're avoiding doing something more constructive, I can and will reminisce about Mr. Ciafardini, albeit briefly, and, for that matter: anything, else, of, my, choosing.
Short story shorter: Andrew was, in retrospect, about as big of a vapid Republican shill as you'll ever see in a prepubescent child.* Granted, in those days it didn't take much to get on the collective bad side of me and my other neighbor, one Mikey D. Krumboltz. I based my resentment of Ciafardini solely on the fact that, while he was always welcome to come over and hang out on my family's swing set at his leisure, his family's backyard was surrounded by an enormous Guantanamo-grade steel fence perimeter that required both his and his parents' permission to enter. The swing set therein, however, was the stuff of legend in the neighborhood's 8-year-old boy community and, to my recollection, looked something like this.
In my blossoming, Blue Icee-fueled worldview, anything so awesome (or, in Cincy vernacular, coolsome) was surely best appreciated not by a fascist Ciafardini regime but rather the "cool fort!"-starved huddled masses; namely, me and Krumboltz. Sadly, as our being in the second grade severely limited our access to any handy munitions stockpiles, a violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie usually consisted of carefully deploying whipper snappers underneath the tires of the Ciafardini family station wagon and running home at high speed.
This post got way too long, but in a petty attempt to impugn the entire family, I mention that Andrew's then-4-year-old sister once reprimanded my mother for allowing our bathroom's toilet paper to hang too low from the roll (seriously); so she too, in her own way, is now undoubtedly out there somewhere encouraging the use of hand guns.
Instead, I've been making an attempt to acquaint myself with the finer points of facebook, specifically those points which allow me to accidentally grant facebook access to my hotmail account and email "Check Out My Facebook Profile!" invites to every person I've ever known and/or boned. My actual inbox today: 388 new messages.
Lost somewhere in those emails was a message from Andrew "The Dandy Fop" Gallant linking to an enlightening-for-me/staggeringly-boring-for-you article about a kid name Andrew Ciarfardini (pronounced [sneeze]) I used to live next to in Cincinnati.
Since you, dear reader, presumably did not at any time live anywhere remotely near him, you'd no doubt rather watch NBC's New Year's Day programming than read the full article. Basically, it turns out that while I was busy establishing a career in the always-dignified world of television journalism, he was finding his niche in the Bush White House.
Anyway, since this is my blog and you're avoiding doing something more constructive, I can and will reminisce about Mr. Ciafardini, albeit briefly, and, for that matter: anything, else, of, my, choosing.
Short story shorter: Andrew was, in retrospect, about as big of a vapid Republican shill as you'll ever see in a prepubescent child.* Granted, in those days it didn't take much to get on the collective bad side of me and my other neighbor, one Mikey D. Krumboltz. I based my resentment of Ciafardini solely on the fact that, while he was always welcome to come over and hang out on my family's swing set at his leisure, his family's backyard was surrounded by an enormous Guantanamo-grade steel fence perimeter that required both his and his parents' permission to enter. The swing set therein, however, was the stuff of legend in the neighborhood's 8-year-old boy community and, to my recollection, looked something like this.
In my blossoming, Blue Icee-fueled worldview, anything so awesome (or, in Cincy vernacular, coolsome) was surely best appreciated not by a fascist Ciafardini regime but rather the "cool fort!"-starved huddled masses; namely, me and Krumboltz. Sadly, as our being in the second grade severely limited our access to any handy munitions stockpiles, a violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie usually consisted of carefully deploying whipper snappers underneath the tires of the Ciafardini family station wagon and running home at high speed.
This post got way too long, but in a petty attempt to impugn the entire family, I mention that Andrew's then-4-year-old sister once reprimanded my mother for allowing our bathroom's toilet paper to hang too low from the roll (seriously); so she too, in her own way, is now undoubtedly out there somewhere encouraging the use of hand guns.
*A dick before he grew one.
Good-night, Wet Prince
And flights of angels lay thee to thy bubble nest.
Darnell
2008-2009
It is with heavy heart that we report the passing of Darnell, beloved betta of Nathan and Briana. Early this morning Darnell succombed to whatever it is that bettas succomb to and passed away peacefully in his fish sleep.
As recently as last night, Darnell exhibited the playful spirit and pluck that so typified him in life, perfectly executing a jumping love tap to his caretaker's index finger. While this gave us all hope that he was on the road to recovery, the gesture was, in retrospect, merely his way of saying good-bye.
He is survived by his best pal Gladys, who was too grief-stricken for comment, and his adoptive parents, Nathan and Briana, of Oakland. Services will be held upon the return of the fair Briana, whom he loved so well.
Until that time, be careful what you pull out of the freezer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
