AS IF IDIOTS WITH MOONINITE LITE BRITES WEREN'T ENOUGH
I am beginning to think that I have some latent powers of destruction that are now blossoming within me as I go about life unknowingly. That, or I brought one helluva batch of bad luck to the North Shore when I moved here. Anyway, these little minor disasters keep popping up around here.
It started the night before Thanksgiving when a chemical plant in nearby Danvers exploded and flattened an entire residential area. I had been living here literally for only a couple of months when this happened. It didn't make national news headlines since miraculously no one was killed (not sensational enough for the media, I guess) but trust me: this was and still is the talk of the town up here. The place looked like a bomb went off, and it certainly sounded like it too. It woke me up at 3 in the morning and had everyone in my house convinced that a plane had crashed in Salem. It also badly damaged the neighboring marina, which brings us to yesterday.
Last night, somehow unbeknownst to me, an entire fucking marina burnt to the ground not a block away from my house on the other side of the House of Seven Gables. I didn't even know that this place was there, it is so tucked away. Thank God the firefighters got there right away and contained the blaze extremely effectively so it didn't spread to my apartment or worse, the Gables (Heaven forbid!). And no one was hurt either. I cannot stress to you enough how close this place is to where I am standing right now typing this. I am completely baffled as to how I missed out on the action; I got home right when they were in the thick of fighting the fire, but I simply walked inside and made dinner. I didn't notice any sirens or blue lights or leaping orange flames at all. So much for my wonderful powers of observation; my Spidey-sense must have been turned off for the evening. I will have to check out the site tomorrow morning on my way to work.
Moral of the story: All I know is, if I'm the owner of the marina up in Marblehead, I'm thinking it's probably a good time to take out some extra insurance.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
I am Mr. Matheson's bastard son
NIGHTMARE AT 20,000 FEET
A few weeks ago I went to Minnesota to go to my parents' house for the week since I didn't get a chance to go home for Christmas. Of course I was glad to be able to go and spend time with my folks, but that unfortunately involved flying there and back. I get pretty nervous during air travel and being thousands of miles above the Earth, which isn’t really all that surprising -- being that I get nervous or frightened about a hell of a lot of things, both practical and nonsensical.
However, the thing with flying is that I used to love it. I mean absolutely LOVED it. And I’ve flown a lot of hours in my lifetime too; my dad used to work for a prominent airline that had to declare bankruptcy, so we flew all around the world for no cost when I was a kid. I’ve flown in jumbo jets, prop planes, and float planes. I’ve flown into about every major airport, across the length of the country, and over the world’s two greatest oceans. Short flights, long flights, clear weather, lightning storms, and turbulence: I’ve done it all. I also have an early memory of going up in a hot air balloon, although that may just be a concoction of my mind.
So why the fear of flying? I honestly don't know where it comes from. From what I can tell, it seems to have started roughly six years ago. And I know what you're thinking, but I don't think it has anything directly to do with 9/11. I flew to Chicago not long after that happened and don't remember being freaked out. I think it has more to do with my mental state as I have gotten more and more anxious and prone to panic attacks over the years. Or maybe it has to do with mellowing with age, and becoming more cognizant of my own mortality.
Regardless of whatever it is though, the minute I step on board and take my seat my mind is racing and I am sweating profusely. By the time we touch down at the destination my khakis will be soaked from rubbing my wet palms on my thighs for two hours straight. Flying also makes me the most devout man on the planet. From taxiing to the runway to throughout the entire takeoff and climb, I am offering up about a thousand variants of prayers to the Almighty for safe passage. Once airborne and at cruising altitude, I start inventing a multitude of disaster scenarios. The reasons for the plane's soon-to-be-crash range from the practical (engine failure) to the impractical (the wings simply shearing off) to the political (terrorists) to the fantastical (gremlins) to even the comedic (the pilots suffering from food poisoning and the flight attendant not being versed in the proper emergency fellatio protocol).
So to distract myself from this kind of thinking I have to come up with ways to trick my mind into a lull. An engrossing book is a must. Sometimes a shot or two at the airport bar can steel the nerves, but typically just makes me edgier so I generally avoid any alcohol before and during the flight. I do math and tell myself that flight attendants do this as a job. This last time, I took my laptop for the first time and watched movies, which helped greatly. You would think sleeping would be perfect; however, this is almost always the worst strategy. Even when I sit in first class it's impossible to get comfortable enough to achieve anything other than a restless half-sleep. And the slightest bump of turbulence wrenches me out of my fever dreams to choke on my own breath. These are my coping strategies for this particularly phobia; I muster up a quiet dignity and suffer through it as best I can. And you can bet your ass that as soon as we reach the gate I'm throwing up a few hallelujahs in thanks to the Old Man.
THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN
Candidates for the future Mrs. Dunce Cap Marvel beware. I am possibly the worst domestic mind of our generation. A few days ago I did laundry for the first time at the new apartment. The new sweater I just bought at Eddie Bauer last week is now the newly shrunken sweater I just bought. I fuck up so many new clothes it's not even funny. I am also an abysmal seamster (?), a complete lackwit when it comes to ironing, and quite adept at staining shirts to only further ruin them with bleach. Someday when I am a rich and powerful blogger with a book deal all of my dirty, stained, and buttonless clothes items will go to a lucky individual who will launder and mend them for the cash that I press into his or her palm. But never fear ladies...I can cook, so submit those résumés!
A few weeks ago I went to Minnesota to go to my parents' house for the week since I didn't get a chance to go home for Christmas. Of course I was glad to be able to go and spend time with my folks, but that unfortunately involved flying there and back. I get pretty nervous during air travel and being thousands of miles above the Earth, which isn’t really all that surprising -- being that I get nervous or frightened about a hell of a lot of things, both practical and nonsensical.However, the thing with flying is that I used to love it. I mean absolutely LOVED it. And I’ve flown a lot of hours in my lifetime too; my dad used to work for a prominent airline that had to declare bankruptcy, so we flew all around the world for no cost when I was a kid. I’ve flown in jumbo jets, prop planes, and float planes. I’ve flown into about every major airport, across the length of the country, and over the world’s two greatest oceans. Short flights, long flights, clear weather, lightning storms, and turbulence: I’ve done it all. I also have an early memory of going up in a hot air balloon, although that may just be a concoction of my mind.
So why the fear of flying? I honestly don't know where it comes from. From what I can tell, it seems to have started roughly six years ago. And I know what you're thinking, but I don't think it has anything directly to do with 9/11. I flew to Chicago not long after that happened and don't remember being freaked out. I think it has more to do with my mental state as I have gotten more and more anxious and prone to panic attacks over the years. Or maybe it has to do with mellowing with age, and becoming more cognizant of my own mortality.
Regardless of whatever it is though, the minute I step on board and take my seat my mind is racing and I am sweating profusely. By the time we touch down at the destination my khakis will be soaked from rubbing my wet palms on my thighs for two hours straight. Flying also makes me the most devout man on the planet. From taxiing to the runway to throughout the entire takeoff and climb, I am offering up about a thousand variants of prayers to the Almighty for safe passage. Once airborne and at cruising altitude, I start inventing a multitude of disaster scenarios. The reasons for the plane's soon-to-be-crash range from the practical (engine failure) to the impractical (the wings simply shearing off) to the political (terrorists) to the fantastical (gremlins) to even the comedic (the pilots suffering from food poisoning and the flight attendant not being versed in the proper emergency fellatio protocol).
So to distract myself from this kind of thinking I have to come up with ways to trick my mind into a lull. An engrossing book is a must. Sometimes a shot or two at the airport bar can steel the nerves, but typically just makes me edgier so I generally avoid any alcohol before and during the flight. I do math and tell myself that flight attendants do this as a job. This last time, I took my laptop for the first time and watched movies, which helped greatly. You would think sleeping would be perfect; however, this is almost always the worst strategy. Even when I sit in first class it's impossible to get comfortable enough to achieve anything other than a restless half-sleep. And the slightest bump of turbulence wrenches me out of my fever dreams to choke on my own breath. These are my coping strategies for this particularly phobia; I muster up a quiet dignity and suffer through it as best I can. And you can bet your ass that as soon as we reach the gate I'm throwing up a few hallelujahs in thanks to the Old Man.
THE INCREDIBLE SHRINKING MAN
Candidates for the future Mrs. Dunce Cap Marvel beware. I am possibly the worst domestic mind of our generation. A few days ago I did laundry for the first time at the new apartment. The new sweater I just bought at Eddie Bauer last week is now the newly shrunken sweater I just bought. I fuck up so many new clothes it's not even funny. I am also an abysmal seamster (?), a complete lackwit when it comes to ironing, and quite adept at staining shirts to only further ruin them with bleach. Someday when I am a rich and powerful blogger with a book deal all of my dirty, stained, and buttonless clothes items will go to a lucky individual who will launder and mend them for the cash that I press into his or her palm. But never fear ladies...I can cook, so submit those résumés!
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Well, that was the office Christmas party from Hell
Last night my company had its annual office Christmas -- excuse me, "holiday" -- party in Boston. Why hold a "holiday" party after the holidays on a meaningless Friday night in January, I don't know. I wasn't originally going to go because I've been feeling moody and antisocial lately, but I figured since I'm down to eating bologna sandwiches and Ramen for the next two weeks I would at least show up for the free food, have a couple drinks, and catch the late train home to Salem. Little did I know...
The thing was held at this Dave & Buster's rip-off right next to Fenway Park complete with open bar, buffet, and six bowling lanes reserved for our company. It started out decently: a couple of cold beverages, some food, awkward conversation with co-workers. And then what will be known as the "Splenectomy" happened. Most people were more intested in the bar than the bowling and somewhere during the night, the management decided to sell our unused private lanes to the bowling public. However, we had booked and paid for the lanes for the night, whether we were putting them to use or not. Upon discovering this in attempting to start a game, several people took issue with the management, including a spouse of an office employee. This guy, who could easily pass for Tim Burton and whose name was -- no kidding here -- Spleen Ect, in a fit of rage, threw down a full drink and wound up in his best Bronson Arroyo impression, slamming his bowling shoes to the floor one by one. Needless to say, he was promptly escorted off the premises by a couple of hulking gorillas. As a result of this our open bar was prematurely shut down a full 30 minutes before our original time.
So now a large group of people want to hit up another bar in a different part of town to rectify the lacking alcohol situation. We end up at this most clubbiest of all clubs located on the basement level on a Marriott hotel. Strobe lights, dance music, pulsating bodies in the dark -- not my kind of place. What makes the experience somewhat enjoyable is that one of the members of our party is an absolute baller who spends a lot of money there and knows everyone. We arrive to find we have an entire VIP room sectioned off for us, complete with the requisite cordon and private security guard. It was like something out of Entourage. Not something I'd like to make a habit of, but a definite experience.
Now the place is closing down for the night, it's past two in the morning, I've missed my scheduled midnight "talk" with my ex-girlfriend, and HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET HOME TONIGHT!? The problem does become resolved but not before a trip to Malden, a party full of rowdy Kenyans, a brief encounter with local law enforcement, some very aggravating and bleary-eyed designated driving, and a long, cold walk over the Essex Bridge from Beverly to Salem. I got home at approximately a quarter to six this morning. Yippee.
The thing was held at this Dave & Buster's rip-off right next to Fenway Park complete with open bar, buffet, and six bowling lanes reserved for our company. It started out decently: a couple of cold beverages, some food, awkward conversation with co-workers. And then what will be known as the "Splenectomy" happened. Most people were more intested in the bar than the bowling and somewhere during the night, the management decided to sell our unused private lanes to the bowling public. However, we had booked and paid for the lanes for the night, whether we were putting them to use or not. Upon discovering this in attempting to start a game, several people took issue with the management, including a spouse of an office employee. This guy, who could easily pass for Tim Burton and whose name was -- no kidding here -- Spleen Ect, in a fit of rage, threw down a full drink and wound up in his best Bronson Arroyo impression, slamming his bowling shoes to the floor one by one. Needless to say, he was promptly escorted off the premises by a couple of hulking gorillas. As a result of this our open bar was prematurely shut down a full 30 minutes before our original time.
So now a large group of people want to hit up another bar in a different part of town to rectify the lacking alcohol situation. We end up at this most clubbiest of all clubs located on the basement level on a Marriott hotel. Strobe lights, dance music, pulsating bodies in the dark -- not my kind of place. What makes the experience somewhat enjoyable is that one of the members of our party is an absolute baller who spends a lot of money there and knows everyone. We arrive to find we have an entire VIP room sectioned off for us, complete with the requisite cordon and private security guard. It was like something out of Entourage. Not something I'd like to make a habit of, but a definite experience.
Now the place is closing down for the night, it's past two in the morning, I've missed my scheduled midnight "talk" with my ex-girlfriend, and HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET HOME TONIGHT!? The problem does become resolved but not before a trip to Malden, a party full of rowdy Kenyans, a brief encounter with local law enforcement, some very aggravating and bleary-eyed designated driving, and a long, cold walk over the Essex Bridge from Beverly to Salem. I got home at approximately a quarter to six this morning. Yippee.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
When Augie Doggie turns into Cujo
Today the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved the minute hand of the Doomsday Clock to 11:55 -- two minutes closer to the end of the world. The reasons for humanity's hastening destruction are the usual suspects: terrorism, nuclear standoffs, global warming, the bird flu, and Pat Robertson. However, there is a far more terrible threat to the citizens of Earth that should be added to America's docket of fear. This brutal enemy has lived side by side with humans since the Middle Ages and came to America along with our colonial precedessors. Of course this lurking menace I am speaking of is the pit bull.
It seems every time I look up someone new has been mauled by a pit bull. I had originally started this post a couple of weeks ago, but had tabled it until I saw that yesterday another little girl was killed by her neighbor's dog. This comes a week after a toddler was killed by her uncle's pit bull in the UK, and two weeks after a teenage boy in backwoods Tennessee was attacked and mauled by a pack of wild pit bulls before his neighbor chased them off. The week before Christmas a pair of pits in the Boston area jumped into a family's livestock paddock, killing their miniature horse and severly wounding their other horse.
I don't know exactly what the solution is, but something certainly needs to be done to curtail a disturbing trend that is on the rise nationwide. The libertarian in me rails against passing laws that make owning pits illegal, such as the one that exists in Great Britain and in many states across the country. The Georgia legislature was considering such a bill before I left and I was originally all for it, but reading social scientist/columist Malcolm Gladwell's thoughts on the topic changed my mind.
Yes, pit bulls and similar breeds can be extraordinary vicious and aggressive dogs, but so can other dogs like German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers. The French woman who had the face transplant was mauled by a Lab, which is seen as a loving family pet. There is even a documented case of a fatality involving a Pomeranian. I am very mistrustful of an animal that was specifically bred to bait bulls and bears, but I certainly realize that not every pit is a cold-blooded killer.
The real problem starts with the owner, and in just about every fatal attack case I have looked at the dog's owner was incredibly irresponsible and ill-suited to have the dog. And it certainly doesn't help to have idiots like Joey Porter (his pit bulls killed a horse), Latrell Sprewell (his pit bull tore his daughter's face off and he still refused to have it put down), and multitudes of rappers sporting pit bulls as status symbols, as if the dogs were jewelry. Whatever the answer, something does have to be done. The pit bull population is growing along with America's fascination with the breed and the issue is not going to just go away.
It seems every time I look up someone new has been mauled by a pit bull. I had originally started this post a couple of weeks ago, but had tabled it until I saw that yesterday another little girl was killed by her neighbor's dog. This comes a week after a toddler was killed by her uncle's pit bull in the UK, and two weeks after a teenage boy in backwoods Tennessee was attacked and mauled by a pack of wild pit bulls before his neighbor chased them off. The week before Christmas a pair of pits in the Boston area jumped into a family's livestock paddock, killing their miniature horse and severly wounding their other horse.
I don't know exactly what the solution is, but something certainly needs to be done to curtail a disturbing trend that is on the rise nationwide. The libertarian in me rails against passing laws that make owning pits illegal, such as the one that exists in Great Britain and in many states across the country. The Georgia legislature was considering such a bill before I left and I was originally all for it, but reading social scientist/columist Malcolm Gladwell's thoughts on the topic changed my mind.
Yes, pit bulls and similar breeds can be extraordinary vicious and aggressive dogs, but so can other dogs like German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers. The French woman who had the face transplant was mauled by a Lab, which is seen as a loving family pet. There is even a documented case of a fatality involving a Pomeranian. I am very mistrustful of an animal that was specifically bred to bait bulls and bears, but I certainly realize that not every pit is a cold-blooded killer.
The real problem starts with the owner, and in just about every fatal attack case I have looked at the dog's owner was incredibly irresponsible and ill-suited to have the dog. And it certainly doesn't help to have idiots like Joey Porter (his pit bulls killed a horse), Latrell Sprewell (his pit bull tore his daughter's face off and he still refused to have it put down), and multitudes of rappers sporting pit bulls as status symbols, as if the dogs were jewelry. Whatever the answer, something does have to be done. The pit bull population is growing along with America's fascination with the breed and the issue is not going to just go away.
Monday, January 15, 2007
A place to call my own
HOME SWEET SALEM
Big day today…not only is this the one year anniversary of the start of this blog, but today I moved into my new apartment. Naturally, I celebrated with a $5 bottle of Brut champagne. It’s incredible that in the span of a year my life has changed so much. Not only has this blog taken on a life of its own that I never would have suspected, but I have entirely uprooted myself, moving to an opposite corner of the country in the pursuit of creative inspiration and a better state of mind.
And even though I have no furnishings and am surrounded by only my necessities (the Bible and the Qur’an, my Star Wars movies, reference books on folklore and mythology, histories of the colonial Americas, my notebooks, and my volumes of Lovecraft and Poe), I could not be more thrilled. I finally have an entire place of my own, complete with a kitchen and a bathroom I am not required to share. It isn’t perfect: the floors are uneven, there is no closet space to speak of, the bathroom tile is splattered with white paint, the pipes are loud, the extra room is painted a garish rosy pink, and the washer and dryer are situated in a root cellar that is more suited to the height of a hobbit than that of a man a few inches north of six feet.
But what can one expect from a house that was built in the early part of the 19th century? There may not be a right angle to be found in the carpentry and the little door that hides the brick oven is a little creepy, but the whole house lives and breathes HISTORY. The essence of it is frighteningly tangible and I just know if I listen closely enough I will be able to hear the lingering voices of the past. I am so excited to be here that I find myself wondering if sleep will be scarce tonight.
Big day today…not only is this the one year anniversary of the start of this blog, but today I moved into my new apartment. Naturally, I celebrated with a $5 bottle of Brut champagne. It’s incredible that in the span of a year my life has changed so much. Not only has this blog taken on a life of its own that I never would have suspected, but I have entirely uprooted myself, moving to an opposite corner of the country in the pursuit of creative inspiration and a better state of mind.
And even though I have no furnishings and am surrounded by only my necessities (the Bible and the Qur’an, my Star Wars movies, reference books on folklore and mythology, histories of the colonial Americas, my notebooks, and my volumes of Lovecraft and Poe), I could not be more thrilled. I finally have an entire place of my own, complete with a kitchen and a bathroom I am not required to share. It isn’t perfect: the floors are uneven, there is no closet space to speak of, the bathroom tile is splattered with white paint, the pipes are loud, the extra room is painted a garish rosy pink, and the washer and dryer are situated in a root cellar that is more suited to the height of a hobbit than that of a man a few inches north of six feet.
But what can one expect from a house that was built in the early part of the 19th century? There may not be a right angle to be found in the carpentry and the little door that hides the brick oven is a little creepy, but the whole house lives and breathes HISTORY. The essence of it is frighteningly tangible and I just know if I listen closely enough I will be able to hear the lingering voices of the past. I am so excited to be here that I find myself wondering if sleep will be scarce tonight.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
New year, new digs, and a lot of miscellaneous nonsense
BITTER BOBBY LEARNS A LIFE LESSON
What a difference a week makes. On Christmas Eve I'm stranded in the airport, alone for yet another holiday, and determined to be the most dejected and put upon human being in the history of the planet over the course of the next seven days. At the end of said week, I have scored not only a big bonus for working late during the holidays but the sweetest apartment I could have possibly imagined. Our Golden Books moral of the day? Don't dwell on the bad times lest you miss out on the good ones around the bend.
So, yes, I did land the apartment. Starting the 15th of this month I will live in the first floor of a house that sits directly across from the House of Seven Gables and four houses from the ocean. I live on a one-way street towards the quiet end of Salem's waterfront. If I didn't have the arm strength of a wet spaghetti noodle I could throw a stone to Pickering Wharf. Most of the houses in my neighborhood were built in the 19th century and I am surrounded by quaint little shops and restaurants, including the first commercial candy store in the United States (which makes the most exquisite turtles...so much for my New Year's diet). No excuse for not getting work done now; I have found my writer's nook.
THE BEST DAY EVER
As good as I have felt the last couple days, I would kill to be in Ian Johnson's shoes. Boise State orchestrates one of the best college football finishes ever to upset a major program, this kid runs in the final 2 point conversion to win the game, and then rushes over to ask his cheerleader girlfriend's hand in marriage. Not to mention that he is the nation's leader in touchdowns scored. Congrats Mr. Johnson and thanks for the amazing story. If only you played for Georgia*.
LLAMAS, WOOKIEES, AND A SHITLOAD OF FLOWERS
As good as the Fiesta Bowl turned out to be, I still would have preferred to make the trip to Pasadena for the Rose Bowl. I couldn't hate the two teams playing in the game much more, but it would have been worth the trip just for the parade. George Lucas as the Grand Marshal of the Rose Parade!? The city of Theed and the forest moon of Endor --complete with the requisite Ewoks-- built entirely out of flowers!? Stormtroopers marching down Main Street in military formation!? Chewbacca waving to the crowd while the brass of the 'Imperial March' fills the air!? I don't know if my little geek heart could stand it all...
I JUST LOVE YOUTUBE
It's amazing what just a little quick editing can do. These recut movie "trailers" seem to be all the rage online these days and I have to say that I am a big fan. Enjoy.
Shining
Scary Mary
Office Space
Ten Things I Hate About Commandments
Planes, Trains, & Automobiles
*I am still furious at myself that I missed the UGA v. Virginia Tech game. I somehow thought that the Peach Bowl was on New Year's Day and went shopping in Boston instead. I still could have made it but I barely missed the 8:30pm Beverly train as it pulled away from North Station. The next train didn't get me home until about 11pm and I walked into the sports bar to see the last 5 seconds of regulation tick off the clock. [sigh] At least we won...
What a difference a week makes. On Christmas Eve I'm stranded in the airport, alone for yet another holiday, and determined to be the most dejected and put upon human being in the history of the planet over the course of the next seven days. At the end of said week, I have scored not only a big bonus for working late during the holidays but the sweetest apartment I could have possibly imagined. Our Golden Books moral of the day? Don't dwell on the bad times lest you miss out on the good ones around the bend.
So, yes, I did land the apartment. Starting the 15th of this month I will live in the first floor of a house that sits directly across from the House of Seven Gables and four houses from the ocean. I live on a one-way street towards the quiet end of Salem's waterfront. If I didn't have the arm strength of a wet spaghetti noodle I could throw a stone to Pickering Wharf. Most of the houses in my neighborhood were built in the 19th century and I am surrounded by quaint little shops and restaurants, including the first commercial candy store in the United States (which makes the most exquisite turtles...so much for my New Year's diet). No excuse for not getting work done now; I have found my writer's nook.
THE BEST DAY EVER
As good as I have felt the last couple days, I would kill to be in Ian Johnson's shoes. Boise State orchestrates one of the best college football finishes ever to upset a major program, this kid runs in the final 2 point conversion to win the game, and then rushes over to ask his cheerleader girlfriend's hand in marriage. Not to mention that he is the nation's leader in touchdowns scored. Congrats Mr. Johnson and thanks for the amazing story. If only you played for Georgia*.
LLAMAS, WOOKIEES, AND A SHITLOAD OF FLOWERS
As good as the Fiesta Bowl turned out to be, I still would have preferred to make the trip to Pasadena for the Rose Bowl. I couldn't hate the two teams playing in the game much more, but it would have been worth the trip just for the parade. George Lucas as the Grand Marshal of the Rose Parade!? The city of Theed and the forest moon of Endor --complete with the requisite Ewoks-- built entirely out of flowers!? Stormtroopers marching down Main Street in military formation!? Chewbacca waving to the crowd while the brass of the 'Imperial March' fills the air!? I don't know if my little geek heart could stand it all...I JUST LOVE YOUTUBE
It's amazing what just a little quick editing can do. These recut movie "trailers" seem to be all the rage online these days and I have to say that I am a big fan. Enjoy.
Shining
Scary Mary
Office Space
Ten Things I Hate About Commandments
Planes, Trains, & Automobiles
*I am still furious at myself that I missed the UGA v. Virginia Tech game. I somehow thought that the Peach Bowl was on New Year's Day and went shopping in Boston instead. I still could have made it but I barely missed the 8:30pm Beverly train as it pulled away from North Station. The next train didn't get me home until about 11pm and I walked into the sports bar to see the last 5 seconds of regulation tick off the clock. [sigh] At least we won...
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