The Daily Procrastinator

I’m a writer.  I work from home.  Therefore, on those unique opportunities to get out into the world and see people, I get a little bit excited.  Yesterday was one of those days.

There was the monthly IABC social networking mixer at a bar in San Francisco.  I was dressed in my “Woohoo! I’m going out!” skirt, and very excited about it at that.

And then I got to the city and realized all the ways that this was a bad idea.

1. Anyone remember Marilyn Monroe’s iconic upskirt in The Seven-Year Itch?  Submitted for your consideration: that burst of air that precedes a subway train as it emerges from the tunnel into the open expanse of the station combined with one rather flowing, swishy skirt.  Result: the commute crowd saw more of TallGirl than I’d like to admit.

I looked considerably less pleased than Marilyn.

2. The bar that hosts the aforementioned networking event has low tables scattered about among the seating areas.  Each table contains one votive candle, for atmosphere.  As we stood in this crowded bar area, we all stood perilously close to the votives.  I was evidently seconds away from becoming a human torch when the organization’s president came running over to push me out of the way.  I’m now destined for jokes about being the hottest member of the group.

And so, kids, I have learned a valuable lesson: stick with my beloved jeans and all will be fine.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a skirt to retire to the back of my closet.

Hello, procrastinators. Big Red Poet, here. I’m alive and well. In fact, I wasn’t even hung over this morning. Years of practice have finally paid off, it seems. Yesterday, FlashCap, who edited my St. Patrick’s Day: Part I post, assumed that I passed out at 7:53 p.m., just because my blog entries ended. Actually, nothing could have been farther from the truth, as FlashCap himself was about to discover. (Please note that my laptop didn’t accompany on the second half of my voyage, so the timestamps for my individual thoughts are absent from this half of my notes on the day.)

At 7:53, I discovered that WrongFoot and I were the only two members of our original group who were still at the bar, and he was talking about getting something to eat and heading for home. Frankly, I was pretty disappointed in the whole crew. I guess I just assumed we were in it for the long haul, but others didn’t make the same assumption. In hindsight, I guess they went out on St. Patrick’s Day, got drunk, and went home to crash. That’s what people do. I can’t hold it against them.

Late in the afternoon, FlashCap had texted me and asked me if we’d be out all night, since it seemed he’d get the chance to come out around 9:30 or so. When WrongFoot bailed out, I remembered both FlashCap’s text and the performance schedule of a local singer-songwriter named J. Putting two and two together, I called FlashCap and asked if he’d like to finish off his St. Patrick’s Day by going to J’s show and having some drinks. He seemed amenable, as did Pre, who texted me just moments later.

A few calls and text messages later, at a little after 10:00 p.m., FlashCap, Pre, and I sat in a funky little joint that’s a coffee house by day and a bar by night. J was just starting his second or third song when we arrived, and we settled in with a round of double-whiskey-sours. As J stormed his way through a mixture of original songs and cover tunes, we quickly killed the first round of drinks and sent FlashCap to the bar for another.

All over the cafe, the owners allow local artists to display and sell their work. While much of it didn’t catch my eye at all, one image appealed to me. Behind the stage, at the top of the rightmost column of displayed paintings, hung a black and white likeness of Zack de la Rocha, vocalist for Rage Against The Machine which was clearly based on this photograph. Although I know J quite well, I didn’t want to interrupt his set, so I didn’t get up to examine the painting closely. Zack stared intensely down at us throughout J’s show, though. Somewhere in there, we had a third round of double-whiskey-sours. Also, FlashCap, who attended a major university and proudly wears the associated ring, offered me a few choice words about my notes at 2:38 in Part I of this post.

After about an hour and a half of fantastic singing and playing, J stepped off the stage to take a break. We decide to wander down the street a few blocks to the area’s other Irish pub. I’d already spent 12 hours in the first one, so it seemed only sensible to at least pass through the second. Each of us had a drink in hand that we didn’t want to abandon, so I told Mohawk Dave, a bar employee and friend of mine, that we were going to stash them behind the flower pot near the front gate and pick them up when we returned. Our drinks thus spared, we headed for the Irish pub. As we expected, the place was pretty packed. Upon seeing the sea of humanity at the downstairs bar, we decided to make our way upstairs in the hopes that it wouldn’t be quite as full. This was not to be, but we stayed upstairs anyway. Within a few moments of reaching the second story, we bumped into Pre’s friend, the guy with whom I’d played Super Mario Brothers 3 for a couple hours earlier in the day. While conversation started up, I headed for the men’s room.

As I navigated the crowd, I abruptly came face to face with a woman who had obviously had drunk about twice her responsible limit of beers for the day. After leering drunkenly at me for a moment and wobbling as she attempted to commence locomotion, she staggered off in the direction of FlashCap and Pre. When I returned from the men’s room, Pre’s friend and his group were gone, and the drunken lady was sitting at their table with a pained expression on her face. The chuckling and smirking between Pre and FlashCap told me I’d missed something good.

Apparently, while I was relieving myself of about four pints of Guinness, the drunken woman did a total faceplant right in front of Pre, FlashCap, and Pre’s friends. According to firsthand accounts, “she somehow managed to fall right on her ass and also hit her head on the floor.” I can scarcely imagine the drunken calisthenics involved in such a feat, but I’m bummed that I missed it. When she sat down at their table, Pre’s friends decided their night was over and headed for home. They were gone when I returned. A few moments later, the woman got up and actually walked down the stairs. I was sure we were going to hear some thumps and shouts from the staircase, but she apparently made it to the bottom without incident.

Nodding toward the table where first Pre’s friends and then the drunken woman had sat, Pre said, “They left a couple beers that the didn’t even sip yet. They said to drink up.” The best beer is somebody else’s beer, and I know it. I immediately snatched up a pint of room-temperature green Miller Light and commenced to teach it a lesson. FlashCap was more hesitant. It seemed he didn’t want to be seen poaching a “used” beer off a recently vacated table, so I grabbed it and thrust it into his hand. Before long, we each had an empty pint glass in hand. Pre didn’t seem thirsty.

While walking from the Irish bar back to our original location, we were accosted by a guy who seemed to need money. It was hard to tell exactly what was on his mind because his spoken English left much to be desired. From what I could gather, he needed three dollars because his “old lady” was “trippin’” on him. I took this to mean that either his wife was angry with him or his mother was hopped up on LSD. Either way, I didn’t have any cash on me. FlashCap and Pre didn’t either, but that didn’t stop this guy from following us back to the bar and asking the other patrons for three dollars.

Returning to J’s show and rescuing our drinks from behind the flower pot, we settled in for the second set. Within a few moments, Mohawk Dave showed the panhandler to the door and offered him a few words of encouragement which I can only assume mean the guy won’t be back for a while. I also saw one of the local artists who displays his work at the bar wander in. It took only a few moments of conversation to establish that he had painted the Zack de la Rocha and he would sell it to me for $40. Needless to say, that painting is now in the back seat of my car.

Believe it or not, at one point in the second set, J covered the Tool song Aenema on his acoustic guitar, and when he finished that, he transitioned seamlessly into the Foo Fighters’ Everlong. It was really impressive, and I could see FlashCap’s attitude toward J shifting from casual appreciation to genuine respect. About this time, my friend MovieGirl, who had apparently read Part I of this post shortly after it was posted, texted me to tell me that she, too, did not appreciate my comments at 2:38. I think she was mostly feigning offense. I hope so. Apparently, I need to be more careful in my commentary about college rings, especially in this town.

The remainder of the show passed without incident, and once J finished up his killer set, FlashCap, Pre, and I headed to the nearby Taco Bell to get some solid nutrition before heading to bed. Since when does Taco Bell close at 2 a.m.? This seems totally pointless to me. The only reason we have Taco Bell is so we can eat there after going to the bar. They need to realize their primary customer base and adjust their hours accordingly. With tears in our eyes, we headed to the nearby Whataburger and grabbed some greasy fast food to eat while we drove back to our respective homes. Thus ended our St. Patrick’s Day 2009.

So…What did we learn today?

• I am apparently incapable of catching a buzz from drinking alcoholic beverages. It’s a serious annoyance. Reading both parts of this post, one will count six beers, an Irish Coffee, a mimosa, four (or five?) Irish car bombs, and four double-whiskey-sours. That’s a pretty earnest effort to get drunk. Yet, when we left J’s show, I was stone sober. You can ask FlashCap. He was there.
• NES and SNES games are every bit as much fun now as they were when we were kids. Sure, xBox 360 and PS3 are amazing, but there’s just something about a badly-animated Italian plumber chasing a mushroom that no other video game can replace.
• My definition of “drink all day” differs significantly from others’ definitions. Clarify your plans with your friends, procrastinators.
• $120 is a pretty reasonable price to pay for a day of drinking and a sweet painting of Zack de la Rocha.
• The Taco Bell people need to pull their heads out and make me some tacos at 2:15 a.m.
• Even people who are so drunk they can’t walk across a level floor without busting their asses are capable of navigating staircases.
• People who attend major universities, the kinds of universities that issue their students rings, are kinda sensitive to comments that involve phrases like “completely insane with devotion to their university.”

Until next year, my work is done here.

HEY!  GOOD MORNING!  BEAUTIFUL DAY TODAY, ISN’T IT?

How’s that hangover this morning, Big Red Poet?  Before you try to hunt me down and bludgeon me, I want to remind you that I come bearing supposedly tried-and-true hangover cures.  Be nice and I may share them with you.

Let’s start by explaining why you feel so lousy this morning: alcohol.  I can tell by your unintelligible grumbling that you already knew that.  Well, here are more details.  You’re dehydrated.  Thanks to curious little chemical processes that go on in your body, with each drink you actually lose more fluid than you take in.  

99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer...

Now, if you’d come looking for advice yesterday, I would have told you that you should chase each drink with a glass of water.  Too late for that now.  This is a recovery mission today, and I’ll give you some suggestions that are widely rumored to work.  As a disclaimer, I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on a blog for procrastinators, but I will spare you the hassle of your own Google search and give you the answers that I’ve gathered from the interwebs.

Gatorade.  Sports drinks aren’t just for athletes.  In much the same way that they replenish glucose and electrolytes for marathon runners, they’ll do the same for your abused body.

Greasy Eggs and Bacon.  I personally can’t handle the eggs on a hangover morning, but there’s definitely benefit to the salt in the bacon.  And really, is there ever a bad time for bacon?

Tripe Soup.  They swear by it in Mexico.  The spices most likely give your brain and body a chance to focus on a different kind of pain.  Either that or the tripe makes you vomit what’s left of last night’s bender.  The sources I’ve seen aren’t very clear on that one.

Hair of the Dog.  Another beer, my dear?  People swear that this is a solution, but the added alcohol will continue to send you down the path of dehydration.

Vitamins.  B6 and B12 the morning after can help to replenish what drinking has taken away.

Over-the-Counter Pain Meds.  Sure, they might work on your headache, but use them wisely.  Those with ibuprofen — Tylenol or Excedrin — can wreak havoc on your liver when mixed with alcohol.

Water, Water and More Water.  Your body needs the hydration, but water alone won’t do the trick.

Water and Chips.  My personal favorite combines the hydration of water with the saltiest bag of chips I can find.  A big bottle of water and bag of BBQ chips from an airport newsstand saved me from my worst hangover in the dry desert air of Las Vegas.  I was startled to discover that I was back to normal in 30 minutes.

Here’s hoping that you’ll find a solution and be able to drag your butt out of bed before noon.  Cheers!

The local Irish pub celebrates St. Patrick’s Day in a BIG way each year, and I’m part of a dedicated group of revelers who truly live it up every year. The bar opens at 8:00 a.m., and they don’t kick us out until 2 a.m. At the moment, it’s 8:06 a.m., and I’m about to grab my first pint of Guiness. Here’s the record of the rest of the day (Be warned, this is likely to turn somewhat incoherent in a few hours):

8:00 – I arrive and park in a place DIRECTLY in front of the bar. There are already several people milling around outside. Luckily, my friend Ewok and her husband, Danny Boy,  have found a way to get into the bar before it’s actually open. They’ve claimed the best table in the place. At the booth, the two of them are sitting with a 70-year-old honest-to-god Irishman. This is a good sign. They’re both dressed in jeans and green t-shirts that bear the name of the bar. As for me, I’m wearing a “Lord Of The Beer” t-shirt. Thus clad, I open up the laptop and find the wireless network. So it begins. Irish music blares through the in-house speakers, there’s a rugby match on the televisions, and caterers are setting up warming dishes.

8:07 – Another co-worker, Pre, shows up. This is a pleasant surprise. We didn’t know he was coming, let alone that he was going to be one of the 8 a.m. All-Stars.

8:13 – Ewok and Danny Boy bring the day’s first pint of Guinness back to the table. I suddenly feel compelled to go get one of my own, along with some breakfast.

8:16 – I have procured a pint of beautiful black beer and a plate of green eggs and ham. Danny Boy notes that “Guinness is great morning beer…tastes so good.” Discussion of how Ewok and Danny Boy met in this very bar, on this very day, three years ago, ensues. I’m proud to say that I was there and facilitated the meeting.

8:28 – The breakfast is (or was, at this point) excellent, as is the Guinness. My roommate, WrongFoot, has yet to arrive. He is now likely to become the subject of rather serious ridicule.

8:32 – And WrongFoot is here. He brought extension cords, duct tape, a small television, an NES system, and god knows what else. Nice. He is forgiven for showing up late.

At this point, I feel compelled to point out the provisions we’ve brought with us for the day. We have three kinds of Trivial Pursuit, Apples to Apples, a deck of cards, a cribbage board, UNO, two laptops, Marvel Scene-It, a TV, an NES system, SongBurst, beer dice, Times To Remember, various DVDs, and several other things I’ve likely forgotten but will list later, as they become useful. The day promises to be interesting.

8:43 – We begin to look for an outlet. We need POWER in this booth, damn it! How else will we run the computers, television, NES, etc? It’s not like we’re going to create a hazard. We’ve got duct tape to keep the cord out of the way…

8:49 – WrongFoot finds an outlet and starts laying cable. We’re in business. Sweet. Somehow, rugby has become interesting. Huh. The first Guinness of the day is dead. We begin to debate the first round of Irish Car Bombs. In case you’re wondering, a Car Bomb is a pint glass half-filled with Guinness into which you drop a shot glass filled with a mixture of Bailey’s Irish Crème and Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. You then pound it down, shot-style. It’s magnificent…like a boozy chocolate shake. Mmmmm.

9:02 – Jarhead arrives. Apparently, he had to go to work for a few minutes this morning and get some things in order. He informs us that he started drinking beer at 4 a.m. Consider the timeline. Nice. We’ve got a television set up, and the NES is soon to follow. Things are turning epic. We begin to realize that we could live in this bar for several days if zombies attacked. We could just lock the door and taunt them through the windows while we drank Guinness and ate leftover green eggs and ham.

9:11 – The first car bomb of the day has been ordered. As we did so, the guy next to us at the bar looked at us, looked at his watch, and look back at us, incredulous. Candy-ass. My bomb disappeared in one gulp. The bartender said, and I quote, “That shirt isn’t fuckin’ around, is it?” No, ma’am. As we return to the table, Pre grabs my laptop and shows us all the shoes he bought last night. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen. Observe: http://www.vibramfivefingers.com/products/products_Sprint_m.cfm

We tried to order mimosas at the bar after drinking our car bombs. Sounded like a good idea. The bartender, though, informed us that they’re going to mix a whole bunch of them and give ‘em away around the bar in just a few minutes. Excellent, Smithers.

9:22 – We have just set up the NES. Meanwhile, a member of the bar staff showed up to ask if we had empty glasses. He glanced at the NES, the power strip, my laptop, and the rest of the rigmarole. He didn’t say anything, so I guess we’re in the clear. Let this be a lesson to you, procrastinators, it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

9:27 – In the first Super Tecmo Bowl match of the day, WrongFoot selects Buffalo, and he faces Jarhead, who will play the Giants. Also, the first “That’s what she said” joke of the day is made. Where the hell are those mimosas?

9:41 – While waiting for the OJ-and-champagne to arrive, I decide to have an Irish Coffee. It appears that The Giants are doomed.

9:48 – While WrongFoot and Jarhead approach the end of their Super Tecmo Bowl showdown, Ewok and Danny Boy bust out Skip-Bo. Ewok offers the theory that the origins of the game’s name involve an obnoxious kid named Bo whose turn people liked to pass over because he was an ass. It seems possible. WrongFoot emerges victorious, and Pre sits down to challenge him next. Estimated population of the bar: 100.

9:52 – Danny Boy steps out, saying, “I’m gonna go call my mom and wish her a happy St. Paddy’s Day.” WrongFoot replies, “Tell her I’ll call her later.” Beautiful. All bets are officially off.

9:58 – People I don’t know have joined us: a genuine Irishman and his wife. They’re friends of Danny Boy’s. They seem to add legitimacy to our celebration. Apparently, “There is no punting in Tecmo Bowl.” Discussion breaks out regarding whether converted Catholics or those born into the faith exhibit more fervor.  Converts get the nod.

10:07 – Danny Boy’s brother, Castro, shows up with a bottle of Taddy Porter in hand. We all remember, but nobody mentions, that this is the guy who threw up in the booth at about 10:30 last year…10:30 a.m. WrongFoot takes Phil Simms out of the game and puts in Jeff Hostetler. This seems like a bad choice. Our neighbors have noticed our setup and have begun snapping photos.

10:19 – Mimosas are not forthcoming. Damn it. A Strongbow Cider will have to do. Meanwhile, the morning crowd has begun to dissipate. I guess they just showed up to say they went to the bar at 8 a.m., and they’re now running back to their beds. Danny Boy and Castro just stepped outside for a cigarette. While they stood outside our window, gleefully trying to get cancer, Jarhead stood up on the bench in the booth and pressed his naked ass against the window where the smokers could get a good look at it.

10:34 – Mimosa. Free. Excellent. Jarhead has run across the road to the convenience store and brought back three flavors of Corn Nuts, Funyuns, and something called Cheese Munchies. We’re in good shape, now. Especially if zombies attack. We decide that 11:00 is the moment for our next Car Bomb. Rumors circulate that there will be karaoke this afternoon. Somebody on the far side of the bar hoists a beer and begins shouting, a long and sustained cry of celebration. It’s a social. Around the bar, every pair of lips meet a glass.

10:46 – Bar staff announces that the next 15 people to order a pint of Guinness will earn a key. There will be several opportunities throughout the day to earn keys. On the bar sits a box with a lock on it. Afterward, everyone with a key gets a chance to see if theirs works. There’s a mad rush to the bar. Drunkenness has already begun to make itself apparent. Danny Boy gets two pints and a key. This bodes well. It seems Pre and WrongFoot are on about their fourth game of Super Tecmo Bowl. I’m no longer sure who’s winning.

10:52 – Danny Boy’s key opens the box. He wins a t-shirt with the date 3/17/09 on the front, with each number separated by a shamrock rather than a slash. On the back, it’s got the Bushmill’s and Bailey’s logos.

11:00 – The 11:00 car bomb is postponed until 11:05 or so. WrongFoot and Pre have to play the entire fourth quarter of a game of Super Tecmo…which is about five minutes in actual time. WrongFoot is overheard to say, “You’re lucky I didn’t put Tomczak in sooner.” Nobody has ever said that before, I bet.

11:12 – The 11:00/11:05-ish car bomb has been accomplished. The bar staff is starting to wonder about us, I’m quite certain.

11:19 – Apples To Apples commences. A random guy from among the throng joins us, simply because he likes this game.

11:31 – Apparently, “Batman” is not a winning match to the word “Rich.” This is crap!

11:39 – Is it possible to suck at Apples To Apples? Meanwhile, we take a break to get beers and let those who smoke…smoke. I have zero green apple cards, at this point. The Irish guy has two because, apparently, Bigfoot is Cranky. He’d be fine if those beef-jerky-munching bastards would just leave him alone.

12:03 – The bar is filling up nicely. People are now standing because all seats are filled. Also, the caterers just showed up with the corned beef and cabbage. I haven’t seen them, but I can smell it. Also, Jarhead’s wife, Vixen, shows up.

12:17 – Lunch is served. Sitting before me is a heaping plate of shepherd’s pie, corned beef and cabbage, barbecued brisket (which seems slightly out of place), and a dinner roll. Apples To Apples is officially called off. I’ve got a pint of Purple Haze to accent my lunch.

12:26 – Imagine a couple-hundred drunkards singing along to “With Or Without You” while you eat lunch. It’s a nice scene.

12:44 – We’ve shifted songs to “Mysterious Ways,” and several more people who I don’t know have joined the group. They are suitably impressed by our NES setup and internet access. One of the gang updates her FaceBook status from my laptop. It now says “(Name) has been at (bar) since 9:30, and she’s having more fun than you. Just sayin.’” The NES is up and running again, and I’m playing Super Mario Brothers…the original.

1:20 – I rescued princesses in each of the first three castles before losing all my lives. I skipped all the warp zones. That’s just cheap. Why can’t the damned princess be in the first castle, or the second, even? I went through a lot of trouble to save her badly-animated ass; the least she could do is show up. At the least, she could text me: “Am in csl 8. luv P. :0)” Is that so much to ask? Also, the 1:00 car bomb has been defeated. Huzzah.

1:27 – Ha. The two people who went after me couldn’t get past world 1-4. I rule. They can’t even bitch about that first chick who’s not the princess because they didn’t GET to her.

2:01 – I got to level 5-3 this time. My thumb hurts and I need a beer. Everyone’s lunch seems to be setting in, and there’s a bit of a lull in the action. T-Money has arrived, along with his sidekick. The sidekick appears to either be drunken already or hopped up on painkillers. At this point, Jarhead claims he can finish Super Mario Brothers in 11 to 13 minutes. We’ll see.

2:06 – He didn’t make it.

2:12 – T-Money is now trying his hand at Mario Brothers. He’s on 5-2, which is a threat to my…never mind. He just died. I’m now having an Optimator. I’ve lost track of WrongFoot, Pre, Ewok, Danny Boy, and Castro. The Irishman and his wife are still within sight, though. The others will be back soon enough, I’m sure…and if they’re not, I’ll proudly carry on in their absence.

2:22 – Super Tecmo Bowl has returned. Jarhead is facing Pre, and the competition is intense. We’ve also bumped into some elementary- and middle-school teacher friends. The crowd grows.

2:29 – T-Money discovers that I’m blogging. How he has missed this for the last several hours, I have no idea. Anyway, he offers a shout-out to…well…to everyone.

2:38 – The first truly alcohol-inspired conversation of the day commences as WrongFoot and I debate whether anyone who wears a college ring is some sort of a crazy. I hold that they are. He doesn’t think so. Let’s just say I never even SAW a college ring until I moved to this college town. Ever. Here, everyone has one, and they’re all completely insane with devotion to their university. Frankly, I win.

2:57 – It seems Ewok has reached some sort of critical mass. She has retreated to her car, where the back seat lays down and she has a pillow stashed away. Not a bad idea, except I’m pretty sure I’d feel like some sort of pansy if I succumbed to such temptations. Meanwhile, we decide that 3:00 is a fine time to have the next car bomb.

3:03 – Car Bomb mission: accomplished. It occurs to me that there can’t be many intact cars left in Ireland, at the rate we’re going.

3:06 – A friend of ours, DSG, has noticed that we have the Retro Duo system, which plays both NES and SNES games. We only have one SNES cartridge, though, so she took pity on us and ran up to her nearby apartment and grabbed her stack of ‘em. We now have quite the selection of video game options. Also, there’s a girl in the bar who’s truly frightening. She’s decided to wear a shirt that’s ripped open down the back and doesn’t cover her spare tire. She’s complemented this lovely top with a pair of ultra-mega-low-rise jeans that scarcely conceal her ankle socks. She’s rockin’ like six inches of butt cleavage. The autumn of her wardrobe has arrived, and her pants are migrating south. It’s really not okay. Jarhead has declared that in about three beers, he’s going to sneak up behind her with a napkin and stick it in her buttcrack, just to make her aware of the situation. What a fantastic idea. I’m not in favor of ridiculing people based upon their looks, but at some point a person has to learn to dress for his or her physique. Really.

3:17 – Upon examining DSG’s selection of games, I see that she’s got Super Mario All-Stars, Primal Rage, and Super Mario World. We are SET. After all, Super Mario All-Stars has Super 1, Super 2, Super 3, and Lost Levels. That’s good stuff, people.

3:24 – Drunken conversation continues as Castro insists that Robert Downey Jr.’s performance in “Tropic Thunder” is at least as Oscar-worthy as Heath Ledger’s portrayal of Joker in “The Dark Knight.” Is this guy serious? Communist.

3:40 – Super Mario Brothers 3…When was the last time YOU played it? Pre, I, and some guy I don’t know are struggling to remember all the tricks and secrets. So far, we’re handling it pretty well. We’ve got two warp whistles, which isn’t bad for a trio of tipsy guys.

3:59 – Holy crap. St. Patrick’s Day karaoke just started. It’s not likely that this will end well. Nevertheless, I’m pretty excited. We’ve reached 2-3 on Super Mario Brothers 3, for those keeping score.

4:04 – Another co-worker arrives. Let’s call her NewGirl. I can honestly say that I didn’t expect her to come out today, but I’m glad to see her. She’s cool. She’s many drinks behind, though. We Mario players have just gained the Frog Suit. Oh, yeah. Meanwhile, somebody is singing “Baby Got Back” on karaoke. The nasty girl in the mega-low pants is now being hoisted shoulder-top in front of the karaoke stage, and it’s STILL not okay.

4:25 – We’ve just finished Bowser’s Castle on the second map, and some girl just NAILED “Come Together” on karaoke. Good God, that’s sexy. After that, we get treated to a pretty good rendition of “All That She Wants.” Flashback to high school!

4:38 – I pass one of those annoying levels with the giant, all-swallowing fish. Meanwhile, Castro sings “Only The Good Die Young.” I need a beer, but I don’t really feel like walking to the bar. We decide that 5:00 will be car bomb time.

4:50 – For reasons unexplained, Jarhead has just crumpled up his plastic leprechaun hat and thrown it to the floor and then belly-bumped the Irishman’s wife, sports-bar style… We’re stuck on the airship on world 3. We’ve lost like 10 lives on this level, and it’s NOT cool.

4:59 – Danny Boy knocks out “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” on karaoke, and we celebrate with a car bomb. Meanwhile, some fool does “Vanilla Ice.” Why does every douchbag in every karaoke bar in America think he can do this song?

5:10 – The 5:00 car bomb was a success, and I’ve got a fresh Strongbow. Things are looking good. We’re still stuck on the airship in World 3. This is less cool by the minute. To add to my mournful moment, Pre has left. He says he may be back later. Here’s hoping.

5:14 – Airship 3 is DEFEATED! Of course, now we have two lives left. Also, somebody is doing Snoop Doggy Dog on karaoke.

5:22 – And we’ve run out of lives. Luckily, we can use the “continue” feature. Some guy is singing a crappy emo song on karaoke, and my partner has used the warp whistle to take us to World 7. This can’t be good. A bartender has just thrown a Carolans Irish Crème pin at me, so that’s been added to my various beads and such.

5:33 – The nasty girl with the unnecessarily low pants just sang Jewel. Things are reaching kind of a lull. Various people are singing various lewd songs, including the current guy, who’s trying to sing “F%&k Her Gently” by Tenacious D. I can live without this song, really.

5:54 – The action of the bar slows considerably while everyone stops and watches karaoke. I’m not sure where Danny Boy and Castro have gone…Ewok informs me, however, that Castro has headed home, which I suppose means he won’t be puking in the bar this year. That’s good, I guess?

6:01 – I just remembered to feed my parking meter, which is overdue by, like, four hours. Oops. NewGirl is sitting in the booth with a noncommittal smile on her face, but I’m not sure she’s having a good time. Danny Boy just sang Dire Straits’ “Romeo And Juliet” on karaoke, which is one of my favorite love songs, and he did it justice. World 7 is thwarting us considerably. The “continue” function is our constant friend.

6:09 – “Piano Man” on karaoke. EVERYONE is singing. You should be here.

6:10 – My head hurts from singing at the top of my lungs. I need to take a breath. Luckily, some woman is singing a country song called “Have Mercy” that I’ve never heard.

6:25 – Will the real Slim Shady please stop singing karaoke?

6:57 – Karaoke has distracted me, but it’s time for the 7:00 car bomb.

7:00 – Karaoke has ended, but I don’t really care.

7:37 – Wow. The crowd has thinned out considerably. My memory for coming over to the laptop to type is beginning to suffer a little. Most of our group has left. Only WrongFoot and I remain. Lame. What a bunch of half-asses.

7:53 – So…it’s just me and WrongFoot.

[ed: at this point we have to believe BRP passed out]

A-Rod and A-Rod: a love for the ages

The picture from Details magazine says everything you need to know about this guy and his self-absorption.  Also his completely crappy judgment.  Who would allow someone to photograph them in such a ridiculous pose?

The crowds in Boston are going to have a field day with this.  That’s assuming that they let him live it down in the Bronx.

There comes a time in your life when you have to make tough decisions.  Today was that day for me, a day where I needed to evaluate the course that my life was taking, a day where I looked to the future instead of the past.  Why today, you ask?  Because I discovered my rollerblades in a box in the garage.

Not me. But this is proof that I have been paying attention and do know our readership demographics.

I honestly can’t tell you how long they’ve been there, or the last time I used them.  I have a sneaking suspicion that they were living in this very same box prior to the last move, nearly four years ago.  Logic would tell you that if I haven’t used them since the first four years of the W administration, there was probably a pretty good chance that I wouldn’t be using them again anytime soon.

Logic does not apply to these situations.

This strange little voice appeared in my head.  “Oooh!  Rollerblades!  That would be fun!  And it’s great exercise!”  The more rational part of my brain laughed maniacally at the thought of  me, completely out of practice, in a heap on the sidewalk.  I could see neighbor children rolling up on their Razor scooters, wondering what happened to the crazy lady on rollerblades.

But that wasn’t the only treasure in this Box of Fitness Past.  There was also the softball glove for when I played (again as the token girl) on a co-ed corporate team in 2002.  “I can’t throw this away,” I thought to myself.  “It’s in great condition and I might decide to play again.”  Of course, as I no longer work for a corporation and have no time to spend playing softball two nights a week, the odds of that happening are close to nil.

There were other goodies in there, too.  A yoga mat, some dumbbells, a Pilates ring, a deflated basketball and a knee brace that probably hasn’t fit me since I was 14.  A more rational person would have walked them directly to the garbage can, never to be seen or heard from again.  I am not that person.  Instead, I loaded all of these goodies into a large garbage bag with the intention of taking them to the garbage, but then decided to set them aside so I could think about it for a while longer.  

I realized that getting rid of these things was like kissing a part of my past goodbye; admitting that I no longer have the balance or stamina to handle rollerblades doesn’t make me feel sensible, it makes me feel old.  

So for now, all of the gear will remain in the garage, nestled out of the way.  Who know, maybe there will come a day where I wake up and decide that I desperately want to skate my way to the nearest softball field and look for a corporate co-ed slow-pitch team to join.

Across the country, hundreds of thousands of college students will be going on spring break this week. Let’s face it, procrastinators, those kids are a menace. Don’t go out there and risk your sanity among the inebriated youth; stay safely indoors and read The Daily Procrastinator. It’s the safer choice. We’ll have new content for you each and every day. In case you missed anything last week, let’s take a look back.

After viewing The Watchmen, Flash Cap offered his critique of Hollywood’s current movie rating system. Full frontal nudity is full frontal nudity, whether it’s computer generated or not…right?

TallGirl overheard a conversation at her local coffee shop during which several young women discussed the fallout between Rihanna and Chris Brown. What she heard blew her mind, and it will likely blow yours, too. Later in the week, TallGirl examined the xCount phenomenon on FaceBook, and she wrapped up her contributions by confessing her fear of treadmills.

BigRedPoet helped the world celebrate the 69th birthday of Chuck Norris this week by examining the star’s odd brand of fame. A few days later, he offered some pointers to help procrastinators everywhere polish their spoken English to a beautiful shine.

Visit The Daily Procrastinator at any of the links above and sign up to receive daily email updates so you never miss an article!

The Daily Procrastinator: Contributing to the Dramatic Reduction of Your Personal Productivity

I have a confession to make: I am afraid of the treadmill. 

You’re laughing. I can hear you. “It’s just like walking,” you say. “If you can walk, you can use a treadmill.” I am living proof that this is incorrect. God help me, I have never mastered this piece of equipment. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get the pace right, so I’m either scrambling like a hamster in a wheel that’s moving far too fast, or I’m slowly lumbering along, like I should be wearing a flannel shirt and have a blue ox trailing behind. And god help me when it’s time to slow the thing down and get off! I’m convinced that I’ll end up planted face-first on the ground.

I fear that I would be less graceful, ending up in a mangled heap on the floor.

I’ve never been a fan of the treadmill, but this fear has only increased with time. I have a vision of stepping at just the wrong angle and sailing off the back of this machine in front of everyone, like in some terrible Saturday Night Live sketch. This is how I’ve come to be particularly fond of the stationary bikes and the elliptical machine.

But none of these pieces of equipment will work with my beloved Nike+ sensor, which only registers the pounding gait of walking or running.  I started using this to train for my second half marathon in 2008, and I just love it.  I used it all the time back in the warmer, drier weather when outdoor workouts were possible.  Integration of my iPod music, miles and workout tracking is fantastic, plus you get this little voice telling you that you’ve had your best time or best distance ever.

But now that I’ve had a winter without it, I struggle with the idea of returning to it.  Will the little voice ask me where the heck I’ve been?  I want to tell her that I’ve been working out — no really, I swear! — but that my workouts haven’t been compatible with the little magical accelerometer in the sensor.  I want her validation and positive feedback for the 30 minutes that I spent on the elliptical this morning.  I want credit for the miles that I’ve gone this winter.  I just don’t want it quite enough to try the treadmill.

So when the winter rains finally give way to springtime sun, and I once again hit the streets with my Nike+, I hope that the little voice will be welcoming.  But I have this sneaking fear that she’ll calmly ask me where I’ve been and why the heck I couldn’t use the treadmill.

As a writer, a reader, and a functionally intelligent person, very few things grate on my nerves more than blatant misuses of the English language. After reading that first sentence, some people will roll their eyes and think, “Here we go again. Another English snob is about to get on his soapbox. It doesn’t matter if I speak proper English, as long as people understand me.” Wrong! Unless you’re a wallflower or a stalker, your spoken English is one of the first things a new acquaintance is likely to notice about you. Depending upon who your new acquaintance is, speaking improper English could cost you a new friendship, a date, or even a job. It could also cause you to be mocked mercilessly as soon as you’re out of earshot.

ENGLISH, MUTHAF@%#ER! DO YOU SPEAK IT?

It doesn’t take much effort to speak proper English, and the effort will pay remarkable dividends. In a world which is deeply concerned (even obsessed, I might say) with image, I’m shocked at how many people ignore the effect their spoken English has on their images.

I’m not going to point out such linguistic faux pas as “irregardless” and “a whole nother.” Doubtless, if you care about your spoken English at all, you already avoid these mistakes. Allow me to point out, though, a few other quick-fix ideas for polishing your spoken English so you can project an intelligent image.

Collective Nouns: I recently read an article about a shark attack, which is a pretty awesome topic. The following sentence, though, is not awesome.

The group were about to leave the deep waters south of the Mississippi River’s mouth, when Mr. McInnis found himself alone in the company of a tiger shark.

The problem here is that the writer’s subject, “group,” is a collective noun, which is a linguistic stumbling block for many people. Collective nouns are nouns for collections of things (obviously). Examples include words like: family, flock, team. Because these collections contain many members (a flock is made up of many birds, for example), people tend to make the mistake of using the verb conjugation that should be associated with plural nouns. This is why the above writer incorrectly chose “were.” The mistake is simple. No matter how many people are in the group, there’s still just one group. Thus, the noun “group” calls for verbs that would accompany a singular subject. After revision, the sentence should read as follows.

The group was about to leave the deep waters south of the Mississippi River’s mouth, when Mr McInnis found himself alone in the company of a tiger shark.

Before we leave this sentence, I must also point out that one cannot possibly be “alone in the company of a tiger shark.” The word “alone” implies that one is…well…alone.

Pronoun/Antecedent Agreement: Here’s another mistake I hear constantly. In general conversation, sentences like this one are not uncommon:

Whenever a co-worker gives you a gift, you should send them a thank-you note.

This speaker’s pronoun, “them,” does not agree with his antecedent, “co-worker.” The pronoun is plural, while the antecedent is clearly singular. There are two ways to fix this little blunder. One possibility is to insert singular pronouns which match the singular antecedent.

Whenever a co-worker gives you a gift, you should send him or her a thank-you note.

The other option is to change the antecedent to a plural so that it agrees with the plural pronoun.

Whenever co-workers give you gifts, you should send them thank-you notes.

Improper Uses of “You”: This is probably the most commonly occurring error on the list. Apparently, it has become impolite, inappropriate, or uncool to talk about oneself at all. For example, during a recent conversation about memorable vacations, a friend made the following statement.

When we were near the top of Mt. Fuji, the view was amazing. You could see for miles.

Instantly, I thought, “I could? I could? I most certainly could not! I wasn’t even there!” Somehow, though, my friend found it appropriate to use a second-person pronoun. Why? A friend of mine who teaches keeps a running list of her favorite misuses of “you.” Here are some of the highlights:

• When you do cocaine, your pulse races and your pupils dilate.
• There is no shock like the shock you feel when your girlfriend dumps you.
• When you kill someone, you do not deserve to live in prison.

To the best of my knowledge, my friend does not use hard narcotics, is not a lesbian, and has never killed anyone, no matter how badly she wants to. Improper uses of “you,” though, have implied that she does all of these things.

Be careful, procrastinators. Your spoken English makes a lasting impression on those around you, and you don’t want to be remembered as an ignoramus. You also don’t want Samuel L. Jackson to be angry with you.

Ah, prom night: the source of many exes.

Ah, Facebook: the place where the past meets present, sometimes with jarring results.  Childhood friends, recent colleagues and family members mingle in a “worlds collide” sort of way.  It’s a fascinating social experiment.

I was chatting with a Facebook friend/colleague recently when he asked me, “What’s your xCount?”  This was his own personal term — one that I must admit that I love — for the exes that have crawled out of the woodwork and once again made themselves part of your life.  

I scanned my list of friends.  ”I’ve got two… and a half,” I told him.  He told me that you can’t count anyone as a half, but I think that a prom date who appeared in pictures but actually spent the night sitting in the lobby outside the hotel ballroom qualifies as something less than a full xCount point.  And believe me, after that fiasco at 17, I was thoroughly shocked to see that he wanted to connect with me.

He had four full-fledged exes on his list, not including one whose request he rejected outright.  ”Sometimes, the requests are just too creepy.”  Many of my friends agree.  There was the one who was contacted by the guy who stalked her after they broke up.  Another got a request from the girlfriend who had certain… uh… shall we call them “unique” sexual proclivities?  And what about that guy you hooked up with after the frat party sophomore year?  From first loves to major heartbreaks, they’re all out there, and they just might be looking for you.

Who's in my inbox? I can't bring myself to look.

What prompts exes to want to get in touch again, especially those that you haven’t spoken to in a decade or more?  As for mine, I still have a good relationship — albeit separated by time and distance — with one of them, and accepted the second just out of a ridiculous sense of curiosity.  You know the kind.  They’re the ones whose request is met with audible talking back to the computer.  ”Oh my god, John Doe?  How the hell did he find me?”  These requests are met with a connection, a few obligatory messages back and forth, and the obligatory Googling of their name to figure out what they’ve been doing since the 90s.

His story was slightly different.  He had one with fond memories who had sent the occasional Christmas card, one who had been a complete WTF entry, and two who were clearly taking Google stalking to the next level.  ”I don’t mind connecting with them,” he said, “but it’s a little weird that they have to respond to everything I post, as though they’re spending their days just waiting for me to update my status.”  Weird, indeed.

It seems that nearly everyone has an xCount greater than zero.  An informal survey of friends reveals xCount numbers between 3 and 9, each bringing varying levels of discomfort and baggage with them.  One, however, through the benefits of a new married surname and a move to a new continent has managed to avoid the xCount concept altogether, and was stunned to learn that I had an xCount.  

“I mean it’s lovely that they want to get in touch and it speaks volumes about your effect on their lives ….and yet: eeeeek.  I always wondered if I was crazy/unfriendly for not wanting contact or if the crazies were the ones who did.”

There’s no shortage of posts about this very topic.  This one talks about being the one that’s obsessed with the ex on Facebook.  This one talks about the shock of seeing the photo of the ex appear in the inbox.  Yet another talks about why your ex should never see your Facebook account.

Should you friend exes?  Only you know for sure.  Of course, you could always accept their invitation, learn everything you need to know about them, and then stealthily “unfriend” the person, leaving them to discover your passive-aggressive acceptance and rejection at their leisure.  But does that make you more or less creepy than the creepy ex that you’re trying to avoid?