At my funeral, if any of my friends get up and speak about me, I hope at least one of them opens with, “Dave was one of the funniest motherfuckers I’ve ever known.” The “one of” part is optional, of course, in case I was just that funny. Really, what an honor – and the expletive at a funeral, who cares? No disrespect to me really, I like people that know how to get a laugh. So when I die, I expect ya’ll to get out your best eulogy-writin’ pens and keep the jokes coming.
Just got done with a late-night conference call to Shanghai, a three-hour event that found me eating dinner with an earpiece and microphone boom in my ear, on mute, listening for my name so I could respond with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question, can you repeat?” It went well though, I mean, how couldn’t it – it’s that same hated presentation I’ve been griping about for months. The same one folks, again, one more time. I balanced my time between barely paying attention and working on my website, which seemed to work out OK. I am so dedicated.
Today Sharaun went out and bought me some new clothes. Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. She’ll do this every once in a while, in some attempt to “update” me to the latest “cool” look. I don’t really mind this, other than I feel like people look at me and see someone who’s dressing based on advice read in “How to Dress Hip for Dummies, 2004 Edition.” She’s a master at scouring the clearance racks for $4 jeans and $2 t-shirts, of which there are usually quite a few in my hopelessly unique and misshapen height-to-girth ratio. Anyway, because the alternative was execution by pistol, I tired them on for her tonight – with surprisingly sexy results:
My lord! Look at that snappy-dressed gay feller! Have you seen my trucker hat?
Cargo pants and a flask full of Jack. Let’s go clubbing. Put on some Dave Matthews.
Bootcut jeans, some kinda logo’d tee, and a bunch of grapes. Oh God get me out of this makeover.
I was extremely happy when I came home from work today and hit the bathroom. Not because of my impending bowel movement, although that does offer some minor joy, but for the copy of the California 2004 Voter Guide I saw on the floor. Sitting on top of the Maxim I bought for my last flight/stay in Taiwan, and the GQ Sharaun bought because Justin Tenderlegs was on the cover, was an SAT-test-booklet-lookin’ document that promised to tell me all about the latest Indian gaming referendums that I can vote on come November 2nd. Oh, and the reason I was so happy? Because it being in the bathroom meant Sharaun must’ve brought it in there, which means she mighta been interested in it, which means maybe she’ll read up on stuff and vote.
As if helping to determine our country’s next leader isn’t exciting enough, I get to vote on 16 confusingly-written “Propositions.” Why don’t they write these things for humans? I’m a friggin’ college graduate, and I can’t really understand some of this. Where’s the “definition of terms” section telling yokels like me what this politic-speak is trying to say? What is a “compact,” and how do you “negotiate the amendment” of one? This “non-partisan” review of the props is pretty much written in the common tongue, and helped me a little more.
Hey, you guys see what I see? An entry mixed with media! That means I don’t have to write as much, I mean, one picture is worth at least one paragraph? right? I sure think so.