I thought of asking someone in Ames to mail me one, but the package would be soggy.
You know how in movies, celebratory characters are always screwing around with champagne bottles and sending corks rocketing into other characters' crotches? I am a man who's had maybe three bottles of champagne in his life, and in that time I'd never experienced such kickass propulsion. In my experience prior to today, opening a bottle of champagne was akin to holding a firecracker in a catcher's mitt.
Tonight after work, while speaking to Kevin via cell phone magic, I casually undid the top of a bottle and the cork bounced off the ceiling so hard I'm now wondering, as I type this, if I should go look for damage.
Amazing!
. . .
I went into the grocery store after work to buy green peppers, onions, and tomatillos, and the champagne was something of an afterthought, an ingredient necessary for a drink special from the Lift called the 2005 (I think)—roughly, vodka, champagne, and cranberry juice (the taste isn't the same, but I probably wonked the proportions, and don't have the proper glass).
Why the green peppers and onions and tomatillos?
Tomorrow I intend to blog about the RECREATION OF THE FLYING BURRITO.
I'll give you this preview:
STEP ONE: Go to Target, feel foolish about buying a slow cooker.
STEP TWO: Get home, play GTA, realize you bought a salsa warmer.
STEP THREE: Return the motherfucker. Come out of the store and see a lizard standing on your driver's seat headrest. Attempt to remove the lizard, but scare it into the mess of paper below your seat.
The next night, after leaving work at 9:30 pm and sitting in your car, stretch, reaching your arms behind your head, and feel a presence on your wrist. Bring your hand forward to see the small lizardio standing at attention on your watch. Open the door, try to extricate your arm from the seatbelt, and send the lizard scurrying onto your knuckles. Step out to carry him to the grass and watch him leap into a puddle.
I hope his new life treats him well.
. . .
Some of you know I was temporarily a copywriter. This sounded very cool during the interviewing process, which took place in a 4th-floor office full of glass walls, dyed-haired women, dudes with facial hair, people walking around sucking on popsicles, and free coffee, but once I actually took the job it turned out to be a 2nd-floor cubicle gig that was almost entirely cut-and-paste for the job board wing of an internet company.
Seven days in, somebody with a .edu email address emailed me to say that one of their adjunct instructors had quit with a full load of classes. I went in that night and the next day slept in.
This job is better than 40 hours in a cubicle, but is sketchy in ways that would be hard to explain.
When Sarah and I moved here I meant to blog much more about the experience, but as I wrote last time I touched this subject, things here aren't really different enough to warrant much writing. As somebody on another blog pointed out, Orlando isn't really part of the south, or of any geographical region; it's its own non-region.
There are some great people here—Sarah has some great friends—but nobody's any of you people, and I've found no coffee shops, one bar, one non-chain restaurant, and no good bookstores.
Hence this burrito re-creation.
Tonight after work, while speaking to Kevin via cell phone magic, I casually undid the top of a bottle and the cork bounced off the ceiling so hard I'm now wondering, as I type this, if I should go look for damage.
Amazing!
. . .
I went into the grocery store after work to buy green peppers, onions, and tomatillos, and the champagne was something of an afterthought, an ingredient necessary for a drink special from the Lift called the 2005 (I think)—roughly, vodka, champagne, and cranberry juice (the taste isn't the same, but I probably wonked the proportions, and don't have the proper glass).
Why the green peppers and onions and tomatillos?
Tomorrow I intend to blog about the RECREATION OF THE FLYING BURRITO.
I'll give you this preview:
STEP ONE: Go to Target, feel foolish about buying a slow cooker.
STEP TWO: Get home, play GTA, realize you bought a salsa warmer.
STEP THREE: Return the motherfucker. Come out of the store and see a lizard standing on your driver's seat headrest. Attempt to remove the lizard, but scare it into the mess of paper below your seat.
The next night, after leaving work at 9:30 pm and sitting in your car, stretch, reaching your arms behind your head, and feel a presence on your wrist. Bring your hand forward to see the small lizardio standing at attention on your watch. Open the door, try to extricate your arm from the seatbelt, and send the lizard scurrying onto your knuckles. Step out to carry him to the grass and watch him leap into a puddle.
I hope his new life treats him well.
. . .
Some of you know I was temporarily a copywriter. This sounded very cool during the interviewing process, which took place in a 4th-floor office full of glass walls, dyed-haired women, dudes with facial hair, people walking around sucking on popsicles, and free coffee, but once I actually took the job it turned out to be a 2nd-floor cubicle gig that was almost entirely cut-and-paste for the job board wing of an internet company.
Seven days in, somebody with a .edu email address emailed me to say that one of their adjunct instructors had quit with a full load of classes. I went in that night and the next day slept in.
This job is better than 40 hours in a cubicle, but is sketchy in ways that would be hard to explain.
When Sarah and I moved here I meant to blog much more about the experience, but as I wrote last time I touched this subject, things here aren't really different enough to warrant much writing. As somebody on another blog pointed out, Orlando isn't really part of the south, or of any geographical region; it's its own non-region.
There are some great people here—Sarah has some great friends—but nobody's any of you people, and I've found no coffee shops, one bar, one non-chain restaurant, and no good bookstores.
Hence this burrito re-creation.
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