Tonight, Ric Flair retired from wrestling with one last bout, after nearly forty years of wrestling.
Laugh if you want — that I care, that I even know — but wrestling was something I enjoyed for a long, long time — thirty-three years or so. I haven’t watched it in about three years, since I gave up cable TV, but I’ve checked in on the sites across the Net and tangentially followed a storyline here and there.
For the second time in two days, I’ve upgraded WordPress. You don’t know this this time because I’ve not changed the look. And soon, when I do change the look, you’ll think I’ve upgraded again, but I won’t have. Because I’m crazy sneaky like that.
Time to go hurt myself for a few hours. I’m back playing soccer once a week. I figured out that I can do this, because endorphins are good, and if you’re 36 years old and terribly out of shape, as long as you’re on a team comprised of other bartenders and bar regulars who smoke and drink as much as you, you don’t look or feel as bad as you would if you were on the other team. And going out to the sponsor bar afterwards for beer and burgers makes it all warm and fuzzy worthwhile.
Does this count as upgrading me to a new version?
Now listening to
Saigon Kick The Lizard
Cynthia’s a bellydancer (and infinitely better — inherently so, from what I’ve seen — than she’ll ever let on). This makes all the guys at the bar delirious with envy, of course, because everyone knows that bellydancers are incredibly hot (true, at least for my wife, one of her friends, and two of the women in the instructional DVDs she owns), flexible (also true), and open to trying new and crazy things (not anymore true than for any other group, sadly).
What the guys don’t realize is that you have to listen to your bellydancing wife practice her zills. Continue reading
I don’t. Really. But the design on this teaser poster really jumped out at me:
Sure, I’m looking forward to seeing Gillian Anderson as Scully again, and hopefully they’ll bring back some of the quirky behavior to Mulder’s character that made the show worth watching in the first seven seasons (remember the Stephen King penned ceiling full of pencils?). But I refuse to get excited about movies anymore. If only they were more like this poster: simple, sleek, elegant, a little clever, and a whole lot intriguing.
I suppose when you’re making entertainment for the masses, though, it’s better to go for the in-your-face approach with lots of mindless violence and some big breasts thrown about for good measure.
Upgrading WordPress at 2:30 AM when you’re in the middle of watching GANGS OF NEW YORK.
Guess I’ll never know what happened to Bill the Butcher and poor little Leo DiCaprio now.
That’s about all I’ve got right now. But hopefully the ball will start rolling again.
I’ve gotten old and fat and lazy. Without the fat part.
(Cleaning out the saved drafts I’ve started over the past six months; I grow tired of talking politics too quickly to ever finish this)
I realized today that I don’t really have the huge problem with Republicans that I thought I did. Granted, most of their stances on issues and platforms tend to go against my beliefs, but that’s fine — that’s true to some extent with everyone, and I don’t really have a problem with them. A lot of the people that I know have different religious beliefs, different morals, different ideas about economics that I do.
What bothers me are the rabidly intolerant people; it just so happens that a huge chunk of Republicans (at least, the vocal ones) are rabidly anti-anything-that’s-not-them, while most Democrats are more open-minded. Or at least quiet about it.
Maybe the Democrats are just wimps. I’m open to that possibility.
(Cleaning out the saved drafts I’ve started over the past six months; this one has the seed of a good idea hidden beneath a lot of mold and a really funky smell)
Of all the bartenders I’ve ever known, the best were the ones that weren’t necessarily good mixologists but were unafraid to use whatever tools they had at their disposal to distract from that.
It’s a lot easier to shortpour a group of frat boys when they’re busy focusing on your cleavage.