Did you know that Mr. Belvedere was based on a comedy film from the ’40s titled “Sitting Pretty”? Now you do!

I got a little lost heading into Scranton — luckily, I saw this building and used the convenient map to figure out my way. I’m kind of surprised it came out looking this non-blurry … I was doing like 30 when I took the photo.

A view down the hill from my aunt’s back porch. The big gothic lookin’ building is North Scranton High. Isn’t the terracing cool? Honestly, it sort of reminds me of Hampden. (Not that I’m all that familiar with Hampden).

North Scranton High School. Condemned since I’ve known it. A few years ago they had some signs on it that indicated it was going to be rehabilitated … but the signs there now say, “Condemned.” So … anyone want to break in with me?

The aunt’s Devil Cat. Miserable beast.

Dan Jassim’s classic, with the Lucas-effect, introducing:

Go here for the whole bit, and here to compare the new to the old. Don’t worry, Han still shoots first.

A few days ago, I got notice from my leasing company that if I don’t provide written notice by mid-April, my lease will automatically be renewed, and my rent’ll go up twenty-five bucks starting in July.

And that’s fine. I live in Timonium — Cockeysville/Hunt Valley, really — and I have a 2-bedroom apartment that I currently pay $684 for. Even with this hike, I’m unlikely to find a better deal (as it was, they gave me a huge deal with this place already — I pay what most people do for a one bedroom).

But! Yes, there was a point. I’ve been thinking of moving to the city for a few years, y’know, buy a place, move into the Big Bad. Not for a couple of more years, anyway (repair the credit, etc.) … but randomly searching for Hampden apartments for rent I came across this site.

So even though I’m not going to use it to find a new place, those of you who are fearless city dwellers may find it useful.

It’s pretty clear to me that the Schiavo situation has nothing to do with money – he turned down a million from that California businessman after all. So I don’t understand people who keep asking, “Why doesn’t he just sign over his rights to her parents?”

I feel a lot of sympathy for her parents, I do. It can’t be easy to see your daughter on the brink of death and be powerless to stop it from happening. But at the same time, I think they’re in the wrong, and I think Michael Schiavo fought so hard for the removal of the feeding tube because of two things: one, he loves his wife; two, he believes that she would not want to live by artificial means.

A couple of days ago, I was listening to the Ron Smith radio show on WBAL. A guest made note that when it came to letting our pets go, we were much more advanced than when it came to people — I have, thankfully, never been in the position of having a vet say to me, “She doesn’t have long to live. It would be best to put her to sleep.” I don’t think anyone says, “No, I want my pet to go on artificial life support on the one in one million chance they may recover.” That same guest noted that when we hear those same odds given to someone we’re close to, we interpret it as “fifty/fifty.”

My parents had to put our cat Bashful to sleep, and while it was difficult — she’d been with us for eighteen years — what made it easy was knowing she’d lived a long, full, mostly happy life (when I wasn’t chasing her around yanking her tail). The same with my grandfather, who died in November ’03 — he fell ill, I don’t know that he was in a coma, but he slept through his last few days in a bed in his living room, moaning in pain in his sleep. His death was cushioned by knowing that he was out of pain, and that he’d lived a really long, and happy life (his only wish was to survive his wife, sons, and grandkids, and he did).

It is, in a sense, tragic that Terri Schiavo wasn’t shot in the head, or crushed by a truck. Her family would have grieved, and moved on. Instead we have the family divided, each believing they’re doing what in Terri’s best interests. Terri’s best interest is to be allowed to die in peace. Hasn’t fifteen years of limbo entitled her to her freedom?

Any time I’m feeling ill enough that I try to grab some z-time on the dirty, nasty floor of the pizza shop’s backroom, you know I should’ve just called out.

Saturday started out fine. I mean, I woke up with a sore throat, but I wasn’t feeling nauseous or anything. Went down to Hampden, watched a movie, played with a couple of dogs and one huge and incredible friendly cat who bit me twice — I was assured that the cat bit people when very pleasured by belly rubs, so I chose to take it as a compliment (even though ze kitty looked embarassed with herself and ran off both times).

At about four, left for home. I was going to shower and change and head into work, but I started feeling under the weather, so I took a ten minute nap instead. Clearly, that didn’t help, as I literally spent close to two hours snoozing on the store’s floor.

Thankfully, it was not a busy night, although I did wind up having to take a handful of runs between seven and eight (and made $20, so while I was completely miserable, it worked out well, I thought). I returned to the store, managed to do the night dishes, then promptly went to sleep again — this time, I did it proper: in Gary’s office, seated in his old ratty chair, with my head lying on my arms across his desk.

Shortly thereafter, as Gary stood in the office door — smoking & drinking and lecturing me on when to call out sick — I felt something in my stomach, brushed past him, stuck my head in the left-most sink and dry-heaved a good half-dozen times. (I felt embarassed, because with all of the hacking and coughing, I felt I should’ve really had a good vomit. Robin was all, “Look at you! All build up and nothing to show for it.”)

Of course, immediately afterwards I felt better – not a lot better, but a little better. Gary took my money, and I left, swinging by my part-time job for my check before heading home.

Instantly upon hitting my apartment (not literally), I scooped Guy up from the couch, turned on the heat, and dove into bed, cradling the poor cat like a schoolgirl would a stuffed bear (he, uh, registered his displeasure). I remember looking at my clock radio at about 9:10, then drifting off into a strange dream where machines that acted like plants and smelled like coffee and cigarettes sapped the remaining sickness from my physical being. I woke up about twenty minutes ago feeling awake, energetic, and considerably better than I had a few hours before. (Of course, I still have the sore through, but she made me a couple of glasses of tea, and the throat hurts much less than before).

Before writing this post, I started the dishwasher cycle, and now I’m going to pack my bags – I’m off for Scranton for the night, to make my “holiday appearance” to the fam. And I’m going to jump back in bed, because it is warm and cozy.

“It’s a loveable quirk … that he’s mentally disturbed.”

It’s like School of Rock … only, no Jack Black, and, uh, it’s real.

Clicky de picy!

Yet more government subsidies of Walmart – this time to the tune of thirty-seven million. What, they can’t afford to build their own roads?

Or, How Snay Learned Old Bay Was a Regional Product

I used to eat at Subway* a lot — like, two or three times a week. No matter what sandwich I got, I always requested it with mayo, lettuce, pickles, oil and old bay.

So in the middle of this Subway money-gobbling phase, fall of ’99, I went up to Boston to visit my friends Emily and Lisa at Emerson College. It was a lot of fun, and while they were in classes, I had the afternoons to wander around Boston (I never ventured far from the Commons).

(Boston has always been one of my favorite cities, because it’s so friggin’ cool, and I think anyone who has been there agrees. I didn’t find it quite so cool in spring ’00 when I returned – that time, I drove, and god damn — it’s true what they say about Boston drivers. Also: I went into Chinatown at like two in the morning once with a Malasian girl from the dorm because we both wanted beer. I was later informed by E&L’s friend Matt — whose dorm room floor I was sleeping on — that I was either the bravest man in the world, or just plain crazy.*)

Anyway, one day, after Emily and Lisa got out of class, we all went for lunch to this Subway on, I think, Tremont Street (it might’ve been Boylston). I ordered a sub and requested my usual condiments. The girl making my sub knew very little English, and tripped over my last request.

“No pay?”

“Hmmm?”

“No pay?”

“Oh, no, old bay.”

“No pay?”

*I vote for the latter.

This was related to me when I came in last night:

Late in the afternoon, as the evening crew was beginning to straggle in, the lady who owns the tanning salon came over, ordered a pizza, and asked that it be brought over to her when it was ready. So, when it came out of the oven, A. boxed it, cut it, and took it over.

“It’s so nice of you to hire that retarded boy,” the salon owner said.

“Hmmm?” A. asked.

“The one who took my order. So few people would have the patience to deal with him.”

“You mean … Ogre?” A. inquired.

“Yes! That’s the one!”

It’s funny in a “I am a horrible person to laugh at this” kind of way.

Well, maybe I don’t. But Kung Fu Monk does, and its hard not to read that piece at his site and not agree (just a little) with him.

They were the grown-ups. They were the realists. Sure they were a bummer, maaaaan, but on the way to La Revolution you need somebody to remember where you parked the car. I was never one (nor a Democrat, really, more an agnostic libertarian big on the social contract, but we don’t have a party …), but I genuinely liked them.

How did they become the party of fairy dust and make believe? How did they become the anti-science guys? The anti-fact guys? The anti-logic guys?

We needed those guys. They were a dull but crucial part of the national dialogue. (And they knew their scotches. ) Now … a void. Simply put, if you are voting for these guys who call themselves Republicans, then you are voting for crazy air-rifle guy. You just walked up, nodded, and said: “Wow, I gotta get me a ladder.”

Speaking of responsible Republicans, Nykola seems to have forgotten to pay her blogger bill. Whoops.

There was a spot on the Out-to-Lunch radio show where Josh Spiegal announced that a gas station at the corner of York and Seminary Roads was displaying, instead of prices, “Arm & Leg.” I thought that was funny, so when I got off work, I drove down to take a photo. Of course, all the stations only had numbers. Corporate fuckers. So I did a google search.

Enjoy what should have been a scene in Lutherville (just add rain):

“Tell it like is, Brother Tom!”

I’m glad I’m up late, because some person named — as best as I can tell — “Beth Dove” has just tried to collect call me three times. Bad enough I get all these damn collections agencies calling for the bitch who used to live here before me, now I’ve got random people wanting me to talk to me on my dime.

Zap got back from the Dominican Republic Saturday, and yesterday – er, Monday – he was all depressed. We joked that he was on suicide watch. He mentioned he wanted to be gone from the job within a month. I figured it was just “Monday-blues” talking … y’know, like in Office Space?

(Honestly, I don’t get a “case of the Mondays” often, but that’s usually because I quite literally usually work seven days a week)

Today – Tuesday, that is, as I’m writing this after midnight, so technically it’s Wednesday and we’re talking about yesterday, even thought it doesn’t feel like it, so, today – he was in a much better mood, and off “suicide watch.” He did say – again – that he was hoping to be off to another job within a month.

This made me happy. Not that I don’t like working with him, we’re sort of like a driving duo, we work well together, and it’s a love hate relationship … we’re Boss Hogg and Roscoe, R2 and C3PO, Bonnie and Clyde.

The reason it made me happy is that currently I work a lot of 11-2 shifts. He leaves, or cuts his hours back, I’ll start working a lot of 11-5 shifts, which means I can probably cut at least an extra night from my part-time schedule (this in addition to the Sunday that I’m dropping). This is also great because the indy full-time gig pays quite a bit more than the part-time gig.

Of course, he’s talking of leaving before, and it hasn’t happened. So … we’ll see.