I got “tagged” by Charissa. Usually, I don’t like memes and tags, but, y’know, I don’t have anything else to blog about and I’m feeling snarky. So, with that said …

1. How old are you?

My 28th Birthday is also the 62nd anniversary of the nuclear attack on Nagasaki, and the thirty-second of Nixon’s resignation as President of the United States.

2. How many kids do you have if any?

Unless I count as my own child — or, unless my cats (nine and seven) do — that would be no children. Or, snarkily now, none that I’m aware of.

3. Are you married, single, divorced, or a widow?

I’m not just single … I’m perpetually single!

(Wait. Does my left-hand count?)

4. What is your occupation?

Delivery Specialist. But that sounds stuck up and snotty, so I prefer “pizza guy.”

5. What are your passions?

Writing. Reading. Lego. In that order.

6. Are you a dreamer or a dream seeker?

I like to think I’m a little of both.

7. Are you happy with the way you life has turned out?

If I found a time machine tomorrow — or, y’know, today or the day after tomorrow — I’d go back ten years or so, and remember well that old adage: “If I knew then what I know now…”

8. Are you a scrapper? And if so, how many hours a week do you scrap?

Huh?

9. What do you want to do before you die?

Marriage. Kids. Degree. Good job. Make a difference. Get something published, and not published on a blog but in book form, in a book store.

10. What is your favorite food?

It sure as fuck ain’t pizza! My Dad’s scratch-made mac & cheese, my Mom’s lasagna and apple betty.

11. What is the food you hate the most?

Despite what you may have read above, the food I hate the most isn’t pizza, either, although once I get out of this job I think it’ll be a long time before I eat a slice. Ever.

12. What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you?

Sitting at my computer with the window open and my shirt off. Two kids walked by, rapped on the window, and yelled, “Yeah, masturbation rocks!”

I wasn’t even surfing the net, I was playing a video game! WTF!

13. What is the happiest day of your life thus far?

It hasn’t happened yet, but it will within the next year, I hope. After my college graduation, I’ll walk into the shop and tell Greg I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news is that I’m giving him my two weeks notice, and the good news is I’m doing it retroactive from two weeks ago. See ya’, sucka!

14. Are you a neat freak? Or a dirty house cleaner?

I so need a full time maid. It’d be cool if she was slutty so I could solve the whole “being single” problem at the same time.

See. It’s a joke. L-Pod. Lego Pod. Hah.

I bet you didn’t know that Winston Churchill invented the tank.

I did, even before I started reading the biography, The Last Lion.

Churchill devised of it as a means to break the stalemate on the western front — a way for the offensive to have a weapon that could overcome that of the defenders of the opposing trenches. He wanted to, as he wrote Prime Minister Herbert Asquith, “fit up a number of steam tractors with small armoured shelters, in which men and machine guns could be placed, which would be bullet-proof.”

But why are they called tanks?

Secrecy was urgent; to mislead the Germans, everyone connected with the project would tell others in the Admiralty that they were making “water carriers for Russia” — vessels to carry large vats of drinking water into the czar’s front lines. Colonel Swinton predicted that the War Office would designate them “WCs for Russia.” He suggested they be called “tanks” and Churchill agreed.

The things you learn.

(Like, for example, I didn’t know Churchill single-handedly provoked the Turks into siding with Germany during the war!)

Notice the location.

Notice the seach term.

Hah. Fundies are funny.

Last night was a shitty night for tips — I got a couple of decent tips, a single good tip, and a lot of cheap tips. Fuckers.

My last run was to a run-down house on DV Road. The place needed a good power-washing. The garage was packed to the gills with crap. Since their porch light was off, I went to their garage door, picking myself through piles of crap with my only illumination my car’s high beams.

I knocked on the door, two girls answer it. Ooops. They’re a buck short. The one is kind of cute — and the total pot head who usually answers the door isn’t here, which is already a plus — but they quickly make me realize that what they want is for me to pay that missing buck out of my tips. And in return for this …

Oh. Yeah.

… they won’t tip me. (Least they could do is offer to flash me).

Okay, so, really though? Minus a buck? Factor that out of my mileage and I’m going to earn thirty seconds on this run? Fuck that shit, even on a night when I’m making good money I’d be pissed, and tonight is certainly not one of those.

Ever heard of “theft of service?” I have, once or twice, I don’t really know much about it, but when I mentioned it, casually, and how my boss would insist on calling the police if he learned I’d let them short me (what with being such a sap, what with me being charming, what with being, er, stupid), they found not only a dollar, but also two bucks for a tip!

Speak softly. Blame the manager. Invoke the police.

Good things happen.

:)

That’s Lego, baby. Nice work I spotted on Brickshelf while doing some early morning perusals. He also has a Mad Max Interceptor. Niiiice! Almost makes me want to buy a Ford.

Almost.

Note — not, “Nate Fischer has a penis”, but “Nate Fischer is a Penis.”

Here’s the deal — I remember reading when the show ended last fall that a character was going to die, and that character is Nate. So when at the end of Singing For Our Lives, Nate goes numb and collapses on the floor, well, it wasn’t surprising. No, he isn’t dead yet — I don’t think — but I know its coming and I’m ready for it. And y’know, a little bit, I’m ready and rootin’ for it.

I get that Brenda’s got some fucking issues. I get that she had a fucked up childhood and worked out her problems by sabotauging every relationship she’s been in — the first time she and Nate were together, she was engaging in anonymous sex with every penised dude she could find, and sometimes she wasn’t limiting herself to one partner at a time. She was a confused sixteen year old in a thirty-something’s body. She hurt Nate deeply. She was a lying, fucked-up, problem-raddled, emotionally scarred child.

But she grew up.

Nate fucking regressed. His behavior to her this season has been reprehensible, the latest — and probably last — offense being his fling with his soon-to-be-ex sister-in-law Maggie.*

It’s sad seeing Nate’s relationship with Brenda disintegrate, particularly as they’re about to have a child together. Claire, acting like a royal twat earlier this season, has finally started to stabilize. David and Keith have made a real committment, and Keith’s gesture of peace towards their recently adopted children says a lot about that tempermental character’s growth lately. So much growth and improvement and Nate … seriously, get your act together before it is too late.

*Well, since his mother was married to her father, doesn’t that make them siblings-in-law? Right?

To slow down oncoming traffic. Won’t do nothing for the guy tailgating you.

Randomly flash your brights. People will think they’re heading into a speed trap. They’ll slow down.

Good, yes?

If you’ve yet to get the first wave of Hasbro’s Titanium Series die-cast Battlestar Galactica ships, you’d better get your act together — the second wave will be hitting toy store shelves in the coming weeks!

What we gotta do for a Pegasus?

Guarding the approaches — east and west — to the Jacksonville Fire Station on Sweet Air Road are two yellow light boxes. When the station is responding to an emergency, these lights flash to warn motorists to watch for emergency vehicles. On my way back to the store tonight from a late run, five hours later, the lights were still flashing eerily against the fog.

My first indication of trouble was on my first delivery — south on Jarrettsville Pike to a massive stone mansion just above the reservoir. A van coming the other way flashed its headlights repeatedly. I thought they were trying to warn of a police speedtrap, so I slowed down.

I got to the manor house and no one was to be found at first — just a helicopter buzzing overhead — eventually two guys a few years younger than me walked up from the front yard (it’s a big yard). Turns out they’d been outside when they’d heard a giant crashing sound — this — and went down to investigate.

The road was still closed this evening, above the reservoir. Coming home on Cranbrook (Bosley was blocked off!), I passed several firetrucks presumeably returning to their duty stations from their clean-up.

Here’s a prediction about the cause of the accident: driver error caused by excessive speed on a wet road.