I just want to thank the both of you for Easter. This year was a blast. It was the first time Bekki and I got to host a formal dinner. Well, the only guests were her mother and father so I'm not sure how formal that all was. The food was exquisite. The old ball and chain whipped up a pork tenderloin flavored with garlic and Cabernet sauvignon. It was almost as good as knowing the Easter Bunny's real.
In keeping with Easter Bunny tradition, we also had a side of spinach. So, you're welcome Easter Bunny. And Jesus, I wanted to do something for you as well, but it turns out Bekki got all of her recipes from Weight Watchers so it was kinda hard to fake the whole 'guilt thing'.
It's been so long since we've talked. Lemme think, what's new. . . what's new. . . Oh! They elected some black guy as president! Can you believe that? Next thing you know we'll be banking with Asians and praying to Jews. Oops, sorry that just kinda slipped. He'll do fine, though. The black guy. Not you, Jesus. Of course you're doing fine. No one doubts that. But I do have some news you'll probably find disturbing. Um, how to put this delicately. Well, you've heard about Vermont, right? . . .
A recent post on the blog Georgia is Your Friend explores her memories of past romances via that special 'first kiss'. At the end of the blog she naturally asks her readers to try to remember their first kiss moments. I pretty much do whatever someone tells me, so I did.
"I was 15 and you were 17. You had a boyfriend at the time. The judge's ruling stated that you couldn't see him or any of your other friends who were there when that thing happened. I wasn't there or even knew you when that thing happened. So that's why I was hanging out with you instead of your boyfriend. We were in your bedroom. Your parents were in the other room. We could hear them watching television. You wrapped your arms around my waist and our stomachs touched. So I pulled you down to the bed and we kissed. Then we just looked at each other and smiled. It wasn't suppose to happen, but it did."
That was 10 years ago. I'm not sure exactly how I got roped into this marriage thing, but I think that first kiss might've sealed the deal.
From the opening scene to the closing nightmarish climax, Requiem for a Dream made me wish I had never renewed my Netflix subscription. While heroin and cocaine addiction might be cool for Hollywood hipsters Marlon Wayans and Jared Leto, this country is in far too great of a depression for escapism. That's why I urge everyone to go to their local movie theater and see Hotel for Dogs. Nothing will encourage you to pull yourself up by your boot straps like a Dreamworks produced smile-fest.
I realize that film students and self proclaimed "counter-culturists" will probably not heed my warnings. So if you are compelled to watch Requiem, be sure to chase it with a nice long swig of Spongebob. Not to totally discredit the film, though, their were several uplifting points to the movie. For instance, I was unaware of how incredibly patriotic methamphetamines are. What is more American than artificial industriousness? And if increased energy and productivity aren't American values anymore then maybe I ought to just buy a Toyota.
Whatever your opinion of this hour and a half long anti-drug commercial, it will leave you with a completely altered opinion of Jennifer Connelly. From the lovable child-star of Labyrinth to the hauntingly flawled Marion of Requiem, we see Connelly brutally typecast. The latter character being addicted to cocaine and heroin while the former having an equally unhealthy addiction to David Bowie. If Jennifer Connelly doesn't do something quick, she might find herself as the helpless damsel in distress forever. Unless, of course, the orgy scene from Requiem was actually an exercise in the art of method acting. If this is true, she could possibly find a blossoming career in the pornography industry. Now please excuse me while I set my television on fire.
I'd like to briefly mention the Trinity. It is an idea that the Catholics have used for centuries to confuse those they've conquered and enslaved. I, too, have wrestled with this concept. How can three entities be one and separate at the same time? Like Jennifer Lopez and J-Lo. You never see them in the same room together, but sources tell me that they're probably the same person.
I use this same logic for geographical questions as well. Now I'm not a linguistics professional by any means, but I feel by using the Trinity-Lopez school of thought it is safe to say that Sparta, Greece and Spartanburg, South Carolina are probably the same place. This is only relevant when you consider my lineage. Having a good deal of Greek blood via relatives from Athens, I consider the venture into Spartanburg today more than a grocery run, but an act of bravery not seen since days of yore.
It is common knowledge that the city-states of Athens and Sparta are sworn mortal enemies. So I was on guard today as I crossed the border between North and South Carolina. Indeed, the natives were hostile, especially when ringing up my purchases at their Petsmart. Upon first inspection I detected two distinctly different tribes. One was comprised of very loud and boisterous dark skinned individuals. They wore brightly colored clothing and traveled in large groups. The other was lighter in complexion. Their faces were gruff with stubble and their shoulders were drenched in either camouflage or plaid. The second group seemed tenser in demeanor, perhaps due to traveling in smaller, more guarded herds.
Whether these two factions are vying for control over Spartanburg is hard to say. As an outsider, it is difficult to imagine anyone wanting to live there in the first place. As an Athenian, however, it may prove useful to ignite some sort of conflict between the two. Indeed, their actions seemed far from civil as they raced about the crowded streets honking their horns and fighting each other for the best parking spot. So now that I'm safe at home I am left with two questions: How did I make it out alive? and Why would I ever want to go back?
My wife is hot. She is also sick. As her mother put it, sick enough to snot out a few oysters. If that's the case then I'm pissed, because I've been cleaning up tissues for the past few days now and have yet to find a pearl. Perhaps she was referring to Mountain Oysters.
On a positive note, feeling under the weather will only speed up her weight loss. It's hard to eat when you're slowly dying. She's lost over 15 pounds now. I am so in love with this woman. I almost feel like I owe it to her to eat healthy and live better. The key word there being 'almost'. Hey, I quit cigarettes, but I'll be damned if I quit binge drinking.
If you divert your eyes from my wife's shapely bottom and look slightly to the right, you will see three red plants. Two of those plants are red daisies that I recently purchased. The third is a small red cactus who I named Marie* after my red-headed wife. Apparently, though, cacti do not fare well exposed to the cold North Carolina climate for prolonged periods of time. I say this because Marie is now dead. The weather man said that we have a 70% chance of snow tonight. Perhaps I better move the real Marie indoors as well. That or cover her with a blanket or a tarp.
*For all of you 'fact-checkers' out there, my wife's name is Rebecca Marie.