By: Jedd Davis
Jedd Davis wasn't feeling well when he went to a Breeders concert. Here's how he returned:
I woke up this morning after only a few hours of sleep with a headache and ringing ears. Rock heals, you ask? Yes. I no longer have the sore throat that prohibited me from swallowing for 4 days, and as a bonus, my nose is no longer a sputum spewing spigot.
It just goes to show you that mind and body really are connected. If when you get sick, you mope around and complain to others about how terrible you feel (which is what I usually do), stop doing that. Go do something that "well" people do, or even better, over-do it.
Live music makes you feel good. It scares the sick away with its fuck-offnes and showmanship.
So there you have it, my cure for the common cold. Live rock followed by a tin car before bed (that's Jack - with a splash of codeine cough syrup - over ice)
tin car. Rockin' it.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Craigs List Shopping (Re-Purposed: Dec. '07)
Jedd Davis found this post on Craigslist while searching for a Danish Modern table. He thought it smacked of tin car appeal.
I'm so mystified by the people who sell their crap on Craigslist. A few thoughts:
1) If I'm shopping for furniture on Craigslist, what is more likely?
A) I am incredibly wealthy and enjoy spending thousands of dollars on secondhand designer couches custom made for someone else.
B) I make 32k a year, drive a 14-year-old car, and just want to find a kitchen table that isn't covered in chicken blood. (HINT: THIS IS THE ANSWER.)
2) If you bought something new, and you're selling it, that means that
whatever you're selling is USED. Used things are worth LESS than new things. Not more! I know this is hard to grasp, so here's an example:
You bought a coffee table at Ikea for twenty dollars last year. You decide to sell it on Craigslist. Do not charge fifty bucks for it. We all recognize Ikea furniture. We know how much you paid for it. Used is not the same as antique. Most furniture, and especially Ikea furniture, does not increase in value.
Listen, you have had sex and eaten takeout and maybe even had an "accident" on that bed you're selling. If I wanted to pay four hundred dollars for a bed, I would get a new one, minus the sperm and urine.
3) Pictures. People are not going to drive out to Woodland Hills only to discover that your "Danish Modern" cabinet is actually from 1981.
4) Speaking of Danish Modern! Please, stop abusing the term. Danes everywhere roll in their graves in horror.
5) An antique is something that is over a hundred years old. Think about that for a minute. Is your 1971 bookcase an antique? No. No, it's not.
6) It's "wrought" iron, not "rod" iron.
Best of luck, furniture people. Keep the faith! The hundred-dollar bedframe of your dreams is out there somewhere, I promise.
this is in or around Dreamland
I'm so mystified by the people who sell their crap on Craigslist. A few thoughts:
1) If I'm shopping for furniture on Craigslist, what is more likely?
A) I am incredibly wealthy and enjoy spending thousands of dollars on secondhand designer couches custom made for someone else.
B) I make 32k a year, drive a 14-year-old car, and just want to find a kitchen table that isn't covered in chicken blood. (HINT: THIS IS THE ANSWER.)
2) If you bought something new, and you're selling it, that means that
whatever you're selling is USED. Used things are worth LESS than new things. Not more! I know this is hard to grasp, so here's an example:
You bought a coffee table at Ikea for twenty dollars last year. You decide to sell it on Craigslist. Do not charge fifty bucks for it. We all recognize Ikea furniture. We know how much you paid for it. Used is not the same as antique. Most furniture, and especially Ikea furniture, does not increase in value.
Listen, you have had sex and eaten takeout and maybe even had an "accident" on that bed you're selling. If I wanted to pay four hundred dollars for a bed, I would get a new one, minus the sperm and urine.
3) Pictures. People are not going to drive out to Woodland Hills only to discover that your "Danish Modern" cabinet is actually from 1981.
4) Speaking of Danish Modern! Please, stop abusing the term. Danes everywhere roll in their graves in horror.
5) An antique is something that is over a hundred years old. Think about that for a minute. Is your 1971 bookcase an antique? No. No, it's not.
6) It's "wrought" iron, not "rod" iron.
Best of luck, furniture people. Keep the faith! The hundred-dollar bedframe of your dreams is out there somewhere, I promise.
this is in or around Dreamland
Letter To The East Coast (Re-Purposed: Apr. '04)
By: Ben Tiernan
Listen Dickheads,
You need to get over yourselves and accept that the West Coast is better than the East Coast. I’m sick of your snotty condemnation of my coastline. It’s rude, clichéd and ugly – like your mom.
The West Coast has no culture?
You, in your L.L. Bean - fuck you. We’ve got Hollywood. We make culture.
We’ve got technology. We make the media that proliferates culture.
The Ivy League is for pansies. Try Stanford. Try Berkeley; George Bush wouldn’t have lasted a week.
We can play your game. Can you play ours? The weather is unreal, everyone is beautiful, and the governor of California fights aliens, and wins.
Figure it out, jerks. The action is in the West.
Listen Dickheads,
You need to get over yourselves and accept that the West Coast is better than the East Coast. I’m sick of your snotty condemnation of my coastline. It’s rude, clichéd and ugly – like your mom.
The West Coast has no culture?
You, in your L.L. Bean - fuck you. We’ve got Hollywood. We make culture.
We’ve got technology. We make the media that proliferates culture.
The Ivy League is for pansies. Try Stanford. Try Berkeley; George Bush wouldn’t have lasted a week.
We can play your game. Can you play ours? The weather is unreal, everyone is beautiful, and the governor of California fights aliens, and wins.
Figure it out, jerks. The action is in the West.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Baseball Chatter
By: Ben Tiernan
I went to a Dodgers game yesterday and it was a blast, but when it comes to baseball and most sports I'm always a little ignorant of the rules. I know that chatter is an important part of the game and that banter from the fans is important.
As a fan in the bleacher within ear shot of the field you can say the players names with funny emphasis. For example, when yelling at Nomar Garciaparra you can say, "NOOOOOO-mar", or you can say it fast and shrill "nomar!" People tend to stay away from Garciaparra -
I guess it's funny enough already.
You can also taunt the opposing team members about their stats. You can say, "Hey Sariano, you suck!"
I was not familiar with the various players records, so I kept my taunts to a topic within my general area of knowlege. I taunted Jacque Jones from the Cubs about his pants. Our seats where just behind right field, or left field - who can tell? - from which I joined in the jeering with my own brand of chatter.
Hey, Jones! Where'd you get those pants?
Hey, Jones! How much did you pay for those pants?
Hey, Jacque! Nice pants!
When the tide turned and The Dodgers took the league, I turned up the volume on my barbs.
Hey, Jones! How your pants now?
When the little boy in front of me turned to his father and asked, "Why's he talking about his pants?" I knew my work was done.
I went to a Dodgers game yesterday and it was a blast, but when it comes to baseball and most sports I'm always a little ignorant of the rules. I know that chatter is an important part of the game and that banter from the fans is important.
As a fan in the bleacher within ear shot of the field you can say the players names with funny emphasis. For example, when yelling at Nomar Garciaparra you can say, "NOOOOOO-mar", or you can say it fast and shrill "nomar!" People tend to stay away from Garciaparra -
I guess it's funny enough already.You can also taunt the opposing team members about their stats. You can say, "Hey Sariano, you suck!"
I was not familiar with the various players records, so I kept my taunts to a topic within my general area of knowlege. I taunted Jacque Jones from the Cubs about his pants. Our seats where just behind right field, or left field - who can tell? - from which I joined in the jeering with my own brand of chatter.
Hey, Jones! Where'd you get those pants?
Hey, Jones! How much did you pay for those pants?
Hey, Jacque! Nice pants!
When the tide turned and The Dodgers took the league, I turned up the volume on my barbs.
Hey, Jones! How your pants now?
When the little boy in front of me turned to his father and asked, "Why's he talking about his pants?" I knew my work was done.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Globe Trotting
By: Ben Tiernan
Jill and I went to Croatia in September. Here is a posting I apparently wrote but never posted. It mostly concerns the experience of flying with airline Buddy Passes arranged by a far extended Hungarian family member named Gabor.
Our flight to NYC was fine – early, cramped, etc. – but we arrived with relatively few hurtles to overcome and the flight was not hijacked.
I met Gabor for the first time face to face when we checked in at the gate. He was there checking people in with the same questionable customer service that he had employed when arranging my ticket for Budapest – a sort of purposeful nonchalance with a heaping helping of apathy.
Gabor seemed to know who I was before I introduced myself and also seemed not to care. I offered my hand and he shook it reluctantly and didn’t really ever look directly at me. He told me immediately, “You’re fine, you can board.”
“Great, thanks so much…do we need a boarding pass?”
“Not really”
“But how will we get on the plane?”
“Just get on”
“But doesn’t everyone else have a boarding pass?”
“Fine. I can print you a boarding pass if you really want one.”
“It’s not that I really want one, it’s just…”
“Here is your boarding pass. Have a nice flight.”
When Jill and I noticed that our seats were not next to each other I tentatively returned to the gate to ask Gabor what to do about it. When he offered that we should, “Just sit next to each other,” I didn’t raise any objections to the problems that might arise if we did. In stead, we just sat next to each other and it worked.
Gabor was not all curt indifference. Well he was, but he also put us in business class which I can heartily declare is better than economy class – or whatever it is I usually fly.
The plane was on the runway for two hours before lift off - because that is what airlines are want to do – and up in business class it was all steamed washcloths and mimosas. In the back I was whips and cattle prods as usual. At one point they came by with a cart of magazines and newspapers and being an international traveler of the business class capacity, I asked for the London Financial Times by name, “Could I have the FT.”
When it was time for wine we choose a nice clarot that the attendant who was boundless in his obsequiousness spilled all over Jill’s lap. This posed an ethical dilemma and we began to feel a bit like frauds because of the proportion and business-class earnestness of the response. The attendant was devastated by his blunder, and all the manpower of the flight staff sprung into action pouring mineral water on napkins, dabbing at Jill’s damp thigh and apologizing for the insult to us and our families. Jill was not happy that she had to cross the Atlantic in damp chinos, but when they offered to sacrifice an economy class passenger to appease our anger, we felt it was too much.
When we arrived in Budapest on Saturday morning, we found Kitty after a small search and we all drove together to her apartment in the Castle district. Budapest was beautiful as usual. We crossed the Danube on a beautiful suspended bridge and admired the parliament on the Pest side and the Citadel on the other. It was warm and bright, and when we commented on how pleasant it was Kitty told us that summer had been very nice but plagued by freak storms. A week earlier, a ferocious windstorm had started very suddenly felling trees and power lines and killing six people in the city. Just as quickly it died down and the weather returned to normal.
I had seen “An Inconvenient Truth” on the plane to New York, so I attributed the storm to global warming. In the past 650,000 years, which include a number of ice ages and hot periods, carbon dioxide levels have never been as high as they are right now by far, and global temperatures are directly related to carbon dioxide levels. Moreover, warmer sea levels mean stronger more sporadic weather. Cite melting glaciers; cite longer more devastating hurricane seasons. But I digress.
Jill and I went to Croatia in September. Here is a posting I apparently wrote but never posted. It mostly concerns the experience of flying with airline Buddy Passes arranged by a far extended Hungarian family member named Gabor.
Our flight to NYC was fine – early, cramped, etc. – but we arrived with relatively few hurtles to overcome and the flight was not hijacked.
I met Gabor for the first time face to face when we checked in at the gate. He was there checking people in with the same questionable customer service that he had employed when arranging my ticket for Budapest – a sort of purposeful nonchalance with a heaping helping of apathy.
Gabor seemed to know who I was before I introduced myself and also seemed not to care. I offered my hand and he shook it reluctantly and didn’t really ever look directly at me. He told me immediately, “You’re fine, you can board.”
“Great, thanks so much…do we need a boarding pass?”
“Not really”
“But how will we get on the plane?”
“Just get on”
“But doesn’t everyone else have a boarding pass?”
“Fine. I can print you a boarding pass if you really want one.”
“It’s not that I really want one, it’s just…”
“Here is your boarding pass. Have a nice flight.”
When Jill and I noticed that our seats were not next to each other I tentatively returned to the gate to ask Gabor what to do about it. When he offered that we should, “Just sit next to each other,” I didn’t raise any objections to the problems that might arise if we did. In stead, we just sat next to each other and it worked.
Gabor was not all curt indifference. Well he was, but he also put us in business class which I can heartily declare is better than economy class – or whatever it is I usually fly.
The plane was on the runway for two hours before lift off - because that is what airlines are want to do – and up in business class it was all steamed washcloths and mimosas. In the back I was whips and cattle prods as usual. At one point they came by with a cart of magazines and newspapers and being an international traveler of the business class capacity, I asked for the London Financial Times by name, “Could I have the FT.”
When it was time for wine we choose a nice clarot that the attendant who was boundless in his obsequiousness spilled all over Jill’s lap. This posed an ethical dilemma and we began to feel a bit like frauds because of the proportion and business-class earnestness of the response. The attendant was devastated by his blunder, and all the manpower of the flight staff sprung into action pouring mineral water on napkins, dabbing at Jill’s damp thigh and apologizing for the insult to us and our families. Jill was not happy that she had to cross the Atlantic in damp chinos, but when they offered to sacrifice an economy class passenger to appease our anger, we felt it was too much.
When we arrived in Budapest on Saturday morning, we found Kitty after a small search and we all drove together to her apartment in the Castle district. Budapest was beautiful as usual. We crossed the Danube on a beautiful suspended bridge and admired the parliament on the Pest side and the Citadel on the other. It was warm and bright, and when we commented on how pleasant it was Kitty told us that summer had been very nice but plagued by freak storms. A week earlier, a ferocious windstorm had started very suddenly felling trees and power lines and killing six people in the city. Just as quickly it died down and the weather returned to normal.
I had seen “An Inconvenient Truth” on the plane to New York, so I attributed the storm to global warming. In the past 650,000 years, which include a number of ice ages and hot periods, carbon dioxide levels have never been as high as they are right now by far, and global temperatures are directly related to carbon dioxide levels. Moreover, warmer sea levels mean stronger more sporadic weather. Cite melting glaciers; cite longer more devastating hurricane seasons. But I digress.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Shooting In Santa Monica
By: Ben Tiernan
Sorry I'm a few days late on this one, but there was a shooting on the corner of 21st and Wilshire on Sunday Night. This picture is of the police activity that followed. According to one witness that I spoke with, a young man was shot four times by the police. He may have had a gun and he may have shot it in a club before the police arrived.
Since this is a few days late, I'm sure some other site has the story straight by now.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
My Dead Cactus
By: Ben Tiernan
This is my dead cactus. This cactus died so that I might live...in my office without a cactus.
It was a present, so I tried to care for it and not to kill it like I would if I had just found it or bought it on a whim. But this cactus was a mouse to my Lenny, and my caring was clumsy and overpowering.
I watered this cactus so that it might thrive, but alas it dwendled, and turned brown and leaned flacid on the potted, soil floor.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Grunion Did Not Run
By: Ben Tiernan
Yesterday, the LA Times and local TV news shows covered the seasonal California phenomenon called the Grunion Run.
Not to be outdone, today, Tin Car covers the Grunion Run, in an exclusive story.
Grunion are small, silvery shellfish that live off the California coast and at low tide, during the Summer and on a full moon, they throw themselves onto the shore to spawn. The early-morning spawning ritual is known locally as the Grunion Run, and people head to the beach to watch the phenomenon and maybe pick up breakfast.
The picture above show's the coastline today at 6:05am just off the Venice Beach pier, and it is unequivocal proof that today - the day after beaches were covered with silverfish getting down in funky town - the grunion did not run.
That's right, this dogged reporter woke up at 5:45am and went to the beach expecting to report on the 2nd day of "The Run", but only found a deep low tide and an empty beach. Sure there were runners: Dogs ran, people ran, but nary a Grunion ran.
Of course, Tin Car is delighted to deliver this exclusive story to it's readers, and show proof positive that this blog covers the stories that no one else dares to cover.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Boating
My brother, who is awesome, bought a boat last month. This is no ordinary Budweiser and Sea-do, drive to the bay in my Durango SUV with the Miami Vice theme song pounding in my subconscious kind of boat. This is a Heritage piece. This is a transplant from "Heart Of Darkness". This is a boat where one thinks about rivets. It's wooden, with a long snout and a big diesel engine with an exhaust pipe mounted dangerously behind the leather captains chairs. It is old with a beautiful patina, and begs one to throw on their topsiders and learn about shellac.
Here's Jill having a good time.
Here's Jill having a good time.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Country Fun
By: Ben Tiernan
Dave and Suzy called my cell phone while Andrew was explaining to me the various stages in the season when they spray grapes with growth regulators. Andrew had spent the morning driving around the vineyards checking on the progress of the work-crews, and assigning their stations for Monday morning. I’d accompanied him in the passenger seat of the truck tending to my hangover and trying to avoid situations where I might have to speak Spanish.
Dave and Suzy with a Glock
Dave and Suzy were lost, which was a very reasonable thing to be since Andrew lives among hundreds of miles of vineyards with no distinguishing characteristics to the untrained eye, and vast, unmarked country roads. I told them to pull over, so that we could come find them witch we did with surprising ease.
As a farmer, we, the city folk, like to exploit Andrew’s access to vast, open, untamed space and tap into the lawless wilderness with decadent abandon.
As evidence, we wanted to shoot guns. Andrew recently bought a .40 caliber Glock to protect himself against home invasion because his home had been invaded one night. He also had a shotgun that he carried around in the back of his work truck to shoot at little birds that eat grapes off the vine.
Access to these wholly foreign, but significant cultural icons was too much to pass up. First, we shot the handgun, which was disturbing for a while as I considered that the tool in my hand was engineered specifically to kill people. Then I realized that, with it, I was just like Jet Lee and I cranked out shells rapid fire with my only remorse that I was not wearing a black suit and I didn’t have a gun for both hands.
Andrew and Dave were both much better shots than I was and Suzy, who was a novice, took to the sport with natural aptitude.
Next, we shot shotguns, or rather we shot skeet. The best way to put it would be to say that Andrew and Dave shot skeet and Suzy and I shot shotguns at skeet, but I could tell that the skeet were never very concerned when Suzy and I were up. The take away from the skeet shooting was that there is nothing on this earth that makes you feel quite as viril as cocking a pump-action, 12-gage shotgun.
Another take away was that when they protected the right to bear arms in the 2nd Amendment, they probably didn't have me in mind. When I'm popping off caps at wine bottles, I begin to wonder if perhaps the NRA lobbys too effectively.
Dave and Suzy called my cell phone while Andrew was explaining to me the various stages in the season when they spray grapes with growth regulators. Andrew had spent the morning driving around the vineyards checking on the progress of the work-crews, and assigning their stations for Monday morning. I’d accompanied him in the passenger seat of the truck tending to my hangover and trying to avoid situations where I might have to speak Spanish.
Dave and Suzy with a Glock
Dave and Suzy were lost, which was a very reasonable thing to be since Andrew lives among hundreds of miles of vineyards with no distinguishing characteristics to the untrained eye, and vast, unmarked country roads. I told them to pull over, so that we could come find them witch we did with surprising ease.
As a farmer, we, the city folk, like to exploit Andrew’s access to vast, open, untamed space and tap into the lawless wilderness with decadent abandon.
As evidence, we wanted to shoot guns. Andrew recently bought a .40 caliber Glock to protect himself against home invasion because his home had been invaded one night. He also had a shotgun that he carried around in the back of his work truck to shoot at little birds that eat grapes off the vine.
Access to these wholly foreign, but significant cultural icons was too much to pass up. First, we shot the handgun, which was disturbing for a while as I considered that the tool in my hand was engineered specifically to kill people. Then I realized that, with it, I was just like Jet Lee and I cranked out shells rapid fire with my only remorse that I was not wearing a black suit and I didn’t have a gun for both hands.
Andrew and Dave were both much better shots than I was and Suzy, who was a novice, took to the sport with natural aptitude.
Next, we shot shotguns, or rather we shot skeet. The best way to put it would be to say that Andrew and Dave shot skeet and Suzy and I shot shotguns at skeet, but I could tell that the skeet were never very concerned when Suzy and I were up. The take away from the skeet shooting was that there is nothing on this earth that makes you feel quite as viril as cocking a pump-action, 12-gage shotgun.
Another take away was that when they protected the right to bear arms in the 2nd Amendment, they probably didn't have me in mind. When I'm popping off caps at wine bottles, I begin to wonder if perhaps the NRA lobbys too effectively.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
La Tia Lupita's
Tacos for breakfast at a catering truck in Delano, CA. That's Tia Lupita in the corner making tortias. She runs a tight ship.
Friday, June 09, 2006
LA To Bakersfield
I'm driving from LA to Bakersfield to visit Andrew. There's a ton of traffic - it's Friday afternoon. Dave and Suzy are coming up tomorrow.
On the docket for this weekend: Rodeo, whiskey, and can racing. Can racing is a game that involves shooting a can over and over until it leaps so far away that your poor aim prevents you from hitting it.
I'm trying to get into guns.
Jill told me not to shoot myself. I told her that I wouldn't shoot anyone. She told me not to lie.
Monday, June 05, 2006
More Is More
Jill and I are engaged, but the details of the proposal, the champagne, and the love are all a little mushy and not really tin car quality material. A month of premarital bliss has transpired now, and I’ve rarely had an emotion that wouldn’t qualify as schmaltzy. The rights of marriage are not typically the topics that get tin car’s readership going, that is until today when Jill and I participated in the gluttony of wedding gift registration.
The tradition of registering for wedding gifts is a tumultuous and emotionally complex event with the primary emotion being greed, followed closely by entitlement, and aggression. This delicate mental state is pressed into action by primal impulses of consumerism that originate in the brainstem of the children of free-market capitalism who are old enough to fornicate and carry debt. Scientists have speculated that the registry impulse is related to the slightly higher-level impulse function to dry-clean jeans.
As a novice at marriage, I was unfamiliar with the customs of the bridal registry, so I’ve done my best to infer some basic rules to help fellow novices feel more at ease with the plunder.
Here are the rules:
1. Get while the getting’s good
The mores of our culture are set up to give you one good chance to demand that your friends and loved ones buy expensive bobbles for your home, and if you don’t take advantage of this windfall, you’ll never get a second chance.
2. If it exists, register for it
One of the biggest faux pas of a bridal registry is not to want enough shit. Wedding guests are required to buy you a gift by social laws that are older and more binding than congressional legislation, so it is imperative that there is enough shit on the registry for everyone to find a contribution. When you register, the question is not if you need a 6th crystal, fruit bowl or even if you want it. The question is can you tolerate it. Quantity is the issue here.
3. Believe you live in a mansion
You may live in a five hundred square-foot apartment that is questionably large enough to hold a bed and a laundry basket, but shop like you’re filling a Hapsburg palace.
While the building of the registry is afoot, there are some dangerous ideas that may come slithering into mind and these ideas are to be dashed to the curb so you can focus on “getting yours”. Here are some thoughts that may arise that are to be treated lightly and with indifference.
• That’s a lot of money to ask people to spend on a creamer.
• We can’t fit all this in our house.
• I’m really quite sure I’d never use that.
• Won’t people get mad at us for asking them to spend so much money?
• Are the dishes that we already have really so inferior to these dishes?
Don’t let these kinds of corrupting thoughts confuse the issue of engagement. Stay true to the tradition and register like a pirate claiming his booty.
The tradition of registering for wedding gifts is a tumultuous and emotionally complex event with the primary emotion being greed, followed closely by entitlement, and aggression. This delicate mental state is pressed into action by primal impulses of consumerism that originate in the brainstem of the children of free-market capitalism who are old enough to fornicate and carry debt. Scientists have speculated that the registry impulse is related to the slightly higher-level impulse function to dry-clean jeans.
As a novice at marriage, I was unfamiliar with the customs of the bridal registry, so I’ve done my best to infer some basic rules to help fellow novices feel more at ease with the plunder.
Here are the rules:
1. Get while the getting’s good
The mores of our culture are set up to give you one good chance to demand that your friends and loved ones buy expensive bobbles for your home, and if you don’t take advantage of this windfall, you’ll never get a second chance.
2. If it exists, register for it
One of the biggest faux pas of a bridal registry is not to want enough shit. Wedding guests are required to buy you a gift by social laws that are older and more binding than congressional legislation, so it is imperative that there is enough shit on the registry for everyone to find a contribution. When you register, the question is not if you need a 6th crystal, fruit bowl or even if you want it. The question is can you tolerate it. Quantity is the issue here.
3. Believe you live in a mansion
You may live in a five hundred square-foot apartment that is questionably large enough to hold a bed and a laundry basket, but shop like you’re filling a Hapsburg palace.
While the building of the registry is afoot, there are some dangerous ideas that may come slithering into mind and these ideas are to be dashed to the curb so you can focus on “getting yours”. Here are some thoughts that may arise that are to be treated lightly and with indifference.
• That’s a lot of money to ask people to spend on a creamer.
• We can’t fit all this in our house.
• I’m really quite sure I’d never use that.
• Won’t people get mad at us for asking them to spend so much money?
• Are the dishes that we already have really so inferior to these dishes?
Don’t let these kinds of corrupting thoughts confuse the issue of engagement. Stay true to the tradition and register like a pirate claiming his booty.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Dan Ho's Birthday
We came to Chan Dara...and saw Phil Jackson. Dan was eager to kiss Phil on the lips - he pushes his Birthday entitlement to the limits, but Phil escaped unmolested. Dan picked up the bill which was awesome. I guess that's what you're suposed to do when you're over 30.
Dan does everything right. He even sent out a gracious follow-up email to all the people that attended.
I'm turning 30 later this month, but I don't see myself picking up too many tabs. Maybe one or two, but if your reading this and your coming, don't think your floating by on my dime all night, you freeloading hippie. But I'm really glad your coming.
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