It's been a long time since my last update.

Sorry.

This weekend, Dan and Brice came to visit me from Ohio. It was sweet. They got in late Friday night and we just hung out and nursed some beers (diesels). Saturday we got up and went into the city. My mom and sister were having a yard sale so when we left there was a group of strange people sorting through our former belongings. We walked all over downtown (Brice hadn't been before) and it was fun. We met Dan's sister Carolyn and her boyfriend Kyle at Johnny Rocket's. We walked back to Union Station and got on our train to come home. We hung out for a while, then went to sleep.

Dan and Brice left at about 11:00. It was a good time and I'm glad they could have made it.

P.S. This post might make their visit sound boring but it was a lot of fun. I don't feel like writing too much right now.

Whatever.

Tonight I was going over my checking account when I noticed a discrepancy in the charges summary. It wasn't a discrepancy, it was a fucking outrage.

In the first couple weeks that I moved to Chicago alone, I signed up for the "FREE" AOL trial through one of their omnipresent CD's, thinking it would last me until my cable internet got set up. I called AOL and cancelled two weeks into my five-week trial subscription.

A week after that, I got a letter in the mail thanking me for rethinking my cancellation and telling me what my new rate is. Purely unacceptable. I angrily called them back and told them I've already cancelled. They looked it up, apologized, and cancelled my account without incident.

Tonight I saw the charge on my account and was infuriated. Beyond infuriated. Here's my first four im's to Dan the moment it happened:

flea0816: FUCK AOL
flea0816: THEY CHARGED ME
flea0816: I HATE AOL
flea0816: I AM CALLING THOSE FUCKERS NOW

I was outraged beyond belief. After talking to AOL's robot secretary that uses voice recognition and an incredibly indifferent and pacifist voice, I was connected to Don in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It's a good thing their billing department isn't outsourced to India or somewhere equally remote and non-English speaking. I know for sure that that would have pushed me over the top.

I explained my situation and Don-From-Albuquerque told me there was nothing he was authorized to do about it. I was livid. He tried to connect me to the cancellation department, but I told him I wanted to speak with his supervisor. Things changed, and Don-From-Albuquerque changed his tune. He credited my account and he apologized.

I was triumphant. Victorious.

I was a champion.

Tom - 1
AOL TimeWarner - 0

"Hi. [I'm pretentious and unhelpful.] May I help you?" asked Jenny Munoz, a very uninformed young employee of the Apple store. (I only know her name because she gave me a business card, but more on that.)

I explained that I was buying a computer and she got excited and gave me her card (so she could get a nice commission, maybe?). I asked questions that she couldn't answer and told her about rebates that she didn't know about. Why would I try to encourage this wench with a commission when I was more knowledgeable than she was? Anyway, the Apple store didn't have the computer so I ordered online.

I'm excited for my new computer. I've been talking with a certain Gloria Dube, an Academite from Tampa. She's terribly witty and has a penchant for extinct prehistoric reptiles and Apple computers. She just got her computer, so we'll be learning Apple computers together. I sure as hell don't know how to work one.

Holy hell, these postings are so boring. Why did you people click the link? My life is so, so boring. "Today I did this then I did this then I did this and I'm angry because Apple computer employs idiots and then this happened. I'm so full of post-teen angst."

Don't click my link anymore. It leads to my blog and ultimately disappointment.

I also changed the template. Like it? Hate it? Leave comments, I love them. You can leave them anonymously if you want to tell me secrets from your life that you normally couldn't share with me.

God bless those terrifying creatures from the deep. I've seen more sharks and attack stories then I ever thought possible in one week. Thank you, Discovery Channel. You make fascinating and procrastinating television.

Shark Week is over, my normally scheduled life can continue.

Other than that, not much is going on. I'm in my last week of accounting class and I'm sucking terribly. I have a test tomorrow and I still can't do homework from three chapters ago. I now see tests and quizzes as surveys rather than examinations. My thought process no longer asks , "What's the right answer?" but rather, "Which answer looks most correct? I'm so lost in this class. I'm glad it ends Thursday.

I sold some computer shit (my LCD monitor, speakers, keyboard and mouse) to my parents to help finance the following list of recent purchases:

1. iBook laptop computer (My previous laptop had met an untimely death after a terrible unspeakable incident.)
2. Not one but TWO hip flasks.
3. A camera charger for my digital camera because my sister LOST MINE.
4. A wireless mouse for use with aforementioned laptop computer.
5. A car charger for my ipod.

I would have sold my soul but I've already sold it: Last year sometime I was drunk and I used it to buy cheesy bread from my roommates.

It was the most delicious cheesy bread ever.

Back to the original thought, I wish I had a job. I wouldn't have to sell things to buy things.

My alarm clock radio is very peculiar. It is more quirky than any timekeeping piece should ever be. It almost made me late this morning.

I need a quirky alarm clock like I need a case of rabies.

To clarify, I don't need a case of rabies.

My alarm clock has a mind of its own. On rare occasion, when any button is pressed the radio turns on and it does not turn off unless you unplug it. I do not want to reset my clock and my alarm time in the middle of the night. Turning down the volume is the only realistic late-night remedy. I need the volume on to wake up in the morning. It's OK most of the time, but when it happens I realize how big of a piece of shit it is. It stares at me all night with its big annoying red numbers and smarmy radio and battery features. How I loathe it.

Natalie came in to town this weekend. I met her downtown and we went out to lunch with her family. It was fun.

Next weekend, Dan and Brice are coming. I'm very excited. I found out the VIOLENT FEMMES will be playing very near me that same weekend. I found that on their website, where I also found this little tidbit:

Did you know...
In early 2004 Glenview police were mystified when a maintenance man at Gallery Park called to report finding something strange in a trash can near the corner of Chestnut and Patriot. The medical examiner’s office subsequently identified the item as a human placenta, once connected to a full-term baby. Detectives put out the word, hoping to learn more, and a member of the public did come forward to explain the situation. It appears a couple decided to deliver their baby at home, and rather than alarm the neighbors by putting the afterbirth in their own garbage can, they took it to a public place for disposal. No crime was committed, and the department says this case is closed.

It's been a while since I've posted, and this post lacked both substance and quality. For that, I am eternally sorry.

I had a delightful conversation with a sales representative at Apple today. I'm thinking about getting an Apple laptop (I know, un1337) but supposedly there is supposed to be an update to the iBook line. This would make waiting to buy one a smart move. Then again, it's proprietary and overpriced--I am admittedly a consumer whore. Here is an approximate transcript of our conversation:

Me: "So, do you know anything about when the iBook line will be upgraded?"
Apple-Man: "We don't know about upgrades until you do. They're [His employers? Big Brother? This was quite unclear.] quite hush-hush."
Me: "Well what if I bought one and they upgraded it while mine was shipping. Would I get the upgraded one or the one that was online at the time of my purchase?"
Apple-Man: "You'd get the one that was online at the time of your purchase."
Me: "Oh, that simply will not do."
Apple-Man: "You could always return it within ten days."
Me: "Hm...Are you sure you don't know if they're going to upgrade it soon?"
Apple-Man: "We're not allowed to talk about it."
Me: "So you're not allowed to talk about what you do not know?"

The air was so thick with irony that I could have cut it with a literature reference.

Me: "Have you read Catch-22?"
Apple-Man: "No..."

Our conversation ended shortly thereafter.

All to often, I am negative and critical on this site. Today, I'd like to offer constructive and helpful hints for improving my accounting class.

-Change the subject from "Accounting" to "Anything". Both start with the letter A, end in "-ing", and anything would be infinitely more interesting than accounting.
-Bring donuts. Bearclaws and danishes wouldn't hurt either. WOULD IT KILL SOMEONE TO BRING SOME ORANGE JUICE?! It could be like a pot-luck accounting class where everyone contributes and we feast on choice breakfast items.
-Shorten the class. A two hour class is way too long, especially for a morning class, which brings up the next point.
-Move the class to later in the afternoon. Far too many times have I been late or skipped because of its morning-ness.
-Have Bruce Campbell, Chuck Norris, or Brandon Lee guest-lecture weekly.

This entry is so bad. I'll update something worthwhile soon.

Clearly, you can see me, the fellow pageant winner, and Tyler at the block party.












This was from some crazy careerbuilder.com guy who took our picture and put it online.







I present both of these pictures in their actual, unaltered form.

My trip to downtown Chicago was wonderful.

I met Tyler and his cousin Caitlin at Union Station. Tyler was exactly as I remembered: still as smart as a whip with wit to match. Caitlin was everything I could have hoped for in the least creepy way possible. It would have sucked if my hostess this weekend was some plebeian recluse with a penchant for snideness. I suck at meeting new people, but Caitlin was very nice and outgoing.

We took a cab to the wrong stop and got out. We were headed to a big block party but we got out at a Rusted Root concert--we didn't know. In the process, Tyler, Caitlin, and I got our picture taken by some weird Irishman wearing green. We got back in a cab and took it to Lincoln Park, where the real block party was. The Spin Doctors were playing live in concert--it was unbelievable. It was as if 1996 came back and said, "Please, remember me."

The concert was a lot better than I thought it was going to be. For as poppy as they sound, they're a really good band live. They jammed, as it were. Yes, as it were.

We took a cab back to a most scrumptious pizza place by Caitlin's apartment building. We took our pizza back to her building and ate it in her room, which was spectacular. The apartment building isn't a real apartment complex per se, it's more like a dorm that caters to three schools: DePaul University, Columbia College, and Some Other School that I Can't Remember. Caitlin and three roommates share a roomy apartment with gorgeous city views. I felt very metropolitan, and I was only there for a night. I couldn't imagine an entire week.

We went upstairs and drank with some of her friends. They were very cool and very nice and all of that, but I've forgotten everyone's names. I told the most horrendous stories I could muster, stories of maple syrup and vomit-screaming. Both are true, but should not be discussed right now as they are neither here nor there.

I got annoying, I guess, as I sometimes do after a night of heavy drinking and Tyler and I went back to Caitlin's room to watch Platoon. Sometime in the middle night I had a markedly horrific experience. Tyler traded my pillow and blanket for another pair. Piecing things together at this point in the night were hard enough without my damned linens being taken from under me.

We got up and went to lunch and then saw the movie Wedding Crashers. It was funny at parts, but my favorite part was the answering machine message for Owen Wilson's momentarily-depressed character John. "This is John...[sigh]...whatever.[Beep]" It was my favorite part.

This post really dragged on. If you got suckered into reading it, I'm sorry. I'll have pictures from this weekend up whenever Tyler decides to send them to me.

I have a problem with the courtesy level of Illinois drivers.

I let some lady who was turning out of a driveway go ahead of me. There was a lot of traffic so what I did was nice, thoughtful, and generous. I graciously gave up my right-of-way and watched her carefully as she began to pull out.

She did not wave.

I saw that she did not wave and I was immediately outraged. I pulled up past her, swerving and honking, effectively cutting her off and leaving her half-out of the drive way and half-into the street. I swerved and honked. I got the most intense reaction I've ever seen: this soccer mom looked like she was going to have a hemorrhage right there in her minivan. It was perfect.

I'm sorry. There are several unwritten rules that you must follow in our society. You're supposed to leave the seat down after you go to the bathroom. You're supposed to hold your heart during the pledge of allegiance. You're supposed to greet senior citizens with patience and respect. You're sure as hell supposed to wave when someone allocates their place in this traffic free-for-all of Illinois.

Another thing:

I was driving earlier this week and there was construction and because of this, two lanes converged into one. There were plenty of caution signs that had both textual and diagrammatical warnings. I pulled over into the left lane when the gangsta-esque person behind me in his rice-rocket sped up and tried to get around me. I kept up with him. I'm sorry, you illiterate fuck. I won't let you go. It's a matter of principle.

AND ANOTHER THING:

In moments of fury, rage, and teenage angst, my charming 14-year-old sister lets out little irresistible catch phrases that are hilarious. They are comedic gold.

My sister was in one of her precious 14-year-old moods, talking about why she needed a cell phone. We were all in the kitchen, and I was making a (dang) quesadilla. Why is she whining for a cell phone? She has no one to call except my mom for rides. She can use the payphone at school. She wants one with a camera built-in. I can't believe the nerve on this one. My first cell phone was rotary, required a tripod, and had to be in direct sunlight for it to work properly. It was made out of sheet metal and had to be hand-cranked while in operation.

In any event, I kept asking my sister why she needed a cell phone. She eventually got mad at my incessant questioning and told me to (and I do quote, verbatim), "BURN yourself on the SKILLET and SHUT UP!"

Jackpot.

AND ONE LAST THING:

Tomorrow, my friend Tyler is coming up from Florida to visit his cousin and me in Chicago. Tyler was voted class wit. He's excessively hilarious. We'll be going to a free (radical) Spin Doctors concert tomorrow and then hanging out the rest of the night with his cousin. I am looking forward to it.

Dear clothesbootsmotorcycle,
No one reads this crappy website. Even your profile is boring. Why do you feel compelled to post here?
-Abrasive in Arkansas

Dear Abrasive,
I post more for myself than for you. This blog serves as a space for me to rant and rave (and use other clichés). If you find it enjoyable, keep reading. If not, don't read it. I don't care either way.

Dear clothesbootsmotorcycle,
Where did you get your name? It's more than a mouthful.
-Inquisitive in Indiana

Dear Inquisitive,
The name "clothesbootsmotorcycle" came from the movie Terminator 2: Judgment Day. Originally an entire sentence, I shortened the line to just clothesbootsmotorcycle. In context, a naked Arnold Schwarzenegger walks into a bar and says to a rough-looking motorcycle-driving patron, "I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle." For some strange reason, I found this line more hilarious than most and I chose it as the name.

Dear clothesbootsmotorcycle,
I SAID YOU SUCK!
-Abrasive in Arkansas

Dear Abrasive,
Please stop mailing me. Your words are hurtful. :(

I went to the mall today with my mom and sister. We stopped at the Gap, where I noticed the workers have these headsets plugged in to walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. I'll let that set in. The Gap employees have walkie-talkies and headsets. This is not Iraq, this is no special op mission, there is no need for walkie-talkies inside a store in the mall. What do they talk about that can't be heard on a loudspeaker? I can just imagine the manager sitting in the office. "Echo team, to the chinos. Delta squad, we need you in the dressing rooms. We need reinforcements at the register! GO GO GO!" Preppy commandos in their fashionable fatigues would follow obediently. Do not question the voice. Do not follow your instincts. Trust the voice.

Oh, retail.

During a very desperate stint in the summer following my senior year, I worked at Kmart. My friend Dan worked with me and it was very awesome and often hilarious. We would be told to "straighten" (a very unenjoyable part of the retail lexicon used for the organization of items on a shelf). To Kmart employees, this meant toddling around and being especially helpless. If we were ever caught in wandering-mode we would explain that we were just helping a customer find something on the other side of the store. In the parking lot, we would play "Cart-Golf" where we'd take put a cart in the middle of the parking lot and push other carts at it, and whoever got their cart to go into the stationary cart in the least number of pushes won. We played another game where we would skip a rock up the wall and it would have to land on the roof or the soda machine. We had a fun on the clock around the clock.

The store itself was disgusting. It was filthy. I remember working at the cashier and checking out a guy who was buying a leopard-print thong for men. When I say checking him out, I mean I rang him up. I mean, I completed his transaction. Ok, enough innuendos. Working as a cashier sucked, but working as an 01 (once again part of the Kmart lingo for general help) was very fulfilling. The same work environment in the corporate world would definitely be along lines as the movie "Office Space".

I'm thinking about applying to Best Buy. I have a very strong love/hate relationship with retail. It is foul and grotesque but at the same time lax and hilarious. The pros definitely outweigh the cons.

I sent this to Bruce Campbell. His email address is listed on his site, www.bruce-campbell.com.

--
Dear Bruce,

Your bad-assery is unparralleled. Not even 24's Jack Bauer could lay a finger on Ash in his prime. The combination of boomstick and chainsaw arm is brilliant at worst, epic at best.

I'm turning 21 in April and require your presence at our party. Lots of cheap beer and morally-bankrupt college girls will be in attendance. I expect you to be there.

Yours,

Tom

--
To those who can't picture who Bruce Campbell is, think Ash from Evil Dead 2 and Army of Darkness:
Bruce Campbell is also the critically-acclaimed author of: If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B-List Actor and Make Love!* *the Bruce Campbell Way.

Yes, I really wrote invited him to my birthday party.

I'm that sweet.

"So you wanna be a player?/
But your wheels ain't fly?/
Just hit us up/
to get a pimped out ride.

You've got to pimp my riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide."

I've seen this show one too many times, and it's been bothering me. I was flipping channels earlier today and came across MTV's squalid series (note the word "series" and not "single disaster") titled, elegantly enough, "Pimp My Ride." X-to-the-Z-Xzibit hosts this ludicrous show where teenagers with almost illegal pieces of shit plead Xzibit to come and subsequently pimp their respective rides--something Xzibit does with enthusiasm.

Some world-shaker mumbles on about how you have to start the car (read: ride) by hot-wiring and Xzibit makes a shocked face at the camera. The teenager then explains her interests and X-to-the-Z-Xzibit slyly takes note. (It's not like every episode they incorporate some aspect of their interest, or anything.) Speaking of which, what if someone had unorthodox interests? "Xzibit, I like horses, donating blood, and fine needlework."

Xzibit takes the car to his friends at West Coast Customs, where a professional-looking high-caliber automotive team starts at the drawing boards of what to do with this chunk of fuck. Each member speaks directly to the camera and the rest of design team and each one comes up with something abhorrently tacky or impractical.

"First, I'm a put a TV screen on the gascap. Then, I'm goin' to install a spa in the trunk. To top it off, I'm puttin' a recording studio in the car so they can sing to themself and then play it back." The manager feigns an impressed look, then looks to the next guy.

"I'm gonna put some yellow base paint on this so it looks like the sun. I'll then add a mural of a sunset with some religious art, so the car is a driving contradiction. That's deep, man." He belts out in a thick Spanish accent. Maybe through his art we can understand why his family life was so dismal.

On to the next guy.

"We got these 34" gyroscopic rims from NASA. They And they spin 4 ways and are perfect perpetual motion machines. More chrome than my teeth."

On to the next. And the next. And the next.

Finally, they make each actual addition to the car more outrageous than the last, and they show off the special uniqueness to the car, how they incorporated this disenfranchised teen's interests into the car.

That teenager comes and X-to-the-Z-Xzibit and the team explain their work.

"We welded a horse trailer on the back half of this car. We also incorporated a mobile bloodbank so you can donate blood on the road. We bolted your grandmother to the backseat to help you with your needlework. You can also watch TV while you pump gas."

"(Excited laughter) Aw, thanks Xzibit. You're the best."

Meanwhile, they drive off the West Coast Customs lot and their car falls apart because it's 100 years old and the oil hasn't been changed since the Nixon era.

In conclusion, what is the formula for annoying TV?

Famous rapper + shitty car + disenfranchised team + assanine ideas + predictable incorporation of interests + a bottomless MTV-backed budget = one pimped out ride.

This show is one of many that is ruining America.

This is what Africa would look like if it was made out of cookies and the ocean was made out of milk.

These are the things I think about.

They really are.

Sorry for the lack of updates. I once wanted to update daily, but I now see that my life is much too monotonous for that. Updates will be sporadic but hopefully still entertaining. If not, I wouldn't be surprised. Without much more, here is what I did today:

I went shopping with my family downtown. My sister's birthday is tomorrow and she wanted to go shopping on Michigan Avenute--the Magnificent Mile. We got on the train painlessly, and we found a section of four seats on the top of the train. The bus has two tiers, a bottom level and a top level. We sat on the peasant level and watched the green pass by with apathy.

The conductor came by and asked for tickets. My dad handed him ours, and before he punched them he asked how old my sister and I were. I said I was twenty and he turned to my sister to ask how old she was. She stammered, "e-e-eight."

To those who do not know my sister: she is turning fourteen tomorrow, not nine. She cannot pass for eight years old, and sounded quite ridiculous. She then told him she was fourteen and she sounded incredibly stupid. As of this writing, she still does not know why she said eight.

We pulled in to Union Station, and the web of train tracks that surrounded it were growing closer and closer together. We pulled into the station and walked over to Michigan Avenue. We walked to Water Tower Place and I got Kelly a green Vera Bradley wallet--whatever floats her boat. We walked around longer and went to Portillo's for lunch. Portillo's has been in Chicagoland forever serving hot dogs and other things. My hot dog was as scrumptious as I suspected.

I'm becoming distracted, so I'll wrap this up: We walked around several furniture stores where my sister displayed her awesome clumsiness. In one store, she turned around her backpack knocked over and subsequently broke a clock. She was like a bull in a furniture store.

We went to the Taste of Chicago, which is in Millenium Park. You buy tickets and scads of local restaurants setup booths and exchange (you guessed it) tickets for food. I told my mom that she should set up a booth on the empty side of the park and call it "The Chaste of Chicago," and told her how popular her booth would be. (My mom gets abstinence and heavily-Christian wait-'til-marriage literature from different Christian cult-organizations in the mail, and leaves them out for my brother and I to see them.) It was received with an awkward smile, on par with the awkward smiles I've received from birth.

The one thing I get most excited about going downtown is the free fliers that local eccentrics hand out. I have several absolutely hilarious handouts that I'll try to do justice, but I know I'll fail. More of those later. I'm out.