Thanksgiving '04
For pictures of Thanksgiving 2004, click here.
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November 29, 2004
Gone Dog Fishin'....
We spend Thanksgiving at the original 'Casa de Odom'. I'm not sure who had more fun: Nat and I, or Boris.
Nat and I gorged ourselves on buckets of turkey, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, broccoli casserole, gravy, dinner rolls, stuffing, candy, more turkey, crackers, cheese, BBQ ribs, pancakes, bacon, Rootbeer freezes, chocolate sheet cake, more pecan pie, and whip cream.
We also spent well-earned time doing NOTHING. And by nothing, I mean NOTHING. Just a lot of laying around, watching TV, playing board games, walking on the beach, etc. (Although Nat left my lazy butt on the couch everyday while she went out for a long run). In my defense, I managed to get my atrophied legs into a single pick-up game of hoop, where suprisingly, I made a handful of beautiful, high arching, jump shots and an Allen-Iversonesque floating lay-up. My machismo was short-lived once Jordan realized that he had the hoop set at 9 and 1/2 ft, rather than 10 ft. Had it been set properly, I would have maintained my streak of air balls and further perpetuated my 'has-been' status. The consequences of my impromptu atheleticism were paid in the following days of aching sore muscles and creaking joints. Dad, at 60, still beat us in H-O-R-S-E. My humiliation is complete.
Boris gorged himself on Darla's dogfood, and then spent the remainder of his time in full contact rough-housing with Jared, Ember, Brooke, Cole, Rye, Tarin, Cristina, and Anthony. When it finally came time to leave, Boris gave us one a winsome look as if to say, "but here it's non-stop fun all day every day..."
The drive home was terrible. I picked up a cold along the way, and our normal 8 hour trip was closer to 10.5 hours due to massive droves of idiot drivers who insist on kissing bumpers. Thankfully, I had a bag of Wasabi covered peas to keep me awake, so we made it home safe and sound.
November 23, 2004
This weather bites.
There is nothing I LOVE more than to sit outside in the pouring rain, scrunched over our puppy Boris, holding an undersized umbrella, trying to coax him into taking a crap. Day after day after day...
I'm sure this incessant downpour of moist goodness will do wonders for our drive down to Florida tomorrow. Thanksgiving traffic on I-75 (AKA The Deep Southern Corridor of Two Lane Frustration) -- in rain. It's as if part of the Georgia DMV driving test includes the following question:
"When driving 65 mph on any paved road or byway in the greater Southeast, what is the appropriate response when rain drops should begin to hit your windshield?"
a) Crack open another PBR and accelerate.
b) Pull hard to left into the grassy culvert and yell "PITSTOP!"
c) Close yer eyes, raise your hands to air, and scream "It's the Rapture, It's the Rapture!"
d) All of the above.
November 18, 2004
I am PROSUMER. Hear me 'click'.
prosumer (proh.SOO.mur) n. 1. A consumer who is an amateur in a particular field, but who is knowledgeable enough to require equipment that has some professional features ("professional" + "consumer").
I am the proud owner of the Canon EOS 300D (Digital Rebel). I’ve been coveting a digital SLR since taking a few snaps with the camera of my old neighbor Margaret Cain. Determined to satiate the shutterbug in me, I decided to ask that any friend interested in getting me a birthday gift, just get me a gift card to Wolf Camera. So between my GREAT friends, my awesome girlfriend, some savings, and a little credit, I was armed with the funds to make my purchase.
Empowered consumer that I am, I decided to do a bit of extra research to make sure I would be happy with my purchase, and for the first time in my amateur life, came across the above mentioned consumer description. I had to chew on this word for a while. Proh.SOO.mur... It’s such a contrived word. Like Spork. Or Skort. It’s also so demeaning. I haven’t even purchased the camera yet, and I’m already getting ‘flack’ from the establishment. Why don’t they just go ahead and call the category "If we were playing Global Thermal Nuclear War, you’d be Canada". Meaning I'm in the game, but not really IN the game. No doubt the world "Prosumer" was birthed by a snarky Manhattan copywriter who sold a single picture to Corbis.com and is telling everybody he just went pro.
I would much prefer the following consumer descriptions: "Temporary Amateur". "Latent Professional". "The Well Funded Enthusiast". In any event, I will not be boxed in by the so-called "Professional" oligarchy of digital SLR copywriters. I will be "King Dioptric Adjustment Knob"... "Master Motion Capture"... "Dr. ISO"... "Sir Shutter Speed!"
The man can't hold me down... [[click]].
November 16, 2004
My Birthday ::: El Gran 34!!!
To everyone who sent me a card, called, or came out on my birthday night; I want to say "Muchos Gracias"! I had a great time, and for a guy celebrating one year shy of rounding up to 40, I had a great time! Another big thank you to Dan for bringing his digital camera. I'll have mine soon enough! Click here to see the photos...
November 15, 2004
Natasha the Natural.
It's hard to believe that Natasha ever doubted that she would enjoy a puppy, much less know how to raise one. Click here for evidence...
November 11, 2004
OPEN MEMO TO G.I.L.O
DATE: November 11, 2004
TO: G.I.L.O (Gastrointestinal Liberation Organization)
RE: Peace Talks
FM: mattLandia HQ
To the Microbiasitic Leaders of GILO,
As indicated in previous complaints wired from the mattLandia HQ to your gastric tract of residence (see the cerebral record bank, all thoughts with a date stamp starting 04021990 to current with a prefix identifier of 2-MCH-CRP), HQ wishes to open peace talks and begin a dialogue leading to a complete cessation of all hostilities and blatant attacks to the Torso region.
Since hijacking a rogue piece of lettuce in the mountains of Ecuador in the early 90's, your campaign of terror and agenda for gastric totalitarianism has been predicated on a combination of fascist and anarchic factors not entirely clear to HQ. Early on, assumptions were made that there were in fact no rebels or WGD's (weapons of gastric destruction) present in the Torso or Esophageal regions, but a continuing cycle of news worthy commando cramp attacks and intestinal destruction seem too well organized to be the by-product of happenstance diet and emotional distress. Only in more recent years has HQ been able to put a face on GILO's murky misplaced duodenal statolatry.
HQ has a long history of making concessions to GILO in hopes of prolonged peace, including but not limited to:
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These concessions notwithstanding, GILO has a history of launching public attacks against HQ in the most devastating and humiliating of manners including, but most definitely not limited to the following records:
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HQ was willing to let GILO maintain its decades long status in the general ‘life nuisance' department, had GILO not recruited international support and launched OPERATION TOKYO DEATH FISH in April of 2004. History will show that HQ had grown complacent and had not truly considered the implications of international GILO organization. However, HQ could not let OPERATION TOKYO DEATH FISH go unanswered. HQ has and will continue to use all weapons available to rid the world of the GILO's terrorist policies including the Ultrasound, CT Scans, EGD, Tissue Biopsies, Maximum Strength Horse-size Pills, and Aggressive Dietary Sanctions.
Unfortunately, it seems GILO has retreated into Fallujah-like corners of the Torso; corners that don't see the big picture and refuse a unilateral cessation of hostilities and dialogue for a new era in gastric/HQ cohabitation.
Let this memo serve notice that GILO has 5 days to completely leave the Torso, before HQ deploys PRIMAL DEFENSE, a Probiotic wonder drug which promises the restoration of a proper balance of power in mattLandia. Be warned, HQ will not be deterred by the 'alternative' medicine label or the foul taste of dirt in 'all natural' wonder pills.
The days of GILO are over. Retreat now or face herbal remedy annihilation.
Sincerely,
mattLandia HQ
November 08, 2004
Yes Master.
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Is anyone else ready for the dark side? I'm giggling like a silly Jawa watching this... Click here to see the trailer! |
November 07, 2004
The Mustache Militia at Dresden Dolls.
St. Louis has fallen into grace. After a week here, I have found the spice, the accent color, the asterix if you will. A man with a handle bar mustache and red headed starlet pounding the keyboard... I'm getting ahead of myself.
While visiting with my good friend and MP3 dealer DJLight, a happenstance look at the local sound menu leads us to a Dresden Dolls show, on the banks of the mighty Mississippi. We enter Mississippi Nights, and walk into a large room of {{GASP}} mustachioed men, top hats, bowlers, striped stockings, and surly fat drunk men. I nod to Jason, and we agree that the night has promise on two fronts: the potential for good music, and an opportunity to establish contact with the provincial mustache militia.
The Music was taken care of first. The Dresden Dolls, a two piece combo of piano and drums did not disappoint. Amanda Palmer, the pianist extraordinaire seemed one part Tori Amos, another part turn of the century can-Can girl. Brian Viglione, the marionette painted drummer, alternated assaulting the skins, conjuring the spirits of puppets long since put away, and bantering with the audience. Between the motley smattering of the fan base, the rolling delivery of the Dolls clever balladeering, and the thick haze of smoke, the night felt back-alley Parisian.
The 'eureka' moment arrived when I came face to face with my mustached doppelganger. Similar hair, same hair coloring, same mustache style (The Drooping Mexican Gunslinger, aka The Salchicha Jones) and same respectable fashion sensibility. A fellow champion of the mouth curtain, we give each other the global nod of approval. To make matters even more surreal, when I pull out my phone to document his existence, he pulls out the SAME phone. We make introductions (his name was Pete and his lovely companion was Rose) and chat for a moment. Nice to know the local mustache militias are cool and decent people.
I walk away feeling warm fuzzies about the comforting complexities of chaos theory and alternate universes. Where there is one doppelganger, there are many. I am not alone in my advocacy of the global mustache! As I travel the world, I will seek them out and we will establish the foundation of a Mustache Revolution. 'Que Viva El Bigote! Que Viva El Bigote!'...
Pointillist Camera Phone.
This snap shot with my camera phone was suprising. It actually captured the soft light and beauty of the sunset at the Balducci Winery in Augusta, Mo.
November 05, 2004
Ameristar Asyphxia
I’ve never gambled in a Casino – not once. I really don’t see what all the fuss is about, so last night I thought I would go check out the Ameristar Casino, just a few miles from my hotel.
I pulled into the parking deck through the pulsating orifice of what looked to be a mammoth river creature bedecked in phosphorescent twinkle and costume jewelry. Literally, the entrance to the Ameristar looks a gaping maw, with row after serrated row of light bulb teeth.
Upon entering the Casino, I am overwhelmed in an orgy of light. Vixen red. Debutante Blue. Siren yellow. Money Green. My eyes become small Lite Brite orbs, mirroring the frantic Morse code pulsating from each machine: Dot Dot dash Dash Dash Dot Dot Dot Dot Dash Dash Dot. If only I understood the language, I’m sure I might fare better.
As I walk the casino floor, I navigate through groups of geriatric slots militia. Grey skinned gamers work row after row of video slots; safe cracking specialists trying to crack the code of blinking lights and minimum bets. I’m a tourist lost in a catacomb of games that mean nothing. Each machine is a glass menagerie of Blue Ducks, Red Stars, and Pot’s of Gold, Triple Bars, Horseshoes, and Dollar Signs.
After a few minutes of dazed walking, I manage to find a row of slots that are unoccupied and off the beaten path. I sit down, and spend (I kid you not) 10 minutes trying to figure how feed cash into the machine. I look like a chimp slapping away at a calculator I’m sure, until I realize that I’m supposed to slide my Ameristar issued ID card into the Machine before it will take my cash. Whew, I’m relieved that I finally figure out how to give my money away, and I turn my attention to the task of getting my gamble on.
Um… Tap… Huh…Tap… I'm back to being a chimp. I’m a jet-setting technical Instructor who specializes in systems training, and I can’t figure which of three buttons I should push. Damn it. Oh. Change Bet. Max Bet. Lose. Win. “Ding-ding-ding”. I’m up. I’m down. I’m down. I’m down. Max Bet. Max BET. MAX BET! Damn you to hell you piece of metal shi….Wait! Win! I hit Triple Bars and I win $3. I rule. I am the MASTER SLOT SAMURAI of St. Louis. Bet! Bet! BET!
I lose $30 is as many minutes. I can’t step away from the machine. It’s like I’m stuck in an undertow. I don’t want to move. And in that moment I realize the deathtrap opiate den that is the modern casino. I am asphyxiating on the fumes of second hand smoke and the promise of a 25 cent Utopia. I manage to step away from the chair, a little dazed. Fight or flight takes in and start a quick walk to the exit.
I walk across the hall to the All You Can Eat Buffet and breathe in the sweet fumes of BBQ Beef Ribs that are as large as my forearm. Once my head clears, I eat $30 worth of Vanilla and Chocolate swirl yogurt and get the hell out of dodge.
November 02, 2004
Outlaw Idol Inductee!
Hat's off to Guillermo for this tasty piece of mustache propaganda, found in a BBC article called "Admirers flock to Indian brigand's grave". Raja rocks the house.
Suspense.
Watching the election coverage is excrutiating. This is like watching a game of Risk and wondering who is going to take over Australasia for the win. (Now that's dropping a seriously obscure board game reference for you!)
Flight to Saint Louis.
I flew to St. Louis yesterday on one of Delta's Fisherprice planes. The seats are small, the bathroom is tiny, everything is shiny plastic, and the overhead compartment is big enough to hold my left shoe.
The inflight hall monitor was giving out pretzels and Delta's little Biscotti cookies (for which I harbor deep seated salivic cravings), and I swear to you, said the following: "Have some pretzels sir, and some cookies for dessert." FOR DESSERT? I didn't realize that my pretzel dinner was straight off the "We're-going-bankrupt-but-there's-no-way-your-service-won't-suffer-menu".
Eeediots!