A Quick View into My Life.

I subscribe to tons of RSS feeds, as something to do at work. I saw a Lifehacker article on how to keep long-term relationships "fresh", and feeling all "Suzy Homemaker", I sent off a link to The Bunny. This is what happened:

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On Thu, Sep 15, 2011 at 9:50 AM, Peter Bomars wrote:

 not saying anything, not passive aggressive, some of this sounds fun.

http://lifehacker.com/5840566/how-to-avoid-the-four-most-common-relationship-killers

And WOW do I feel teh geeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyy

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OK, so read that link. It's full of heartwarming stuff.

The Bunny read that and responded with:

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On Thu, 2011-09-15 at 11:50 -0700, The Bunny wrote:

So we're working on our relationship AND you're gay? Here's the guide I thought most helpful

http://ohnoa.com/2011/09/the-dangerballs-guide-to-being-the-best-at-marriage/

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I retorted:

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On Thursday, September 15, 2011, Peter Bomars wrote:

No....I though taking a class together or something. Also, more naked cheerios/Cap'n Crunch.

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A sensible reply:

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On Thu, 2011-09-15 at 13:06 -0700, The Bunny wrote:

Classes sound fun but we revisit this issue every 6 months and neither of us have found anything that we want to spend that money on learning. But I agree more date nights and I that.

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Things get weird:

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On Thu, Sep 15, 2011 at 1:08 PM, Peter Bomars wrote:

And the cereal issue? where does the committee stand on that?

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On Sep 15, 2011 2:01 PM,  The Bunny wrote:

I think you need to reread that article because cereal and sexy rumpus time did not go together.

Although I do think that discovering you have a sexual need for Cap'n Crunch after 5 years together could improve our relationship....or destroy it depending on whether you want me to wear the outfit or not. Also best comment on that article:

"Personally, this is what I was rooting for Dear Abby and Ann Landers to turn into: “Ann Landerballs  Head Cuntmuffin of Social Fucking Values” Totally needs to be an advice column. I fucking dare you. I even promise to stalk it and offer unsolicited advice to viewership!

Possible titles could be:

• The Dangerballs Guide to a Sexier (and less hairy) You
• Lose Some Fucking Weight, Already ~ Nutritional advice from Dangerballs Gavin
• I’ll Let You Fuck Me if You Stop Blaming Your Farts on the Dog ~ Tips on how to repair your struggling marriage
• I Never Loved You ~ Insight into calmer family relations
• Please Stop Breathing in Public: The Dangerballs Political Blog

I’ll think of more if you don’t like those…"

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Feeling just a touch put out over the snarky rejoinder:

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On Thu, Sep 15, 2011 at 2:10 PM, Peter Bomars wrote:

No, they are not together. But if during sexy naked rumpus time you could, on occasion, state that you are or are willing to be "cuckoo for cocoapuffs" that'd be swell

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And finally:

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On Thu, Sep 15, 2011 at 2:12 PM, The Bunny wrote:

So what you're saying is I should add that to the face licking and retarded voice?Will do, my Liege!

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So yeah. That's pretty much my life.

Wedding Blues, Wamblish Shoes, and Insidious Florists

Well, as you are a faithful reader and know what the hell is going on around here (unlike your devoted chronicler), you are aware that The Bunny and I are getting hitched all official-like. To all the men out there, read on:

PROPOSING IS A REALLY, REALLY BAD IDEA! Don't do it. Ever.

Here's why - Your current bedbunny is a sane, rational woman, right? Cool, composed, not given to flights of wacky hysterics about the minutia of candles? HA! slap the groovy wedding-vibe on her and madness follows.

You ask for proof? Well, results may vary, but I do have a couple examples:

Before proposal:

A longtime favorite discussion around the 'ole Bomars hearth was on the nature of what constitutes Art. As in - Kant vs Tolstoy Vs Kierkegaard in a to-the-death cage-match.

After proposal:

"What do you think we should do with the leftover place mats from the reception?"
or the current favorite:
"Did you know <insert insufferably boring factoid about the wedding dress industry> and if I buy my dress online <I usually faint with ennui here>"

OR


BP:

The Bunny: "Who should we invite to <insert event here>?"
Your hero: "I dunno, people?"
The Bunny: "Yeah, people are good."

AP:

The Bunny: "Who should we invite to the wedding?"
Your hero: "I dunno, people?"
The Bunny: <hateful stare>

From these two examples, we can deduce that men and women do not have the same sense of importance or urgency regarding nuptials.

I, for one, would like no better than to have people show up with cash in hand and party until every last person we have ever met passes out. Somewhere during the party (to be determined by the mood of the festivities) an ordained-type person shouts incomprehensible gibberish about the solemnity of the event, passes out, regains consciousness, makes us lob rings at each other, passes out again and is carried off stage. DONE. see? simplicity itself. I planned that whole thing in like thirty seconds.

The Bunny's plan involves florists, the most economically parasitic trade known to man, They are even more evil than the IRS. It gets even worse from there. (Wait, maybe I'm wrong. maybe it wasn't florists...it could have been flautists. Seriously, though...why the hell would we need flautists? Women are a mystery.) (Also, as a side note, I need to get my hearing checked.)

O, Brother - take heed, as well, of the following dire warning:

AT NO TIME, FOR NO REASON, EVER GIVE A WHIMSICAL SUGGESTION TO THE PROSPECTIVE BRIDE ABOUT ANYTHING AT ALL, lest your silly idea be taken as a demand.

Me, a long, long time ago: "I wanna get married in a cathedral " (Seriously, it'd be awesome. The Wedding March played on a pipe organ, a choir singing Vivaldi's Magnificat, knights in armor....Hell yeah)
The Bunny: <dialing the local Archdiocese last week> I don't know if we can afford it; but if I can get someone to buy a kidney...
Me: "WTF? I'm not even Catholic! Wait....How much you think we can get for a kidney, though? I've got like...two or something."
The Bunny: <hateful stare>

Oh, and my personal fave - every woman she has ever met, even briefly, like on the bus or something, will come out of the woodwork offering "help". And by "help" I mean a carefully coordinated campaign of misinformation and anti-male propaganda.

Some chick The Bunny met at summer camp in 1987: "Heard you were getting married! Just emailing you to see if you wanted to use my antique rose curling press you will totally need one!!! Also, your fiancée has called in a hit on a puppy, is cheating on you with a nearsighted marmoset, and may be a communist."

Some other chick The Bunny knew from college: "Hooray! Men can't be trusted with even the smallest task! Did you know that a mere SIX MONTHS before our wedding, my husband suggested that we go out rollerskating? ROLLERSKATING!!!!! He obviously has no notion! Also, during the rehearsal dinner, he ate CHICKEN!?!?! Also, you should purchase this orbital sander so your shoes won't wamble."


And so on.


Hold the phone, I just realized something. Is this how women feel when it's mentioned, briefly, that they would like a new computer/car/tool and their guy offers sound, reasonable advice? Except all crazy? something to think about....


More later.

How I Handle Feedback and a Very Special Episode of Bunny.

So the other day, The Bunny and I went out with some folks to a bar called The Feedback Lounge over in West Seattle. As a "scratch bar", they make a great deal of their mixers fresh, by hand, at the time of order; but they go a step above and beyond: They infuse their own liquors on site. HERE is a link to their drinks menu.

Piece of advice - The Whiskey Smash is DELIGHTFUL.

After imbibing several of these fine beverages, Bunny, her friend "T" (of the suspect "Lady Date" episode) and I, retired to the abode of newlyweds "B" and "J" to have some beers and chill out on their back porch while enjoying the warm evening air.

At this point it a good idea to mention that "B" and The Bunny had already had a couple more than was strictly necessary and I had had exactly the right amount to wax all "professory" at people for some time regarding the most boring subject imaginable - Middle Eastern History (complete with gestures and forgetting what I was talking about).

In the middle of a rather fascinating dissertation on the impact of Arabic Poetry on Spanish Literature in the 15th century (It's actually a real thing, and in its own way totally fascinating), "B" decided that I need a good talking-to about my relationship with The Bunny.

Here's what i think of that:

Katrina, in the five years I have known you, you have made me the happiest man in the world. Even though we have different likes or opinions at times, we never fail to find common ground, and to find delight in sharing with each other. I knew from the first day we met that you were the one, and still feel that way.

To that end, and as we met because of words written in a blog, I will ask you, in a blog.

Katrina, will you marry me?


There. Now all you people asking when I'm going to take this seriously had better shut the hell up.

Methuselah Takes a Dive, Beaver Conditioner, Non-Disclosure, and Magic Shell

Sick again. Dammit. I swear that each and every child of my coworkers  is a disease factory. When I work around people with no kids, no problem. I am never ill. Introduce a perambulating petri dish at home and WHAM! Cholera, plague, dengue fever, licky end (which only pregnant ewes get), you name it.

Get this, we were told that blogging about, or writing a negative review on a job-board about my employer is a direct violation of our nondisclosure agreement. lol. I'm not risking it because making the head of IT nervous about what I am going to say or do next is worth any amount of patronizing malarkey.
Enough flirting with the unemployment line.

My plans to build my own Ubuntu Linux derivative based on Openbox (O'Buntu? great. now I want to drink too much and eat potatoes while being superior to Mac users) took a horrible turn this weekend.

Bunny's evil cat, Moo (who Hates. For comparison, Westboro Baptist is mildly concerned for people like me. Moo HATES.) decided that while I was walking with Methuselah (my ancient testing laptop) that she needed to be precisely where my foot was landing. I went flying and landed on Methuselah, which broke in half at the hinges.

Here's my review of the 2002 Compaq Presario v2000 (AMD):

buy one. buy one today. Your current laptop sucks. It is a barely-opaque communist plot to make you effeminate. A REAL laptop would engender comments like "Like a boss" in your limp-wristed (carpal tunnel....sure) friends (that always smell faintly of mushrooms and broken dreams). The Compaq v2000, upon which Ernest Hemingway wrote his never published autobiography  "Yeah, I Fucked your Mom, Bitch Still Owes Me Twenty Dollars" (I laughed, I cried, I learned a little about myself) is so tough, it was the REAL reason John Wayne died. He tried to fuck around and CTL-ALT-BACKSPACE to kill the X-server process and Methuselah ate him. The lung cancer thing was a clever ploy by his publicist. I actually know a real-deal diesel dyke that won't use Methuselah because it's too tough. And she's beat me up! Twice! (I may or may not have made some of this up)(I was NEVER beaten up by a girl. The rest is gospel truth)

Here is what what I base my thoughtful, technical opinion on:

This laptop BROKE IN HALF. I plugged the monitor back in (it came detached from the motherboard) AND IT BOOTED LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. So I am now getting him a new case and we'll be back in business.I've had this computer longer than I've had pubic hair, and it's more reliable than anything else I have ever owned.

WAIT, I was going to tell you all about last Friday. My buddy Zach came over to hang out with the Bunny and I. For some strange reason they decided that they must have ice cream and that I was the intrepid adventurer who would risk life and limb at the local grocery store to bring back the spoils of the hunt.

Lazy bastards.

So Bunny has this thing, she thinks that I have very, very short att

hey, I just thought of something. Why the fuck don't I PAINT Methuselah's new case? Ferarri red or Darth Vader theme or something.

ention-span.

This is obviously an overstatement. Sure, sometimes i may not pay the closest attention to you boring people, but that's because YOU'RE BORING. (duh)

Anyway, i just got in my truck when the texts started:


Bunny - Butter Pecan, Magic Shell, Whip Cream, Cherries
Me - Seriously?

At this point I was kinda pissy that she thought I couldn't remember what i was sent for. Then the text started rolling in every thirty seconds until I got home.

Bunny - And some Maddog 4040
Zach - Kielbasa
Bunny - The maraschino cherries have to be organic, dye-free, and preserved in the tears of poor children
Zach - and a Mars Bar
Bunny - And some Jammy Dodgers
Zach - and some pork rinds
Bunny - A Hustler magazine
Zach - fish sticks
Bunny - One pound cruelty-free, fair-trade spinach
Zach - Macaroni salad from the deli, God help you if there's onions
Zach - And some rubbers, get the big ones
Bunny - And you'll probably need some Wesson oil from what Zach says
Zach -Do they still sell Big League Chew? find out if they still sell Big League Chew.
Bunny - Cracker-Jacks with ANY AND ALL prizes related to Abe Lincoln REMOVED.
Zach - Pygmy walrus too exotic for the QFC?
Bunny - Beaver Conditioner
Zach - Brown M&Ms. You heard me, BROWN
Bunny - Made from only Alaskan beavers, preferably only ones that lived near Sarah Palin
Me - HA! Fuck you! I found organic, dye-free cherries! They're out of maddog, though.
Bunny - Fuck YOU, the dye makes them taste better
Bunny - rubber sheets
Bunny - Lion-chow catnip felt mousies
Bunny - Sorry, Moo got my phone
Bunny - Extra-Large garbage bags and a pound of quick lime


So there I was, walking through the store,my phone pinging every thirty seconds, cracking up. Meanwhile, store security must have thought I was some kind of drug-crazed oatmeal thief, because I was followed the entire time. This made me laugh even more. I could hardly check out. Then, with store security five feet behind me, I walked up to some poor, twitter-pated girl stocking shelves and asked her where the Magic Shell was (that chocolate stuff that hardens when it hits ice-cream..don't ask. they wanted it). The poor girl must have thought that I was game for a good 'ole fashioned rapin' because she squeaked and pointed to the aisle. Poor daffy girl.

Anyway, yeah, that's my weekend. How was yours?

Religion, Obama, Preist, The Eagle,Germans, and Reeducation.

For me, O Oblate Reader, movies are like a religion. I truly believe in the whole experience. Some time ago, in my old blog, I made rather cool simile comparing going to the movies like going to Catholic mass in some old-world cathedral. It still holds true for me.

A couple of days ago I watched a couple movies

The Eagle:

Some of you may know that I am a Roman history buff. Love me some Rome. This movie passed the "Pete's a pedantic ass" test with flying colors! I know there were some inaccuracies; but because I know next to nothing about Celtic history, I had to let 'em slide. (NO one knows much about Celtic history. Anyone that says different is lying, selling you something, or one of those daffy new age hippy bastards) For instance, the Scottish actors were speaking Lowland Scots (naturally) not the completely extinct and almost completely unknown Pictish.  (seriously, we have a couple of hotly debated Ogham inscriptions and some place names like "Inverness", that's it)

The movie in and of itself was enjoyable if a little shallow. The Director, Kevin MacDonald, has almost completely worked in documentaries, so you would think that the guy could find SOMETHING to get real deep about. But no, it's a pretty staid attempt at a two-guys-from-completely-different-worlds-work-together-toward-a-nigh-impossible-goal-and-find-common-ground-and-mutual-respect thing. But like I've said earlier, sometimes it's not "new" that is important, it's what you bring to the table in terms of honesty and artistry. MacDonald brings both, with one small, tiny objection from me: I love Terrence Malik, the crazy fuck. EVERYONE loves Malik. We know YOU love Malik, so there is no reason to cling to him like an insecure high-school girl in a Denny's. Giving Malik a nod, a quick smootch even, is completely OK. But to try and copy his style is not. You are a very pretty, smart girl, Kevin, and need to focus on how YOU are special, not how Terence makes you feel special.

Wait. Shit. I got my similes, allusions, and reality all twisted. MacDonald is not a high-school girl, as far as I know. OK. we cool?

I also saw Priest. Meh. As a movie, I see why it bombed in the theaters. This is a movie for stealing, not paying money.

HOWEVER you can't if you have any Sony products as your main media player. Sony decided that "free market" capitalism is awesome when there is no competition and it doesn't have to listen to the market in any way, shape, or form. They set up the Priest DVDs and BluRays with a horrible new form of anti-piracy malarkey that doesn't work if you have any computer skills at all. (So I am told by someone that I met once and found to be untrustworthy.)( HEIL, DMCA! Aktiengeschellschaften über Alles! [und so weiter]) This new form of copy protection checks against a database to see if you have the right to watch the movie. If not, it turns the sound off. Here's something to think about, there is no guarantee that this movie will work if you rent it. Think about it - even if you have the DVD from Netflix (those chiseling bastards) if there are too many entries on the DB, or your player isn't connected to the internet, you can't watch it....


I won't go into it too much further, as that would be illegal.


The only way to avoid knowing any more about it is to watch this movie on anything that is not Sony. This advice is legal, here's why:

This lame attempt at security is so easy to circumvent that even seeing it in action immediately alerts any reasonably intelligent person exactly how to circumvent it. Therefore, in an heroic act of cogitation, I came to the flawless conclusion that to save my brethren and sistren the karmic debt of breaking the law, I will simply not allow them to be exposed to the potential situation in any way! Not only am I a legal genius, I am a fucking bodhisattva.

Yeah, Priest. Paul Bettany, And the clenchy guy from the Return of the King and "Bones" in the new JJ Abrams Star Trek movie. What's his name. (Bunny says that he can muster HER Rohirim anytime...the floozy) It has one redeeming feature: If you want to have something on that is loud while snogging on the couch so the roommates can't hear you...there you go. AND ANOTHER reason to make double sure not to watch it on Sony products.

Which brings me to my main point. The Bunny.

Recently, I have been enrolled in her Reeducation Camp for Wayward Spendthrifts, enjoying languorous sessions of electroshock therapy and Assertive Exfoliation Therapy (your bits gets scrubbed with barbed wire. But my skin IS smooth now) all while listening to Her Bunnyness' lectures on the "Five-Fold Path to Home Ownership" and "Up the Bourgeoisie, Down with Renters" blasting from the tannoys. I came up with a BRILLIANT plan. The subtleties of which seem to be lost on her.

My plan is in two parts, it allows for personal recreation and ads valuable income to our coffers.

You ready?

Fuck Bitches, Make Money.

BRILLIANT. Needless to say, Bunny was not impressed.

Boredom encroaches. More next time.

The Nature of Humor, Civilization, Egyptian Mythology, and the Blues.

Umm.....ok...so that happened. Would anyone care, learn from, or understand the reference? no? crap.

It appears that writing humor while relatively content is difficult. Almost all of the great thinkers agree with the paraphrased, usually misquoted, almost always taken out of context premise in Plato's Philebus, we see that humor comes from the

...mixture of pleasure and pain that lies in the malice of amusement.

Therefore, armed with that knowledge, we see that self-deprecation or "relational" humor, when one is content, is  forced into stilted falseness or impossible.

Or is it?

</ self important extemporization>


So let's discuss being "civilized" by a significant other; specifically a female other

As many of you may know, I used to write silly crap about the early part of my relationship with my honey, Kat. I used to go and drink heroic amounts of alcohol and hilarious hijinks would ensue. Now, I have almost zero alcohol tolerance, I don't go out much, and I know what "financial planning" actually means. (I used to think it meant "I have money; I will spend it on booze, cars, and women of negotiable affection. I have a plan". Turns out it means "I am broke-ish. I will sock all my money away and pay bills for some reason I haven't quite figured out yet. Because she said so"). She has "A Plan". It totally deserves capital letters and is most certainly on a need-to-know basis. I don't need to know (That seems to be rule #1 of "The Plan")

I think that "The Plan" falls upon my honey like revelations on Joseph Smith. Also,  I think his magic hat is involved, because I can't find my favorite baseball caps. For instance, "The Plan" now involves me selling my precious Star Wars Lego collection to pay for something, someday. (I don't ask.) Due to our current living situation, my Legos are in boxes all jumbled up, so at least I get to put them together one last time, while I mutter something out of a Faulkner novel:

Shhh, Star Destroyer, shhh...tell me about the bunnies....the... <sob>... bunnies. <snap another piece into place>

Another part of "The Plan" involves, and this is the tricky part, NOT buying more Legos. You see the conditions under which I subsist? tragic.

Also, I have had drilled into my skull that I will not be allowed to buy the things I need to enjoy eternity. (An important piece of background information about me is that I am a devout member of the Reformed Church of Egypt; and when I die, I will take my funeral goods with me) So she is actively dooming me to an eternity of pillow shams, Pier 1 Imports soap holders and cat scratching posts.

O Reader, as you can see, your hero in this missive suffers in the gentle fetters of love.

que sera sera.

So watch this space for a delta-blues inspired wailing an gnashing of teeth, next time on Fiascos, Travesties, and Faux Pas.