Did somebody say contest?

My fellow bloggers have entertained their readerships lately with a variety of contests, and what am I if not a lemming, mindlessly following the pack?

So here I go: offering a contest for my own dear readers. In the grand tradition of those before me, the only prize to be offered shall be the pride and personal satisfaction that you'll enjoy from having won. (By the way, I'm giving song lyrics and you've got to guess the artist and song. Most correct answers wins.)

There's no connective theme or particular genre to these songs, only that they periodically roll about inside my head (and I sometimes listen to actual, audible recordings of them as well). That these are the songs that spring to mind for me probably says something about my psyche (skeptical? drawn to escapism?), but there will be no extra points awarded for accurate psycho-analyses.

Of course you could Google all these lyrics and get every answer correct, but what fun would that be? Besides, cheaters never win (except sometimes in pro sports, politics, business and academia, if you don't get caught).

By the way, I'll wait a few days to post the correct answers, since my readers are probably not accustomed to reading my blog every single day. So all you lurky-loos (I do have lurky-loos, don't I?) please leave a comment with your guesses, even if you only kind of know a couple of them.

On with it, then:

1. "I wish I was like you, easily amused"

2. "Playing Solitaire till dawn with a deck of 51, smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo, so don't tell me I've nothing to do"

3. "I need a photo opportunity. I want a shot at redemption. Don't want to end up a cartoon in a cartoon graveyard"

4. "It's been rough and rocky travelin' but I'm finally standing upright on the ground. And after takin' several readings, I'm surprised to find my mind still fairly sound."

5. "You, I thought I knew you. You, I cannot judge."

6. "We can live beside the ocean, leave the fire behind, swim out past the breakers, watch the world die."

7. "And the reaching of the steeple felt like one more expensive ad for something cheap. This was not the way it looked on the billboard, smiling family beaming down on the interstate." (sorry, this is totally self-indulgent. only one of you will know it.)

8. "So shave your face with some mace in the dark. Savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park."

9. "Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write. Will you take a look?"

10. "I don't cry when my dog runs away. I don't get angry at the bills I have to pay. I don't get angry when my mom smokes pot."

Good luck everybody!

I did not go to the bank today

I did not go to the bank today

As yesterday and days before,

Nor did I call

The oral surgeon's office

To schedule a consultation.

The unused ticket for an airport shuttle

Likewise remains deskside

Awaiting its own return trip to Orlando,

Accompanied by a terse note demanding refund,

Due to

shoddy

and slow

service.

The endless procrastination.

(Height of procrastination,

That I meant to embody it in poetic form

Two days before.

And now finally

I write these words

On the day

When I actually did go to the bank.)

But I shall.

I shall do these things and more, much more,

To cross off my mindless to-do list

Like vacuuming my car to rid it of piss-scented dog odor

Or getting a haircut

Or cleaning

My

Desk.

Stacked notebooks and papers

Await the urge to topple onto me,

Delayed only by

Their own

Procrastination.

Memory lane

First let me apologize that I constantly insist on using cliched phrases for the titles of my blog posts -- and often ones that having nothing to do at all with the subject of the post.

It's been suggested that I participate in some sort of meme. I do not know what a meme is, and therefore I decline.

Oh, I'm just kidding. While I really don't know what a meme is (I assume it's one of those made-up words like "blog" or "INSERT JOKE WORD HERE"), I gather that I'm being asked to write a post following the formula of those who participated before me.

So imitate, I shall. Well, sort of. The originators of this idea offered a list of five of their own previous blog posts on various topics -- family, friends, about me, about something I love, wild card -- to provide readers a refresher course in the blogger's personal thoughts and/or a sampling of favorite posts.

The blogger who tagged me for this, Meaghan, altered the list a bit to suit her own sinister purposes, and I, being sinisterer still, shall further alter the categories.

Seriously, I can't seem to find any previous posts in which I focus on family or friends, and so I'm just making up all new categories. If you don't like it, call the meme police on me.

Here are some of the various services I see this blog providing to its readers:

1. Guiding your spiritual journeys: In December, this blog broke the news to you early about the discovery of the literal road to salvation. (It was Interstate 35 heading north out of Texas, in case you missed it.) And for those of you who made legally binding commitments to travel with me on my upcoming march up the I-35 corridor, I haven't forgotten, and the trip is still on. I'm just working out a few logistical details and growing out my hair and beard.

2. Listing things: While they don't represent a regular feature on this blog, I do occasionally like to treat my readers to a nice list of things -- whether they be writing tips, favorites posts of mine (what you're reading now) or just, you know, things. Some people pay good money for a list, so you should be grateful to me for providing these free of charge (although, as always, donations are accepted).

3. Encouraging creativity: Knowing how much my readers all like to flex their creative muscles (is that a cliche yet?), I will from time to time spark a brainstorming session, such as this post, in which I praised the efforts of clever, alliterative spammers who sent me a friendly e-mail about "two tawdry tarts." You all responded with your suggestions for clever subject lines on unsolicited e-mail porn, and that's when this blog came to be blocked by a number of Internet filters, thanks very much.

4. Writing business plans: Because I have been so crushed by the weight of my own career success, I figure I should offer (again, free of charge) any further money-making ideas I have to my loyal readers, as I did in this post. Seriously, you could basically print out this post and take it into any venture capital firm's office, and they'd be like, "That's incredible. Why haven't we thought of this?" and give you a $10 million check for startup costs. Try it if you don't believe me.

5. Warning you of little-known diseases and disorders: The Web is filled with medical information and advice these days -- some valid, some questionable -- yet most sites focus on the big-name diseases such as cancer and heart disease. I've realized since the beginning of this blog that my readers also need to know about the less-talked-about health dangers lurking about us, such as premenstrual schizophrenia. Knowing is half the battle, folks.

And... scene.

Cold calls

For those of you who have never taken a job that involved making lots of cold calls, let me offer this piece of advice: Don't.

As a journalist, I quite enjoy the writing aspect of my job. And despite fancying myself to be an aspiring creative writer, I also enjoy the fact that I don't have to make up any of the information or subject matter for my writings in this line of work. I simple write a summary of what people tell me in interviews.

Furthermore (that's a very writerish word, so I thought I'd use it), I enjoy the process of interviewing executives about their businesses, learning their goals and what value they see their company adding to the world -- which is not to say I don't sometimes doubt said value.

But what I do not enjoy about my job is calling these people out of the clear bloody blue to try to convince them to tell me these things over the telephone, because I've never met these people and most of the time they've never even heard of me, nor the publication for which I write. And so here I am, leaving voicemails for people, trying to sound like the kind of swell fellow they might enjoy speaking with on the phone. I do this in the hope that these people I've never met will call back and share some of the most confidential information and thoughts I could possibly ask for about their business -- with me, the guy they've never heard of who writes for a publication they've also never heard of.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that so many people never call back. The real miracle here is that anybody does call back.

There's a reason I didn't go into sales. Actually a number of reasons. For one, I am naturally filled with self-doubt. For example, I write infrequently on my blog and am slow to speak up in group conversations because I question whether I have anything unique enough or interesting enough to contribute. In the case of cold calls, this means it's difficult to persuade people to share sensitive information with me (or call me back, for that matter) when I really can't see any good reason for them to do so.

Also, I didn't go into sales because I HATE COLD CALLS. Both making and receiving them, apparently. When telemarketers call me, I try to be polite and wait for a small break in their monologue before saying 'I'm not interested' and hanging up. But if they catch me in the wrong mood, I'll probably just hang up mid-sentence.

At least I don't think any one has hung up on me mid-sentence so far. But quite a number of executives have forwarded my voicemail message along to the company's PR rep, which is almost as bad.

Well, it's a good job all in all, aside from this frustration -- plus my nagging guilt over using my skills to serve an investment community I suspect to already be quite high on wealth and low on scruples, but that's another post.

So I won't complain too much. I just figured I might warn my readers away from jobs such as telemarketing, which I know would otherwise represent a highly appealing career opportunity.

Apparently, that was his real hand

Whatever happened to Texas Hold 'Em?

Remember when it was wildly popular and sports networks were constantly airing reruns of old poker world championship tournaments (cause poker is a sport, you know)?

People were always playing little friendly games on their kitchen tables, which week by week progressed into larger, less-friendly games until some guy got shot and the police found out the wife was running a high-dollar brothel upstairs to accompany the husband's poker den. The whole thing was a bit incestuous, too, because the hookers were just the wives of the poker players, and the poker players were the only johns (or punters, in the case of those two British guys). It was more like an expensive swingers party, with a card table.

That's how it went down at my house, anyway, I mean, at my friend's house. No, I mean, I heard about a house like that, but I didn't know those people.

Actually I think the game is still poking along just fine, except that I don't have cable TV and don't play in the neighborhood games anymore. So it's pretty much out of my life.

Even the little handheld electronic game I used to play on the crapper is dead. Probably just the battery, but it's one of those special batteries you can't buy just anywhere.

Same thing for church-league and industrial-league softball. I used to know a lot of adults who played in softball leagues in the town where I grew up, but now I don't know any. Maybe I'm just not hanging out with the right people. Or maybe this town has an anti-softball bias -- danged yuppie-fied tennis town is what this is.

I'd like to play some poker again -- but less expensive than the games I know of, and without my wife whoring herself out to the other players upstairs. Also, softball would be fun. Or basketball. It's easier to get a group of people together for basketball, because you don't need as many players. But then you've got to get access to a basketball court somewhere.

And how about cow-tipping? People around here don't tip cows like they did back home. Meaghan and I used to tip a cow every afternoon on the way home from school, just to listen to it moo. I suppose this is more of chicken-farmer town, but what fun can you have with chickens?

p.s. you're correct that this post isn't about anything. very observant. i suspect i may be starved for entertainment, which is entirely my own fault. but i'm just warning you folks, you may have to organize an intervention soon. otherwise, you're going to be reading a lot more nonsensical tripe like this and last week's post from now on.

p.s.s. the title isn't about anything either.

A day to remember

The pale, puny youth blew the hottest breath he could muster into his chilled hands, as he worked dutifully to oil the axles and polish the wheels of the chariots before the start of the races.

It was a cold day and dreary, but the crowds were optimistic that spring was near and with it the official start of racing season. Today's contests would be mere exhibition, but with all the gods in attendance, no racer should take the event lightly.

The Roman chariot racers, though, were all around an unreliable lot (not nearly so dependable as the Greek racers, who all produced weekly top-notch performances, so long as their pubescent male lovers did not require extra attention that day).

Each showed up for his first contest of the day. Thick-chested young men with hearty laughs dared death as they chased each other around tricky turns behind horses running at full sprint.

December, a grizzled competitor with thick beard and back hair to match, growled at the speedy but less experienced May while he drove him into the outer wall of the track. Meanwhile, a cool, expressionless July --- well-tanned and bearing his signature sunglasses --- cruised to the inside track to take the lead.

Similar scenes played out throughout the afternoon, as competitors were defeated and downgraded to the losers' bracket. The Romans gods cheered raucously each time a competitor's chariot spun out of control, and each time eagerly watched to see if he would revive from the ground or lie prostrate to be trampled.

Eventually the hot-tempered August took top prize for the day in a bloody final matchup with December, and all that was left to see was the consolation race among the losers. The gods waited impatiently for the final race, as spectators began to slowly filter out of the seats to head home.

As the pale, puny helper lined up the horses and chariots for the losers-bracket finale, the gods grew restless, noticing that no competitors were in sight to drive the chariots. Race organizers scrambled.

April had gone missing, allegedly nursing a hangover from partying the previous night in the ancient coastal town of Panama City. July was being tended to by the medics for heat exhaustion, and January had gone home to sleep through his seasonal depressed state.

Not a racer remained in sight, save the recently triumphant August, who was still pounding his chest and taunting hecklers in the crowd who accused him of cheating against December.

In desperation, one race organizer whispered to his supervisor, "What about that kid?"

"Who? Which kid?" the supervisor looked around, puzzled.

"There, standing by the chariots," the organizer said.

The supervisor gasped at the idea when he saw whom the organizer had suggested. The organizer shrugged and motioned toward the gods, who silently demanded entertainment from their upper-deck suites.

Reluctantly, the supervisor approached the runt. "You, boy, what is your name?"

The runt looked up, terrified. "Me? Oh, it's February, sir."

"Have you ever driven a chariot, February?" the supervisor asked, leaning into the boy's face with an intimidating glare.

"Well, not officially, sir. But I drive to warm up the horses before the races every week."

"We seem to be a bit short of drivers for the losers bracket," the supervisor said. "Why don't you select a chariot and prepare to race?"

"Oh. Well, I'd be glad to, sir. But you don't think the other racers will be angry with me, do you?"

"I'll deal with them. For now, this crowd is waiting to see one last race."

"Yes, sir," February said with dutiful excitement.

The supervisor turned and walked back to the other organizers. "Poor boy doesn't stand a chance," he muttered. "He'll be killed before the first turn."

February took his stance in one of the vacant chariots and waited while no competition arrived. The organizers continued looking for other racers, until at last the hot-headed champion August stomped his way over to the starting line.

"What? This infant wants to race?" August shouted toward the gods' skybox. "I'll give him a race!" And the champion climbed atop the chariot platform beside February's chariot, leaning over to whisper to his small opponent, "Why don't you take a little headstart, sweetie pie? HA HA HA!"

February squinted against the spewing spittle from his overgrown competitor and shook his head slightly. With that, August aimed his whip and started February's horse off down the track. February stumbled about on the platform, not being prepared for the start, and grabbed the handles to regain his balance.

After giving his opponent a five second headstart, August shouted, "I'm coming for you, my dear," laughed a maniacal laugh toward the gods, and made a throat-slitting motion with his thumb as he whip-started his own horse.

February drove as fast as his beast would run, repeatedly checking over his shoulder for the murderous August. After about 30 seconds, he approached the first turn and looked back to find August had nearly completely closed the gap between them. February whipped the horse and held off his opponent until the start of the next straightaway.

Entering the back straightaway, August pulled even with the boy and again showed him his maniacal laugh, whipping February's horse in the front legs and steering his chariot to ram February into the inner wall.

February's chariot rattled, skidded out of control and tipped over, but managed to settle back upright and facing straight ahead. The boy watched his opponent speeding away, looking over his shoulder with a growl and a prominent display of his middle finger (despite its having no apparent meaning in ancient Rome).

February took a deep breath, leaned forward and whispered something to his horse. The horse stood quietly for a moment, before responding with a defiant "neigh" and raising up on its back legs. The beast hit an immediate full sprint and began to close in again on August and his chariot.

The crowd roared and the gods stood to their feet, trying to comprehend what they were witnessing.

"Ah, just in time," August shouted over his shoulder, as the competitors
entered the last turn nearly even. August growled and steered to ram his young competitor again, but at the precise moment February's horse sped up even faster and escaped the swipe.

"A little more," February shouted to his horse, which was pulling in front of the opponent inch by inch. Just as February passed the front of his opponent's chariot, August drew his whip and struck a lash across the boy's back.

February cried out and nearly crumpled under the pain of the blow. The crowd spotted the attack and responded with loud boos and cheers.

Holding on with the little strength he had left, February sized up the position of his opponent's horse and chariot. "A little more," he shouted again to his horse, and a short moment later added, "Now!"

Upon command, February's horse whipped its hindquarters to the right, steering the chariot sharply into the front legs of the opposing horse, which stumbled, fell and sent its chariot and rider crashing to the earth.

August bounced forward out of his crashing chariot with the heft of an oaf, avoiding a broken neck by the narrowest of margins. His momentary relief ended, however, when he looked back to see the chariot speeding toward him. As he scrambled, he managed to move every body part out of the way except one, which had flopped out from under his racing garb in the midst of the hub-bub and found itself castrated by a spoke of the wheel.

The crowd and the gods leapt in the air and cheered wildly as young February crossed the finish line, defeating the champion himself.

Rays of sunshine burst through the late-winter clouds and lit upon February as he waved happily to his new fans.

The race organizers hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him back and forth in front of the crowd shouting, "Hip hip, hooray."

Pretty girls waved coyly at him from the crowd.

The gods smiled.

August cried angrily in the background, as he searched the dust for his dismembered member.

Victorious-sounding music played.

And when all that requisite celebratory procedure was finished, the gods called young February up to their skybox and rewarded his valor in mindless, bloody entertainment with this time-honored declaration:

"30 days hath November, April, June and September. You, lad, may never grow to be a full 30-day month, much less a 31-day titan such as this you have just defeated. But you shall always be the reliable bridge between cold, depressed January and March's promise of springtime.

"And in honor of your valor here today, you shall receive an extra day, a 29th day that is, once every fourth year --- except not on the 100th year unless that's the 400th, yadda yadda yadda, you can read the fine print for yourself kid."

Congratulations, February. It's your big day.

Oh. They weren't joking?

Fellow Georgia residents and those with close ties to the state might have heard a bit of this news already: some Georgia state legislators have devised the ingenious idea to move the state border a mile north so that the state (and its behemoth capital metro area) will have access to the waters of the Tennessee River.

When the proposal first hit the floor of the General Assembly a couple of weeks ago, the article from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution quoted a number of Tennessee political figures making wisecracks about the idea, warning that a group of Volunteers would ascend Lookout Mountain with their rifles and defend their fair land if need be. The Chattanooga mayor (if I remember the source correctly) compared Georgia Gov. Sonny Perdue to Don Quixote, going on a quest and tilting at windmills, rather than addressing Georgia's water shortage through serious measures such as conservation.

Well, guess what Tennessee? Joke's on you, because Perdue and his pals in the state legislature are absolutely serious.

This snippet of an article from the Atlanta Business Chronicle details the plans of Georgia's leaders, which have been months or maybe years in the making, to build a pipeline from the Tennessee River to the metro Atlanta area. According to the article, a possible path for the pipeline has already been laid out.

The news out today: the Georgia state Senate unanimously passed a resolution proposing that the state border be moved about a mile north --- to the 35th parallel as originally intended before some surveyor screwed it up in 1818.

Of course, that doesn't make it so. The state House will look at a similar resolution. Oh, and then we have to talk to our northern neighbors, Tennessee and North Carolina, to see what they think about the idea.

Hm, I wonder what they'll say?


Georgia: "Gentlemen, I have called this meeting to claim what's rightly mine. Please deed over all property north of the current border extending approximately 1 mile to the 35th parallel."

Tennessee: (snickering) "Yeah, whatever you say champ."

(Tennessee and North Carolina whisper to each other. More snickering)

Georgia: (in stern tone) "What's so funny?"

Tennessee: "Huh? Oh, no, nothing. Nothing's funny."

N.C.: "Nope. Not a thing."

Georgia: (shouting now) "Then why are you laughing?"

Tennessee: "What? We're not..." (bursts into uncontrolled laughter along with N.C.)

(Tennessee and N.C. stand to leave the room.)

Tennessee: (fighting back more laughter and looking at his watch) "I'm sorry. We, uh, we've got a lunch date with Florida. We'll see you later."

Georgia: "Wait just a minute. We're not finished here."

N.C.: "You take care, all right pal?"

(Tennessee and N.C. leave the room)

You know, that's just one of many possible scenarios.

And eventually, if Georgia is serious enough about the idea, the state leaders will probably get the U.S. Congress and/or the federal courts involved.

So, we'll see what happens I guess. Who knows? If Gov. Perdue gets tapped as a vice presidential candidate (as some terrifying news reports have speculated) and then the elephants win back the White House, this plan could really have legs.

Personally, I hope not. For one thing, it seems a little like a cop-out for Atlanta in terms of managing its limited water supply. Plus, I've grown fond of the idea of metro Atlanta now having a real, tangible roadblock to slow its growth before it swallows up all of northern Georgia.

That's not to mention the fact that the Tennessee politician's remarks about ascending Lookout Mountain with rifles also might not have been a joke.