Yesterday, my co-worker Sean came into my office to visit, as we don't talk as much as we did since moving out of our shared office to a pair of separate enclosures on separate floors of the Alumni House. He noted that I had purchased (and displayed) a St. Louis Rams antenna ball from everyone's favorite fast-food joint, Jack in the Box.

Sean, the native St. Louisian that he is, declared, "Forsooth! I see that thou hast obtained a ball for thy antenna, which bears the insignia of the Sainte Louis Rams football club. Prithee, whither didst thou get it?" Sean, as all St. Louisians who lived here before 1995, is kind of Rams fan.

My response was to tell him that yea, I did obtain the gewgaw at the Jack in the Box on Olive Boulevard, in the same shopping center as one may find the University City Schnucks. e.

All right, enough of that old-style talking crap. I'm sorry. The point remains, though, that Sean was quite interested in the bauble which I displayed, and I gave him directions to get to the place. He's originally from south Saint Louis, and it should be noted that, generally, white lower-middle-class Catholics from South Saint Louis do not very often head up anywhere near the University City Loop, much less north of it. Apparently, that neighborhood is viewed merely as a "hood," sans neighbor. This is not just Sean's opinion, either. I've met a large number of people just at work from Affton and Shrewsbery to the south, and Chesterfield to the west, who seem to think that going to Cicero's for dinner is the same as asking Genghis Khan to give you a tattoo after a drinking binge. The Loop and areas north seem to me to be fine, nice places to bring up a kid. Sure, they're not Frontenac, but that may not be a bad thing.

So, long story somewhat shorter, Sean opted to head out to the Jack in the Box and pick up his antenna ball, as well as a Jack Bobblehead, as he's become a bobblehead freak lately. Darn shame he missed out on the early part of the craze, but whatever. He later IMmed me to tell me the following:
"ok, so first it took them about 20 minutes to get my food. then they come back and tell me they're out of bobbleheads."
"Alright," I replied. "So then what?"
"then they didn't even want to give me back my money. i had to argue with them for another 5 minutes just to get my two fucking dollars back."
Sean, it should be noted, is kind of thrifty.
"How was the food?" I asked.
"it served its purpose. I didn't have anything else in the apartment. but you forgot to tell me to bring the AK47."

At least the food served its purpose. No bobbles anywhere, but I declare, the food hath filled his stomache.

Today truly is a sad day. I learned that on Thursday, "musician" Wesley Willis passed away from leukemia. Willis is famous for such wonderful songs as "Cut the mullet" and "I whupped Batman's ass." While his style was overly simplistic at best, and while his singing voice was more akin to an air conditioner in a rockslide than operatic, his choices for the titles and lyrics of his songs easily won him some space in my musical collection.

"Your mullet is the reason everyone hates you," he would say. Damn straight. Damn straight.

Downside to owning cats # 754: "It smells like the monkey house in here." - Kirsten, while scoopin'.

Now, I have a problem. Well, I have several problems, some of which are by my own actions. But the problem that I'm going to focus on here is that I own cats.

Not to say that I mind owning cats - honestly, Grace and Josephine (the two feline apartment-dwellers from whom I rent space) are wonderful pets, very loving and sweet. Honest, really, in their feelings. That's more than I can say for a lot of folks I've met. You piss these two off, and they let you know about it, either by biting your toes or simply turning their backs.

I think this passive-aggressive behavior is something they get from Kirsten, but you didn't hear me say that ("I resent that!!" she exclaims).

The downsides and benefits to cats as creatures of domicility aside, the real problem that I have is that my landlord still doesn't know I have cats - and that's a good thing for me. See, my landlord wants a non-refundable pet deposit of $150 dollars per cat, plus 20 bucks a month in pet rent per cat. After doing the math, that comes out to a total of $780, or an additional $65 per month, assuming that I let the landlord know NOW and sign a one-year lease. That, to me, is a LOT of money. Especially since they demand that the cats be spayed, neutered, and indoors all the time to begin with - what damage can a cat like that do to a place anyway? Can two cats really cause 800 bucks in damages?

So I have to keep the pets a secret from the landlord. Fine, no bigs, it's not as if I invite the building manager in for tea on any sort of regular basis. But the problem for me NOW is that I have to have her and a couple of maintenance guys come in and look at my bathroom sink. The darn thing has started to rust, and is casting its oxygenated shavings hither and yon. The tub, too, needs to be resurfaced. Frankly, that's something that should have been done BEFORE I moved in, and I certainly should have noticed the problems when I did the walkthrough. Again, the latter two points are currently moot. The real problem is what to do with the cats?

I guess that the easy, and best, choice is simply to board the cats for a couple of days, when the landlord and the lady are here. But that runs into expenses - not 780 dollars, but it won't be cheap, either.

And that, readers, brings me to my final words for the day:

Damned cats.

Kirsten's back. Busy cleaning house.

The Bengals lost pretty badly on Sunday, 28-13. I didn't actually get to watch the game, because it wasn't on TV here in the STL.

Apparently, CBS doesn't do NFL preseason, but instead runs infomercials. Do those really get better ratings? Are there really so many people who prefer watching a half-hour mockumentary on the next great slicer/dicer/mixer than would want to watch professional football?

For God's sake! It's been 7 months! GIVE ME SOME FOOTBALL!!!!!

Today's Cincinnati Bengals moment of zen:
Marvin Lewis on watching tapes of last year's Bengals defense:
"I would get sick to my stomach," he said. "I can't watch it because it's bad football."
(from the Philadelphia Enquirer: Read it.)

How sad must your favorite football team be that reading about the new head coach vomiting while watching game tapes is an improvement?.

I point to the link on the sidebar to MikeBrownSucks.com. Honestly and truly, no team should ever count puking suits as an improvement, but I guess it does go to show how truly horrific the Bengals have been over the last 12 seasons (record: 55-137), which marked the worst 12-year-period for any team in the history of the four major professional sports.

That's my Bengals: always pushing the envelope.

You know, it's really funny how time flies when you're spending your days in an office.

When I was but a wee college student, with nary a care in the world, the days seemed to drag on - lecture, lecture, lunch, lecture, stay up late, sleep, wake up, shower, lecture, ad nauseum. And with each passing day, it was as if I couldn't wait for the next to come - I was bored silly, no matter what I was actually doing. It's hard to believe now, but I had to find things to do to keep me from going stark raving mad.

Now, however, it's like the world isn't even bothering to slow down so I can get a good night's sleep. I'm bumbling around one day, and before I know it, I've been chained to the same desk for a year, I'm getting older, and now my prostate's the size of a grapefruit and my nose and ears have swollen to cover my entire face.

Well, not really on the last two things.

But it does seem that my life, and the days therein, is moving much more quickly than it did when I was a young'n. I'm not really any older than I was when I was a college student - I certainly don't feel older. But I know I am. I mean, I must be, as time does pass whether I want it to or not. I, for one, don't like it. I mean, I'm already feeling trapped in a dead-end job, and I've been here for only 14 months. It's like a freaking prison sentence.

AND I know I'm getting moralistically older, too. I can't really explain that, but I can offer anecdotal evidence:
The other week, I was wandering around the mall looking for a birthday present for Kirsten. This was about 5 days before her birthday, and I had managed to procure some girl-friendly bric-a-brac. As I was leaving the mall, I came across a shirt in Lord and Taylor's juniors section that read, "Not everything is flat in Kansas!"

Obviously, the shirt was intended for young ladies with enormous jehoobies. Only last year I would have seen that shirt and burst into a fit of testosterone-driven drooling and imagining it on just about every girl I saw over the course of a day.

Unfortunately for my sophomoric fantasies of old, when did see the shirt, the first thought that crossed my mind was "Good Lord, have these girls no shame? Back when I was in high school..." Thankfully, I managed to quash the thought. But the fact that it happened at all disturbs me - next thing you know, I'll be voting Republican and hanging out with Fred Phelps.

If anyone needs me, I'm off to drink my Fibercon/Geritol smoothie.

On the subject of the MLB trade deadline, all I have to say is, Go Giants! Unload Damian Moss (who's lost about 5 mph on his fastball) and the decent-but-unnecessary Kurt Ainsworth from the bullpen, and get Sidney Ponson, who is on my fantasy team. He will be a 22-game winner this season, no doubt. Maybe 24, as long as Benito Santiago is around to back him up. That Barry guy, too. Or is it Larry? I never know anymore.

Oh, and the Yankees made a killing too. Dammit.

So.

I made a post a few weeks ago about how a bunch of my internet dork friends were out there whining in June that the Reds were done for the season.

I lambasted them, dear readers...I did, and now I'm sorry.

Until recently, I believed that the Expos were the worst-run team in the Major Leagues, simply because they have no front office that is worth anything..they have 29 owners, and every one of those creepy old men wants the Expos to lose every game. Frankly, it's a miracle that the Expos are only 6 games out, but that's not the focus of this thread.

No, the problem is the Reds. Carl Lindner, who made his not insubstantial fortune by pillaging third-world countries with Chiquita Bananas (read that as you will), has managed to make about 750 billion dollars this year by having a Cincinnati Reds Fire Sale. All property must go!

Jose Guillen went to the Athletics for a no-name and some cash.
Scott Williamson went for a no-name and some cash.
Aaron Boone, son of the deposed manager, went to the Yankees for two no-names and some cash.
Ken Griffey, Jr. would have been traded to the Yanks as well for a no-name and some cash, but he got hurt. The rumors, unsubstantiated, that fly from Great American Ballpark are that the Yanks still have an interest in Kenny as a DH next year.

Honestly. I know that Jim Bowden, the GM of the Reds, wasn't exactly a nice person. From what I read about his personality, he was more like a crocodile wrapped in sandpaper than Huggy McHuggles. But the fact that he managed to assemble a team that won ANY games at all is a miracle, considering that 40% of his payroll was wrapped up in Griffey and the unfortunately ageless Barry Larkin. He wanted to cut Larkin after last season, it should be noted, but Lindner signed Larkin to a 9-mil-per-year deal. Three cheers for Banana Man.

The Cincinnati Reds are now managed by Dave Miley, who has done nothing but win while a manager in the Reds' minor league system. He actually holds the Louisville Reds record for wins. But he has got shit to work with in Cincy - he has no power hitters any more, unless one counts Adam Dunn. He has pissed of Ryan Dempster as a starting pitcher, and the interim GM has acquired a few more soft-tossing lefties to fill out the bullpen. Good work, except that the Reds bullpen is fine - but they have the worst STARTING pitching in the leagues.

I feel so sorry for Dave Miley. I'm not even a Reds fan, and I'm on the verge of tears here. Kids, this shit ain't right.