I had Saturday, January 30th marked on my calendar for several weeks:  we were going to the zoo at 10, a 40th birthday party around 3, a wedding reception at 7, and a “twitter meetup” at some point that evening.  See the picture?  Proof I don’t make this stuff up.  And yes, I have itineraries for Saturdays.

When the temperatures were 20-something accompanied by freezing rain, however, the zoo plans were scrapped.  Instead, I spent several hours on the phone or in the yard talking to neighbors about a possible lawsuit we’re filing against the city…but I probably shouldn’t write about that.

As the day progressed, I just didn’t feel like hanging out with a bunch of peeps from lawschool or peeps from our church.  So, I skipped them and went to Manuel’s to wait on these people:

And I wasn’t really sure why.  Sure, it’s probably my favorite bar in Atlanta.  The place where this happened and where I had my “I made it back alive from war” party in 2003, and where I spent countless Thursday nights after class in lawschool.  But I’ve found myself doing more and more ditching of friends IRL to spend time with strangers whom I know from twitter or blogging.  I did the same thing last time Dave came into town.

This actually bothered me yesterday enough to give it some thought.  I don’t want to become one of those people whose friends are all online.  I came up with a few hypotheses:

1)  I like visiting with folks who are from out of town and will let me choose the venue.
2) Because most of these people are from out of town, I feel like I should work harder to schedule seeing them (even though there are plenty of folks I know well who live within the 20-something counties that are “metro Atlanta” whom I only see at weddings and funerals).
3) I like beer, and most of my online friends do, too (though a couple have given it up recently).
4) I like getting to know new people who are from different backgrounds, countries, professions, etc.

But more than those 4, I think it’s

5) I’m more honest online than I am in real life and, accordingly, enjoy hanging out with funny, interesting people who know a side of me I often keep concealed.

Which is ironic to normal people who don’t waste spend time reading and writing blogs.  For instance, when I told my part-time assistant last year that I was going to Chicago to meet a bunch of blogging friends, she made a scrunched up “who just opened the diaper pail?” face and said something about how people lie when they’re online and put on airs and that I should expect to be disappointed.  I tried to argue that I thought it was just the opposite–especially in the “parenting blogging” arena, because everyone’s got kids and is married or was married and has no real incentive to try and engage in puffery, but she wasn’t buying it.

Of course she was wrong.

But back to the “more honest online” bit:  I wrote on here before I told anyone IRL about quitting my job, my dad’s cancer diagnosis, our unexpected pregnancy, the gender of the last 2 children, etc.  And then there are those stories from childhood involving public excretion.

So why stand up a bunch of folks I’ve known 10 years for avatars I’ve known 10 months?

Because Clay, Katie, Apryl, Ali, and Janet are way more attractive in person than they are on Twitter.  Especially after 8 beers.  I mean, have you seen Clay?

Filed under: Blogging, twitter meetup | 22 Comments

One of my twitter friends mentioned a few days ago that Rob Kroese’s “humor blogs” site was down and then wrote a blog post about it.  I visited myself and saw this (go ahead and check the link).  My heart sank.

I thought about how when I first started my blog and had a “.wordpress” in the middle of my URL and wondered if anyone would want to read my stories from childhood and child-rearing after enjoying this activity called “blogging” with surprising success during my deployment to Iraq a few months earlier (thanks, New York Times!).  I wrote every day and hoped the readers at the “humor blogs” site I’d found on accident (which had >1000 blogs on it) would vote favorably on the level of humor in each post, and after a couple months, I was on the first page!  Top 30!  A few weeks later, I was top 10, and then top 5 for several months.  I think I actually called Pretty Bride from work on the day I cracked the top 5.  I was such a dork back when I was 33.

Participating waned a bit when my work situation changed, but I still enjoyed the blogs there, especially last July when they became tangible after I met Margaret, Kathy, JD, Anna, and Meg in person.  I could tell they thought I was as funny-looking as I was funny-reading.  We bonded.  Humor Blogs suddenly became a smaller place.

So, now that my posts aren’t automatically sent to H-B for voting on whether they’re funny or not, should I start being more serious?  Turn this into a “personal blog” or “daddy blog?”  Or try to stick with “humor blogging?”  Or give it up and concentrate on other activities (i.e., something that pays well)?

I’m not sure.  Probably a hybrid.  I enjoy being part of the blogosphere.  Hell, I’m meeting several twitter friends this Saturday night for the first time for a night of debauchery (unbeknownst to them).  I’ll probably take them to the bar where I did this:

I have no recollection of how I met the guy on the mic with me.  I don’t think I want to know.

I’m planning to go to NYC in August for BlogHer 2010.  I’m entertaining Adam when he comes up for a wedding in May.  I’m debating South By Southwest with Johnny Truant.

Okay, internet.  I can’t quit you.  I’m just not sure what will follow the “form of ….” command after I tap fists with my Wonder Twin. Whoever the hell that is.

Filed under: Blogging, humor blogs | 36 Comments

On Day 3, I ditched the rental’s keys and boarded a tourbus for Arenal Volcano National Park.  Five minutes into the trip, my bride asked if I was enjoying this traveling better that the previous two days’ journeys.

Me:  Infinitely.

See?

We befriended folks from such foreign lands as Puerto Rico, Poland, France, Denver, and Indiana.  We learned about what we were passing instead of wondering about it.  I didn’t give a shit about traffic or young pedestrians.

We passed the extinct Chato Volcano, which is part of a mountain formation called the “Sleeping Indian.”  I renamed it the “Sleeping Indian with Morning Wood” upon closer inspection, however:

After a stop that allowed some shopping for local goods (to include cigars for me), we went to the hot springs at Tabacon:  a series of heated pools and water falls below the volcano.  They were wonderful.  So much, in fact, that I actually got out to piss behind some palm trees instead of going in the water, because I didn’t want to soil the wonderful creation around me.

Damn right it felt good.  We stayed in the hot water for 3 hours before a pretty good meal and then a trip to the base of the volcano after dark to marvel at the glorious eruptions of rock and lava and fire storms to follow.

But we were there on one of the 80% of evenings in which the cloud cover prevents seeing anything.  So, we stood in the dark with a bunch of strangers and stared into the blackness and nothingness for 15 minutes instead, while I made out loud observations about how screwed we were if the tourbus didn’t return to pick us up.  Luckily, the bus came.

The next day we boarded another tourbus at 7am to try, again, to see Poas Volcano National Park.  This time, it was clear:

We did some hiking and took pictures.  On the way, we stopped at the Doka Coffee plantation for a tour and the chance to buy 7 bags of damned good coffee.

And after the volcano, we saw La Paz Waterfall Gardens (we actually found it this time, when someone else was driving).  An earthquake rendered part of the hiking trail to 3 additional falls impassable, but we were able to see 2 of the waterfalls and a bunch of wildlife.

We headed back to the hotel, and I begin to notice something odd.  Just about every home or business we passed was surrounded by bars, fencing, and/or concertina wire.  It was as if everyone was Scott Stapp and created their own prisons.

Read more…

Filed under: Travels, costa rica, vacation | 27 Comments

A few weeks ago, when I decided we needed a “babymoon” and to use some of my USAA points before they dropped in buying power on April 1, a few friends and a neighbor suggested Costa Rica as a warm and relatively inexpensive January destination.  But, they advised me that I should not drive.

Me:  Why?  I’ve driven in Puerto Rico, Kuwait, Iraq, New York City, and Atlanta.  I’m not afraid of a highway.
Everyone Else: The roads suck, and the other drivers are crazy.
Me:  Fearing ‘other drivers’ is for pussyboys.  I fear nothing.

We arrived late Wednesday night, and first thing Thursday morning, I went to the concierge to arrange for a rental car, so I could go explore San Jose and some volcano thing called Poas at a park up the road.

It was a Suzuki with no shocks.  It sucked.

After two hours of traffic in a stick shift, I was eager for this to be the best damn hole in the ground I’d ever seen.  I pulled up to the park entrance.

Ranger-looking-dude:  Bad news.  I must tell you–the clouds are in the crater, and you can’t see anything today.  I’m sorry.
Me:  And I must tell you–kiss my ass.  Do you know the hell I went through to guide this piece of shit up the God-forsaken trail you people call a street?
Ranger dude:  I’m sorry…you can go hike there if you want, but there is no view.  Just down the road are some waterfalls, though!

We headed back down the mountain to look for a Shell station and a dirt road that lead to a bunch of falling water.  Two hours later, we were lost and were nowhere near a bunch of falling water.  But we did find a butterfly farm!  By the time we stopped, neither of us was speaking to the other, my left arm was sunburned, and my left hand was calloused from holding the steering wheel in anger for the past 4+ hours.  But we toured the butterflies and learned some stuff about pupae.

We then tried to find some jade museum thing that was closed when we arrived.  I declared alcohol a necessity and plopped down in a martini bar we found after walking 5 blocks to a restaurant site that had gone out of business 3 years prior, just after our tourbook was published.  The TV behind the bar was showing MTV2.  At that point in our vacation, having martinis and watching 80s videos was the highlight of my trip.  I didn’t want to leave, but Pretty Bride was concerned about the parking attendant I’d paid for 1 hour of parking 2.5 hours ago, so she insisted on leaving.

I sat in the outdoor hot tub for several hours that night and wondered what I’d done to piss God off so royally.

The next day, I thought it a good idea to drive 7 hours roundtrip from San Jose to Manuel Antonio National Park.  Through the mountains.  With no painted lines, signs, reflectors, or guardrails.  But plenty of 18-wheelers, bicycles, ATVs, and motorcycles.

We liked Manuel Antonio.  Our guide found sloths, a frog, some spiders, a crab, several birds, and some frighteningly large insects along the trail to a beach filled with monkeys!

It was over 90 degrees that day (a welcomed heat after a preceding weekend of snow and ice in Atlanta), making the Pacific’s cool waters a welcomed conclusion.  Dinner was at an old C-123 from the Iran-Contra affair turned into a restaurant before we began the harrowing drive through the mountains at night (after pulling over to watch the sun set).

The next morning at 7, I walked up to the concierge with my Suzuki keys and rental agreement.

Me:  Hello.  I’d like to return my car two days early.  I don’t enjoy driving in your country.
Concierge:  hahaha!  *backs chair away from desk to allow for more hysterical laughter* hahahaha!
Me:  No really.  I don’t know where the little car rental dude is, but I’m putting this shit in his chair.  I’m going to find a tour bus now.

At this point, my questions are these:
1) Why have I seen no advertisements for abogados?  Do I really want to spend time in a country with no lawyers?
2) Should we have gone to Dollywood instead?

To be continued…

Filed under: Travels, babymoon, costa rica, vacation | 10 Comments

There’s nothing quite like the hysteria a military unit will feel (during peacetime, anyway) shortly before a general officer is slated to visit.  There’s mopping of floors, straightening of furniture, and polishing of boots going on throughout the building instead of any of the work that’s supposed to be observed and commended.  I’ve always thought it a bit lame.

Yes, I can appreciate the tenacity and expertise required for one to get a star or two on his or her epaulet, but am I going to stop working so I can push a broom around?  No.  But here’s what I did instead.

See that window above?  That’s my office’s door.  Long before I moved in, some dildo stuck a metal door on the glass and wrote “PRIVATE” on it, using velcro to affix it to the glass when it’s shut.  Really?  Is that what we need in the wake of the rampant sexual assaults going on across the services the last couple decades?  A stepping stone?

So, I doctored the sign like this:

And in case you can’t see the note at the top, here’s a closer look:

Then I shut the flap across the window and closed the door, allowing everyone who walked by to assume that I was furiously touching my privates inside.

Lastly, I changed all the clocks to show this:

And I do mean “all the clocks.”

Then I wait for Mr Two Star to come in while everyone under my command remained absolutely horrified (or tremendously entertained…mainly the latter).  But dude never did.

He apparently bypassed my hallway before addressing our group in the conference room.  Must’ve been scared of the team of masturbating pot smokers.

Yellow belly.

Filed under: Military, visit from a general | 22 Comments