two dolla

The Minnesota Twins are getting closer and closer to getting things rolling for building a new stadium. We need one. The Metrodome, where the play now, is shared with the Minnesota Freakshow Vikings, sometimes the Minnesota Gopher’s football teams, and even rollerblading around the concourse level when there aren’t any games scheduled. The Twins have been playing under their currnet teflon cover since 1982.
Being in Minnesota, it would be ideal to have a dome like we have now, but better yet? A retractable roof like the one the Milwaukee Brewers play under. This is actually part of the Senate’s plan in passing the current bill to build a new stadium. I’ve been to Miller Park a couple of times, and it’s absolutely fabulous. You still get the feeling that you’re outside, but in April and/or October, Minneapolis is prone to feet of snow. Not exactly ideal baseball playing weather, no?

As it turns out, though, a roof isn’t an option with the new stadium. The StarTribune reports “the cost and construction delays would be too much to bear.”

“We’d like to have a roof. We’d also like to have Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez,” (Twins Sports Inc. president Jerry) Bell said. “But we cannot afford them.” [link]

Tony Batista and Nick Punto. That’s what we have instead.

So, I’m thinking if the Senate and House of Representatives would pass a bill that would allow us to get Derek Jeter (even though I hate him) and Alex Rodriguez instead of a stadium with a retractable roof, I would so be down with that.

I’m a loyal Survivor fan. LOYAL, I tell you. The finale is this coming Sunday. The final hour of the finale is during Desperate Housewives’ second to last show of the season. Not acceptable.

I’m a one Tivo household without a VCR. I guess I can always download the episode of Desperate Housewives from iTunes or something, right? Not watching it is not an option, because (brace yourself for this…) OHMIGOD I will die if I miss an episode where Susan and Mike have even more chemistry than they do in each and every prior episode.

I have a feeling that my overwhelming obsession with the mangled love stories in Desperate Housewives pushes me toward the scary realm of Girly Girl (or Gay Man), but I’m certain my obsessions with Fantasy Baseball, Pinball, and White Rappers certainly counteract.

One of the best days in TV history took place on November 19, 1980. Jo Polniaczek shows up on her motorycle at Eastland to start off the second season of Facts of Life.

If it weren’t for Jo hotwiring the school van and getting all of the girls arrested, they never would have had to work for Mrs. Garrett in the school cafeteria. And then when the graduated, they never would have wanted to work in Mrs. Garrett’s bakery. Then the bakery never would have burned to the ground causing her to open up another store, which we all know what the new store brought. George Clooney.

Why didn’t anyone tell me that the first and second season were released on DVD this Tuesday?

I’m a Pisces. I’ve always known that, but i’ve always just taken it with a grain of salt. I mean, who cares? Nobody really believes in that astrological shit anyway and it’s all a bunch of hocus pocus, right? Yeah, don’t worry, that’s what I thought, too.

But when my horoscope says this: “Safeguard your work by reserving your energy. Only do what really needs to be done.”, I can’t help but think that everything about astrology is completely true and I should follow my horoscope exacatly or something very bad might happen.

I had more to write, but I decided to only really do what needs to be done right now. And that’s drink a Coke and chew some gum.

• I have dinner plans with Jodi. Lost is on TV. Both good things.
• Some boys in the majors are going to use pink bats this coming week, beginning on Mother’s Day to raise money towards the Susan G Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.
• Did you notice I added my most recent Netflix rentals to the side bar? It gave me great pleasure. And now I feel obligated to watch the movies they send me, so you all don’t accuse me of being one of those assholes that hangs on to a movie for months on end. By the way, that is usually me.
• My apartment complex has never switched over my electric bill to my name yet. It’s been two months. I’ve decided I’m not telling them. If they want to hammer me with a big bill, I’m okay with that. But this way is more rebellious. Unless they read my site like everyone else in the world that thinks they’re being sneaky about visiting multiple times a day.
• The trainer at puppy class last night said Little Gay Riley Pants was smart and probably could have skipped right ahead to Better Dog 2 Class. It’s damn hard work raising an energetic puppy rittled with gayness, separation anxiety, and severe allergies, so it was nice to hear that from Inga. Especially since he just finished pissing on the flowers in front of the building.

While I don’t really care if she doesn’t win the whole thing, am I the only one that kind of feels like Katharine McPhee got the big fat shaft with this week’s theme? To be fair, and considering Tommy Mottola was the big guy doing the critiquing, I think a Mariah Carey night would have been just as even. Plus, Chris would have looked wicket hot in one of Mariah’s little numbers and his boxer briefs. Ew.

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How do you know a Friday night party is a success?

I think it’s measured by how many emails go back and forth the Monday after discussing who puked where and where the towels went that were used for cleaning up vomit chunks off of peoples’ faces.

This Friday will be close to topping one of the best Fridays ever, though, as we convene to participate in White Rapper Movie night, where we’ll watch Cool as Ice and 8 Mile. No word yet on whether or not we’ll have to dress as our favorite characters. If we do, I’m totally picking Britney Murphy’s character in 8 Mile, particularly the scene when she’s getting it on with Eminem in the factory where he works. What would OSHA have thought?

So. There was a party Friday night. I mentioned that. What I haven’t mentioned yet is how unbelievably awesome it was. There was piñata bashing, moonshine, shots of said moonshine, me bartending, awesome drinking games, people in a pile on the floor five deep, catching up with awesome current friends, making awesome new friends, playing awesome drinking/car games, making out, giggling, and sober-cabbing two of the awesome new friends home. Yeah, it was the best party I’ve been to in a long time for various reasons.

Yesterday, I slept in until late, aside from text-messaging someone from the night before a few times. I went to a focus group thing, which paid me a cool $55 for listening to two hours of music clips. I played fetch with my dog in the hockey rinks across the street. Then, the best part? BBQ for the first time this spring.  Yeah, damn good stuff.

Here’s the deal - I have an awesome camera (the Canon S1 IS) that I love for quality pictures and zooming in and all that crapola. But I really think I need? A smaller camera that I can fit into my pocket for parties, concerts, and other times where I need to take a few pictures, but not run the risk of dropping my big camera onto the ground and watching it bash into a million little pieces.

Now that I’m done blabbing about the awesomeness of my weekend, I’m going to retire to my pajamas, some Desperate Housewives action, and a good night’s sleep.

Internet:

If you could just remember to be online via some sort of instant messaging program when I get home from parties, that’d be great. I can send you a schedule if you’re confused at all. I just usually have a lot of things to talk about at 3:20 in the morning after a long night of celebrating something about Mexicans and fighting the French.

Gracias, taco rancheros. Conquistador!

I went to the liquor store on my way home from work today to pick up a couple things for the great celebration tonight. It was just the essentials - Sour Apple Pucker, club soda, diet club soda, and then a special request Jenni asked me to pick up. I called her for one last check while I was there bewildered by all of the shit DeKuyper actually makes, and she asked me to pick up some of the airplane sized bottle of booze. For the pinata, of course.

The little bottles are obviously at the front counter to insure no asshole like me would steal them. I had to ask the barely legal kid working the counter to grab some out for me, and naturally, I made him pick three different kinds. The manager just happened to walk up while Barely Legalâ„¢ was ringing me up.

He looked at my miniature bottle selection and tried the small talk thing by saying: “Couldn’t make up your mind there?”

I hate small talk. Pretty much a lot. So, I was forced to respond with some semi-truth: “Well, honestly, it’s all going in a pinata.” (This part is true.)

“Oh,” he said. “Cinco de Mayo party?”

“Nope, not really. My boy’s turning six this weekend.” (That part’s not so much the truth.)

I signed my usual signature of W-scribble-y B-scribble-y, and left the store with the manager and Barely Legalâ„¢ trading concerned looks the whole time.

Times like these make me enjoy being a periodic asshole. The rest of the times, I’m so fucking nice it hurts.

(Odd, but true? Whenever I reach up to the top row for symbols on my keyboard, I always feel like Michelle Branch or that Mozart guy or Stevie Wonder (minus the blind part). That’s right. I think I’m a fucking pianist when I make the â„¢ symbol. Every. Single. Time.)