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Shredding, Slamming Fun

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Yeah, I'm closer to 40 than 14, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend to be in that band I always wanted to be in. And no, I can't play the guitar for real, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy the tar out of this game. In fact, that's the whole POINT. The second version of this Playstation 2 diversion, called Guitar Hero as you can see here, just came out, but I'm too busy woodshedding on a borrowed version of the first one to care about that yet. At first, I sucked so thoroughly the game kicked me out of the song and the crowd booed. Yet now, I can successfully hit 80-96% of the notes on average of tunes ranging from Boston's "More Than A Feeling" to Audioslave's "Cochise." The cool thing is, songs you don't even like much and dismiss as crap, you get new respect for when you try to play them. You also learn how Nikki Sixx must have felt when his fingers and forearms ached from the amount of rockin' he was doing, but...
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Because I attend an exclusive, prestigious, private university for graduate school, I stumble along amongst long shadows stretching along the Serengeti marble halls. Rich, thin, shiny, pretty women meander past me by on their slender, Nordic, giraffean legs, and I am as a squat chimpanzee in their midst -- clever, amusing, far more able to use tools, yet not half as majestic. Sometimes, in classes, we interact. I feel as if I travel in Pigpen's cloud, for my nails are clipped and short, and tiny continents with chipping borders appear on each finger, instead of glossy, manicured, monochromatic squares. My hair, unfashionably frizzy, is self-cut and a few weeks overdue for a $7 color out of a Garnier box. My $12 shoes have about breathed their last, as I shift about the desk in my Wal-Mart pants. Still, maybe opposable thumbs and the ability to throw verbal poo at their mystification at crazy tables-full of statistics is worth being grotty. Sometimes. ----------------- I can't d...
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Tonight, a grill had to die.

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Well, I guess it didn't HAVE to die. But nonetheless, I destroyed it with the weight of 12 bricks and my stupid, stupid stupidity. See, the littlest dog I have has an amazing ability to dig holes under fences and squeeze her tiny self under. One morning, I woke up and SHE WAS GONE. After I freaked out and papered the neighborhood with ugly yellow signs, a man called me. She was apparently having a good time helping him put down some paving stones in his back yard. I was so glad to see her, I cried. I told her then to always stay with the pack, and she has. Still, I feared losing her, so I went and got a bunch of bricks. Bricks are heavy and scratchy. I had about 75 of them, over 2 trips. I could only take about 4 at a time. More were too heavy, because I had to carry them from the front of the house all the way around to the back, and I did not want to drop any of them on any metatarsals or the like. On the 2nd carload, I got frustrated. I don't own a wheelbarrow or a dolly or ...
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