I'm halfway done with this year's New Year's Resolutions.

A few days ago when the water heater sprung a cute geyser on its top I was unable to wash dishes. So, I pedalled over to Subway to see if the sandwich they sold resembled the good looking one I saw on TV. It didn't, and it cost me fully half of my yearly allotment of eating at nationally advertised "fast food" places.

I debated whether or not Subway did, in fact, qualify as a food fast place. I'm not sure how they feel about it and they don't have piles of ready-made sandwiches the helper grabs and gives you, and a point might be made that they actually construct it for you, but so does Burger King.

Also, in the spirit of the thing, Quizno's would also qualify as fast food, even though I'm rather taken by the Baby Bob commercials.

Anyway, I tried Subway's vaunted Chicken Parmesan and it failed to bring back fond memories of Italy. Now, I have only one to go. I may need to save that for when I'm with some other people. I should have refused to do it this week, too, since there's a perfectly fine fast food place right near the Subway, but I find their food tasteless.

So maybe I'll bust my resolution, but that leaves next year. Maybe I'll reduce it to once a quarter, though that sounds excessive. I'd like to go a whole year and never visit any nationally advertised anything, but I'm not always in a position to do the choosing.

Yesterday my sister treated me to Tito's, which remains one of my favorite places, ever. Even after thirty years, it still tastes the same. I'd recognize one of their chili con carne burritos anywhere.

I'm glad someone doesn't fuck with a good thing.

I'm halfway done with this year's New Year's Resolutions.

A few days ago when the water heater sprung a cute geyser on its top I was unable to wash dishes. So, I pedalled over to Subway to see if the sandwich they sold resembled the good looking one I saw on TV. It didn't, and it cost me fully half of my yearly allotment of eating at nationally advertised "fast food" places.

I debated whether or not Subway did, in fact, qualify as a food fast place. I'm not sure how they feel about it and they don't have piles of ready-made sandwiches the helper grabs and gives you, and a point might be made that they actually construct it for you, but so does Burger King.

Also, in the spirit of the thing, Quizno's would also qualify as fast food, even though I'm rather taken by the Baby Bob commercials.

Anyway, I tried Subway's vaunted Chicken Parmesan and it failed to bring back fond memories of Italy. Now, I have only one to go. I may need to save that for when I'm with some other people. I should have refused to do it this week, too, since there's a perfectly fine fast food place right near the Subway, but I find their food tasteless.

So maybe I'll bust my resolution, but that leaves next year. Maybe I'll reduce it to once a quarter, though that sounds excessive. I'd like to go a whole year and never visit any nationally advertised anything, but I'm not always in a position to do the choosing.

Yesterday my sister treated me to Tito's, which remains one of my favorite places, ever. Even after thirty years, it still tastes the same. I'd recognize one of their chili con carne burritos anywhere.

I'm glad someone doesn't fuck with a good thing.

Last night it was very windy, enough for me to get industrious today and begin hacking limbs aways from the cable and electrical lines that run into the house. The limbs belonged to ... vegetation, they weren't mine.

I, of course, have no idea what the names are of the plants I practiced my burgeoning tree surgery skills on, nor did I even put on either pair of my work boots, so I guess by that measure it wasn't really work. I did, however, use a ladder (one of the two), some long-handled thing that looked like the plant verison of a bolt cutter, and my little electric chain saw.

Now (and I know I've mentioned this before) I again wish I had a chipper. It will take me most of tomorrow to hack even a fraction of this to tiny pieces to put into the green "lawn trimmings" bin for pick up. I'm debating whether or not wear gloves. This may be an opportunity for me to get some blisters with the hopes of earning the callouses of the proletariat.

Speaking of: a sad cinema moment. In the remake of Cape Fear at one point Robt Dinero has the young girl suck his thumb. It would have been a great moment except I was completely pulled from the suspension of belief by his thumb, which looked to me to be manicured and as soft as mine. Out of character. This, like impossibly white teeth in just about any movie is something that irks me. The popular actors are so pampered and primmed that they have a hard time convinicing me they're the characters they portray.

But that's not the point. I meant to write about ritual, about plumbing, about my New Year's Resolution, but those will have to wait.

Last night it was very windy, enough for me to get industrious today and begin hacking limbs aways from the cable and electrical lines that run into the house. The limbs belonged to ... vegetation, they weren't mine.

I, of course, have no idea what the names are of the plants I practiced my burgeoning tree surgery skills on, nor did I even put on either pair of my work boots, so I guess by that measure it wasn't really work. I did, however, use a ladder (one of the two), some long-handled thing that looked like the plant verison of a bolt cutter, and my little electric chain saw.

Now (and I know I've mentioned this before) I again wish I had a chipper. It will take me most of tomorrow to hack even a fraction of this to tiny pieces to put into the green "lawn trimmings" bin for pick up. I'm debating whether or not wear gloves. This may be an opportunity for me to get some blisters with the hopes of earning the callouses of the proletariat.

Speaking of: a sad cinema moment. In the remake of Cape Fear at one point Robt Dinero has the young girl suck his thumb. It would have been a great moment except I was completely pulled from the suspension of belief by his thumb, which looked to me to be manicured and as soft as mine. Out of character. This, like impossibly white teeth in just about any movie is something that irks me. The popular actors are so pampered and primmed that they have a hard time convinicing me they're the characters they portray.

But that's not the point. I meant to write about ritual, about plumbing, about my New Year's Resolution, but those will have to wait.

It's been brought to my attention that I'm spending a great deal more time lately talking about money, much like a goldfish gulping for water.

It hasn't always been this way. In fact, I can't recall ever talking about money before, never in my life. I've never felt I had enough, but always managed to make it through, so I decided early on in life that it was never as big a deal as I thought.

Also, lacking certain popular genes, dining room sets and bedspreads with dust ruffles have never been a priority in my life. I needed a refrigerator when I first moved out, so I eventually got one after months with an ice chest. In fact, had Cesar not offered his mother's old one, I would have waited for years.

That refrigerator, by the way, was wonderful. The interior was pastel green and yellow, and it had been hand painted pink on the outside. Quite colorful. Also, within a month, the freezer would accumulate so much frost it could scarcely hold one pizza. Oh, how I enjoyed chipping away at the frost! Great huge chunks, thundering off.

That one lasted years, until I got one with an automatic ice maker in a rigged bidding contest. What I liked about that later model was the ice cubes it produced. They were small, the size of my thumbnail. What I disliked was its eventual failure, when it would dump trays full of water into the ice cube bin. Oh, how I dreaded hearing it recycle ten minutes after it had last emptied a load.

My first coffee table was a closet door I'd removed from my parent's home. It sat on wooden crates I'd taken from the liquor store I worked at. It never occurred to me (really!) that anyone would look askance at it. It served my purposes, and I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by people who never held my lifestyle against me.

Now, of course, I worry about money, still. Nothing I do generates any, and I have yet to swallow my pride sufficient to admit I'm wrong and do what everyone else does. It's all my fault, and I know what to do.

There's nothing special about me.

It's been brought to my attention that I'm spending a great deal more time lately talking about money, much like a goldfish gulping for water.

It hasn't always been this way. In fact, I can't recall ever talking about money before, never in my life. I've never felt I had enough, but always managed to make it through, so I decided early on in life that it was never as big a deal as I thought.

Also, lacking certain popular genes, dining room sets and bedspreads with dust ruffles have never been a priority in my life. I needed a refrigerator when I first moved out, so I eventually got one after months with an ice chest. In fact, had Cesar not offered his mother's old one, I would have waited for years.

That refrigerator, by the way, was wonderful. The interior was pastel green and yellow, and it had been hand painted pink on the outside. Quite colorful. Also, within a month, the freezer would accumulate so much frost it could scarcely hold one pizza. Oh, how I enjoyed chipping away at the frost! Great huge chunks, thundering off.

That one lasted years, until I got one with an automatic ice maker in a rigged bidding contest. What I liked about that later model was the ice cubes it produced. They were small, the size of my thumbnail. What I disliked was its eventual failure, when it would dump trays full of water into the ice cube bin. Oh, how I dreaded hearing it recycle ten minutes after it had last emptied a load.

My first coffee table was a closet door I'd removed from my parent's home. It sat on wooden crates I'd taken from the liquor store I worked at. It never occurred to me (really!) that anyone would look askance at it. It served my purposes, and I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by people who never held my lifestyle against me.

Now, of course, I worry about money, still. Nothing I do generates any, and I have yet to swallow my pride sufficient to admit I'm wrong and do what everyone else does. It's all my fault, and I know what to do.

There's nothing special about me.

Oh, sure, everyone has those bouncy castle things in their front yard. Yawn.

A few doors down, at a recently "renovated" home that features such drastic architecture that I'm certain every square inch of space permitted by zoning laws has been taken, they have a bouncy castle thing. This monstrous, ugly structure (which doesn't fit in at all with the rest of the neighborhood) could only be enhanced by having no fewer than two dozen kids.

Actually, the kids are all right with me: their squeals are delightful. What's out of the norm, though, is the six foot tall Easter Bunny supervising them, especially this week, one week after Easter. Also, it's been a justifiably somber weekend, as well. Not much call for celebrating.

What made the scene so remarkable was the mother. I imagine she'd been banished from the house to enjoy a smoke, and was talking with the Bunny. Or he, if it was a he inside there, with her. It would have been quite a picture, but I didn't have my camera with me.

And, less we think it stops there, on the front yard of the next house is a cheap-ass petting zoo. A small, knee-high enclosure containing several chickens, a black lamb, and a cute baby goat. Strolling nearby, a pony.

WIDIWAP

"Widdy-Wap" was one of my favorite answers at work when people would ask for something ridiculous. That may have counted toward my dismissal, especially when higher-ups requested something. It's an acronym, of course, and comes from here.