Carless: Day 41

So I got a call from the auto body/collision care center where the Joe-Kart is currently receiving care. (Again, I can't stress enough that said chop shop collision care center isn't the Penske Automotive Collision Center located at 7860 Balboa Avenue in San Diego. Most definitely not them...)

The guy I've been working with there, Paul, or as his business card states "Customer Care Representative" -- I'm guessing on Paul's resume you'll also find "Guest Liaison (Guantanamo Bay)" and "Medical Assistant, Colonoscopy Division" -- called me to update me on The Great Honda Resurrection of 2008:

"Yo, Joe, what's up bro? It's Paul from Penske."

(I ain't your bro, bro.) "Oh, hey...what's wrong now?"

(laughs) "Nah, man, just wanted to update you on your car."

"Fire away."

"So we are all done painting."

(What, a replica of the fucking Sistine Chapel on my hood?) "Okay...so I can pick it up?"

"No, now we need to re-assemble. It's a lot of work and we're busy but it should be done pretty soon."

"So tomorrow?"

(laughs) "No, no, no...at least a few more days."

"You do realize that you've had my car for well over a month, right?"

"Yeah man, I apologize about that. I call you when it's ready to pick up, okay bro?"

"I ain't your bro, bro. (Wait did I really just say that instead of my inner-monologue?) But, whatever. Just hurry up."


I swear to the Lord above there better be one of four results when this is all said and done:

1) Ashton Kutcher/Jamie Kennedy/OJ Simpson and an army of cameramen better pop out of my truck and tell me that I've been Punk'd/X'd/Juiced.

2) My ride's officially been pimped (complete with Xhibit popping my collar.) Seriously, I can't wait to see the astroturf-lined floor board complete with mini-golf flag stick, a six-speed blender that takes up my passenger seat and the 40 12" televison screens installed in every nook and cranny of my Accord.

3) They tell me "Man, we couldn't salvage your car. Please take this as a consolation."

4) I wake up and realize the accident never happened and gas is $1.79 per gallon.


I Love It When You Call Me Big Poppa...

It's 3:27 AM...I've just awoken from a dream and I have to blog this out. It's not so much my dream but the feeling and, dare I say, purpose, that came over me when I awoke:

I want a son.

An heir to my proverbial throne.

My dream, or at least the few seconds of the end of which I remember, involved me in an apartment. Oddly enough, it was apparently my apartment, but just not the one I'm in now. I was living in one of those cool bricked interior-walled apartments. My apartment in my dream -- not to be confused with my 'dream apartment' -- is very minimal, much like my current dwelling. There's a bed, a dresser, a shiny flat-screen TV on the wall...and a crib. In my dream, I walk over to the crib and there are white and pale yellow blankets. I pull them up, exposing a sleeping baby. I pick the baby up...apparently it's mine. He's still sleeping as I rock him back and forth gently. I keep whispering to him "I love you, I'm going to take care of you" and the baby just keeps his eyes closed but is smiling, obviously in the middle of a great dream, much like the one I'm in.

I put the baby down back in the crib, whisper "I love you" and kiss it on the forehead. The baby makes a "da-da" sound and that's when I woke up.

Maybe this isn't something too abnormal for a single, almost-thirty-year-old male who wants to settle down and start a family to experience. I dunno. It was a weird dream, but I liked it.

Any takers?


Roger's No Dodger


I'm no tennis fan, but I am a complete sports nut, so I watch all the big events for almost any sport. I watch the Triple Crown horse races. I watch Daytona and Indy. Hell, I'm even currently watching the coverage of the Tour de France on Versus every night. And when it comes to tennis, I always watch the Grand Slam finals, especially the French Open and most of all, Wimbledon.

I badly wanted to watch the entire match between Federer and Nadal but work beckoned. When I was finally able to pull myself away from the computer, paperwork and phones, Federer was down two sets to none. I watched almost every serve and volley from that point on and damn it if I wasn't lucky enough to see perhaps the greatest Grand Slam final in tennis history.

Unfortunately, my boy Federer couldn't pull it out and Nadal finally edged his rival on the grass court. During the match, as I was rooting for the Swiss, my boy Aaron tells me that me rooting for Federer "makes absolutely zero sense" because, as Aaron knows, I'm a big time Kobe Bryant and Tiger Woods hater. He figured I would hate the dominate Federer as well, but alas, I told him I was anything but a Federer hater.

Before you yell racism, I think I know why I hate the best in the game Kobe and Tiger but cheer on Federer (and by the way, as much as I hate Kobe and Tiger, I respect them and admit they are the tops of their sport): Before Kobe came onto the screen, I was a HUGE Michael Jordan fan. Before Tiger came onto the scene, I was a HUGE Phil Mickelson fan. When Federer came onto the scene, I didn't really have a favorite tennis player. I think that's why I'm on the Federer bandwagon but not a follower of #24 and Eldrick.


Fourth of July






My job search continues...this time to Sin City! I sent in my resume and cover letter this morning for a recent General Manager opening at a course in Las Vegas. Now I absolutely know my boys will totally support this as this means 1) I'll be able to attend the annual baseball draft/spring training trip and 2) they'll have a place to stay when they are out there for weekend getaways/bachelor parties/etc. But let's not get too ahead of ourselves...

In regards to my other inquiries, I heard back from one management company that they had no openings at the time and the Santa Barbara job, as far as I know, is still up in the air. The job closed last Monday and interviews are scheduled in two weeks, so I'm thinking if I haven't heard by the middle of next week, I didn't advance to the interview stage. Again, keep them fingers crossed!


He Busted His Balls Out There

Arizona Diamondback's catcher Chris Snyder landed on the 15-day disabled list today. Reason?

"Left testicular fracture".

Jesus, my boys downstairs hurt just from reading that!

What's with the ridiculously abnormal injuries this year in baseball?

Felix Pie (Chicago Cubs - OF): "twisted testicle"

Carlos Guillen (Detroit Tigers - 1B): "hemorrhoids"

Kaz Matsui (Houston Astros - 2B): "anal fissures"
What's wrong with just disclosing you sprained your ankle and taking a few days off for your balls or ass to heal up?