First, let me warn you that I’m useless on Friday evenings. I leave work on Fridays; go to the gym; run for an hour (which is super awesome, let me tell you) (also Fridays are prime treadmill-hogging time because all the resolvers are at happy hour and it’s not crowded); go home; eat dinner with Ben and Soren; hang out with Ben and Soren; check on my goddamn Pet Hotel, which is really pissing me off because I’m to the point where it takes 70 bazillion coins and 870 hours to accomplish anything; shower (I’d prefer to shower immediately after arriving home but this is generally not possible without being a general pain in the ass to everyone else); hang out; and then after Soren goes to bed, sit my ass on the couch, watch tv, eat vanilla ice cream with Heath chips or something awesome like a bowl of organic blue corn tortilla chips and chili cheese Fritos, and completely and unabashedly revel in do-nothingness.
As you may know, this is why I usually do “Photo Fridays” — because I’m too tired and lazy to inflict what I’d write on innocent people such as yourselves.
None of that explains why in the hell I’m writing a post tonight, by the way.
The other day while watching The First 48, which might be my favorite tv show of all time, I got kind of bummed out that I don’t have a street name. I assume you only have a street name if you’re heavily involved in criminal activity. That way, when homicide detectives call in a potential witness who will be faced with the terrible snitch-or-no-snitch decision, at the very least, if the witness does snitch, she’ll be all, oh, I heard it was Lil Jackrabbit (or whatever) but no, I don’t know his real name. You’ll at least get an extra few minutes to get out of town while some detective puts “Lil Jackrabbit” in the database and finds your real name, although in reality you’ll probably just go to your mom’s house, where they’ll find you later. Eventually, you’ll be convicted of murder even though you were just there to rob the guy, because nobody tells kids these days about felony murder.
Anyway, on this particular episode, we found out there was a witness known as Fat Mama. That’s freaking awesome. First of all, that’s one of the nicknames for our cat, Xochitl. And then you picture, well, someone who would be called Fat Mama, right? And then when they finally find Fat Mama, she’s totally not fat at all — she’s a skinny little thing. And that makes being called Fat Mama even better. (I’m operating on the assumption that people are not still using the term “Phat,” by the way.) And then you’re all, yeah, I want people to call me Fat Mama. Okay, maybe you’re not, but I kind of thought that for a minute.
Then today I found out something about Ice Cube and something about Ice-T. For the record, I know that Ice Cube > Ice-T. Ice Cube’s Good Day was January 20, 1992. Ice-T’s real name is Tracy, and he has a son named Ice Tracy, who, not that this has anything to do with anything, was born in 1992. How did it take me this long in life to know that Ice-T and I have the same name? And why have I never developed any sort of nickname involving ice?
So then today I’m watching the Winter X Games, because that’s what I do, and first of all, Torstein Horgmo (he’s like the best snowboarder of all time). I would not have minded naming my child Torstein Horgmo, because that’s one of the most awesome names of all time. But then there’s also Halldór Helgason (I had to copy and paste to get that “o” with the thing over it). He’s from Iceland. Also, turn on ESPN right now! You can still catch Torstein Horgmo in the snowboard big air finals!
The point to telling you this? There is no point. This is just the kind of stuff I think about when I don’t have anything else to think about.