Can't remember if I've already mentioned this, but as of this weekend, I'm on my fourth DVD player. That's right, every single one has fritzed in some way or another. Considering the fact that I've only been enjoying DVD technology for the past five years or so, I think I'm going through these things way too quickly.

Holding out hope for JVC this time...
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This morning as I got into the car for work, a hobo asked me for a couple of bucks. (Is that okay to say? "Hobo"?) I told him I couldn't help him and I have to confess that I might have been a bit more apt to toss the guy a bone if he hadn't been dressed like a woman, complete with a slutty skirt and fake boobs.

Now, I'm a pretty liberal kind of guy when it comes to giving cash to the homeless folk asking for handouts. "If you're desperate enough to beg, you need it more than I do," is my motto. Really, a cross-dressing bum is no different than a normally-dressed bum when it comes to hunger, but I nonetheless found myself unmoved by the pleas of this unsuccessful gender pretender. Maybe I should examine this.
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Maddest I've ever been at my dad:

When I was a junior in high school, a friend of mine named Amanda (who was, at the time, a senior) started dating a buffoon who happened to be a freshman at Kent State. The guy was obviously a total loser and I made little effort to hide my feelings on the matter from Amanda (it probably didn't help matters that I had a mild crush on her myself). Anyhow, the situation interfered with our friendship and it wasn't long before we began exchanging snide and hurtful remarks in art class.

Well, The Boyfriend caught wind of some of my harsher comments and proceeded to call me at home one night to tell me just how insignificant I was and to inform me that, should I ever even speak to Amanda again, much less hurt her feelings, I'd find myself in the hospital (courtesy of he and his Kent State cronies).

So, of course, I did the Jeremy Bear thing: laughing, mocking, and sarcastically ridiculing this dude in that very special bridge-burning way. I did a pretty good job of it, too... ("oh, so you're going to come find me and 'beat me up'? Should I meet you on the playground at recess, you witless dillrod? Is it just you or are you going to bring any of your fellow Kent State illiterates along for moral support? Do they all date high school girls too?"). I think the guy got the message: I found him about as intimidating as a Q-Tip. Score one for Mssr. Bear.

Anyhow, it was all going really well until my dad came in the room and asked me who I was talking to. When I refused to tell him, it pretty much all went to hell from there.

I'll skip the drama, but it ended with The Boyfriend laughing hysterically at my impotence and Dad shouting things like "how dare you threaten my boy!" into the phone.

I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill myself. I wanted a truck to run over my face to save myself the embarrassment of going to school. In the name of some weird paternal instinct, Dad had, in The Boyfriend's mind at least, destroyed that which I had worked hard to build: the notion that I can take care of myself.

Anyhow, that's the long way around the bend to get to my point: I checked back at the Moreland guestbook last night to find an entry from my dad, renouncing my behavior. Oh, Dad!

I have to admit that all the old irritated high school memories whooshed back in momentarily, but how can I stay mad at the guy? In fact, I kind of had to chuckle at the gist of the message: "Sorry about your loss. I swear it's not my fault my son is a nincompoop. I'd be horrified to lose any of my own children, even Doofus over here..."

Dad, if you're reading this (and I know you are), sorry for airing your dirty laundry here, but you're already aware of how dangerous these bloggin' fingers of mine can be.

For everyone else: yes, my dad did indeed work very hard to rear both my sisters and me with terrific moral integrity and character. Unfortunately, it only managed to take with Erin and Lauren. Anyhow, don't blame him for my shortcomings as a decent human being.