I never really left. I just didn't have anything to say.
Hello again.
Welcome back.
Not much going on in this life, just work, house, marriage, stress, money, car troubles, dope dealers across my street, police indifference, political correctness, family, babies, taxes. You know, life.
I have a cousin back in Iraq, this time as a private contractor, helping to get that backward country's Internet and communication systems going. I'd tell you where he is, but then, I'd have to kill you all. Who do you think I am, the Zodiac?
He is in the line of fire a lot and when four American citizens were killed and strung up on a bridge like overcooked salami, I worried that one of them was him. They weren't. I was relieved. Still saddened, but relieved.
I've given up a long time ago why we're in Iraq. I don't trust the government much anymore. It and those who work in it — public officials, politicians, scum, thieves and tap dancers — seems to pander to those who can give them money to keep it going. Hey, I'm getting $4 back on my jointly filed taxes in 2003, so they're not getting any money from me.
Baseball is back, so I'm happy. Well, until I look and see that Seattle isn't going anywhere and San Francisco is doing its best to keep itself from the playoffs while looking like it is trying to, maybe, get into the wild card race. Oh well, put them down for the NL West title again. The Giants have been doing this for three seasons and got to the World Series once. (Fuck Anaheim)
Work is work, so I won't bore you there.
My brother, sister-in-law and 1-year-old niece stayed here for about five days. All my wife and sister-in-law did was talk about the baby. Nothing but the baby. Everything about the baby. What did we talk about when they left — yeah, you get three chances and the first two don't count.
Found a fist-sized hole in my bathroom floor about a month ago. Tried to get rid of the carpet in the room, found the hole near the toilet (not the one where the waste goes down, nice try) and called the house inspector who checked the place before I bought it. After going around in circles with him about who is responsible for it for two weeks, I paid for the vinyl floor tiles and 1/2 the labor — compromise decision that took no lawyers, straight talk by both sides and an understanding that, hey, it is a 100-year-old fucking house. It got done this afternoon. Nice. With a subfloor, too. That'll last about 30 years if treated right.
First rule I told my wife about the bathroom floor — No babies. (I keed. That was the second rule.)
Yeah, the drug distribution center across the street is still there. They know I'm watching. I know what they're doing. Impass. We'll see as the summer rolls around.
OK, that's enough. That should bore you for about a minute. Or inform you about nothing but myself. Hey, you could read worse, like children's books written by death row inmates who suddenly realized that they fucked up their life or Martha Stewart's trial transcripts or the 9/11 hearings depositions.
It is all in the context, if you ask me. But then again, you didn't...
®© Rob B.