Saturdays creep up on me without warning, and this one even moreso. Tomorrow being Father's Day, I'm heading out to Jersey to kick back with the family, and I've got some goodies in tow for my dad (obviously), but the main thing that's on the docket is the impending arrival of Kaia on Thursday, and this coming Tuesday, a friend of mine stopping in for a jaunt between Singapore and DC.
I'm trying to get my place in order (ie safe for human survival) so obviously I've been preoccupied doing that. Basically, I'm trashing or hiding everything that doesn't belong out, and then, on top of that, cleaning any surface as much as possible. Normally, that's not too-too difficult, but my place is not "normal." So it's a pretty daunting task. But between projects and work, I'm getting it done -- slowly but surely is better'n nuffin', as they say.
Kaia's out shopping and getting herself ready to hit NYC for a few weeks, so while she's running around, I'm cleaning/organizing/laundracizing in meanwhile. In the background is Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Final (between the Carolina Hurricanes and the Edmonton Oilers). The game is exciting because Carolina's ahead 3-2 in games so if they win, the Cup is handed over, so the tension -- even if I don't care much about either team -- is palpable. On some level, these types of games remind me of when I used to play in a league; we didn't play playoff series, however; we'd play one-off games (on occasion we'd play a best-of-three, but rarely because of the distance involved of non-NYC teams). Even if it meant we needed to beat four or five teams to win the championship, it was -- in our eyes -- playing one Game 7 after another. Game 7, in hockey parlance, especially in the Stanley Cup Finals, is the hockey equivalent of Defcon 1. It's the most tense, pressure-packed game one will ever play, and even though we weren't playing for the Stanley Cup, for us, skating out onto the ice to the strands of Joe Satriani's "A Train of Angels" was akin to us going to war. Why I mention this comparison is that professional hockey players play the game to win the Stanley Cup, period. But the fact that they collect a six- or seven-figure salary is a nice consolation for the teams that don't win the Cup each year. For us, there was winning the Championship -- or nothing.
Meanwhile, I've been seeing a commercial somewhat frequently advertising TGI Friday's meat-lover's grill platter. Apparently this new offering features several different types of meat; the ad features a group of four guys that are served said selection. Thereafter, the first guy, in a deep "guy" voice, proclaims: "Beef!" Another guy shouts "Steak!" A third guy pipes up with "Ribs!" Then the fourth guy holds up a stalk of broccoli and sings "Vegetable Medley!" The other three look at him like he's just come out of the closet. Sensing the awkwardness, Vegetable-Medley-Lame-O grabs his fork, pokes at some sausage on his plate, and shouts "Sausage!" And, apparently, these four dipshits partake of their pre-packaged Grade D dogfood.
Every time I see that commercial, the possibility of me a) actually partaking of this particular offering; b) ever going to TGI Friday's -- ever; and c) wanting to eat anything -- period -- after seeing this commercial decreases exponentially. It's not quite as appetizing as McDonald's "Cholesterol McPlosion," but it's close.