The worst kind of postponing

Long story short: Georgia woman on death row, scheduled to be executed on February 25, 2015 lives to see another few days on account of inclement weather postponing the execution.

This is of course, the woman I brogged about almost two weeks ago, whose requested last meal consisted of some Burger King Whoppers and a whole shitload of buttermilk and buttermilk products, and I accused of basically trying to turn herself into a Left 4 Dead boomer.  So that her goal was to get fat, bloated, and full of gross disgusting waste for her to expel upon expiration, in an attempt to get the final laugh against the legal system that saw fit to put her to death for murdering her husband nearly 20 years ago.

Anyway, I can’t help but feel that this had to have been a devastating blow to the boomer-to-be here.  Sure, there’s the perspective of that she’s going to get a few extra days before the re-scheduled execution, but to me, that’s a few extra days to wallow in misery and postponed dread of maybe possibly having accepted death, only for it to be drug out for another four days.  After all, the state did deny her final bid for clemency, I can’t imagine that a few extra days is going to make anyone change their minds.

But this has to be the worst kind of postponement in history.  Cancelled and rescheduled on account of weather?  I know Georgia’s ill-prepared for legitimate wintery weather, but the last time I checked, lethal injections were still administered indoors.  The boomer might have accepted her fate and/or found god or something in those hours that were supposedly supposed to be her last, only for it to be called off, and told that the deed would have to wait until the weather improved outside.

It’s kind of like being the boomer in L4D, because you really can’t postpone the inevitable exploding death once you’ve spawned.

I wonder if she’ll be granted a second last meal of Whoppers and buttermilk, or if they postponed that as well?

Mega Uber dream

Recently, I had a dream in which I woke up feeling very aggravated.

I dreamt that I was riding a Megabus somewhere, and that somewhere along the line, while in Georgia, I got left off the bus and stranded behind, due to someone’s negligence.

For whatever reason, Megabus was operating in the same manner in which Uber operated, which is to say mostly via their app.  And while on the bus, when the employee was checking everyone’s phones to check their apps for confirmation of seat, somewhere along the line, the employee got ahold of my phone, and in some sort of scramble of people getting on and off the bus, I got pushed off the bus, and the bus took off without me.

However, this occurred at like Cheshire Bridge Road, which to those of you six people who might not necessarily live in Atlanta know where that it is, it’s a kind of sketchy road in Atlanta.  The luck for me was the fact that it was known that this MegaUber had another stop on Buford Highway, which was only about a mile away.  So, I took off like T-1000, running after the fucking bus.

What sucked was the fact that my sister was on the bus, and probably wondering where I was, but without my phone, I had no way to get in touch with her, and she had no way to get in touch with me.

But dreams being what dreams are, where random things occur, somehow, one of my aunts who lives up in Virginia was sitting there at a bus bench in Atlanta, and I was able to get her attention, borrow her phone to get in touch with my sister, and instruct her to absolutely not let the bus depart again until I caught up with them.  And I had all the rage of all the infected from 28 Days Later, ready to unload on the MegaUber employee that absent-mindedly walked off with my phone.

And then I woke up in a really foul mood, agitated with absolutely everything.  I think this is way of saying I should avoid any sort of public transportation or something for a while.

Do pants made solely for sagging exist now?

Of all the fashion trends that I’ve been privy to witness and even occasionally partake in, come and go throughout my entire life, there’s one that’s apparently defied the test of time, and somehow manages to exist even to this very day: sagging pants.

If you were to ask me where sagging pants seemed to originate from, I’d have said Kriss Kross.  My girlfriend (I know, right?) says that sagging pants originated in prisons as indication of being a bitch to someone else.  Really though, regardless of which of those are right, if either are true, the fact remains, why is it even considered cool enough to where so many people still do it to this very day?

This is one of those things that I’ll never understand, nor do I really want to understand.  I will always consider a person who willingly lets their underwear-clad ass hang out while their pants are literally draped underneath their butt cheeks as a low-life and someone I probably won’t have any interest with associating with.

However, I’ve noticed something lately that’s piqued my curiosity to the point where I wish to write about.  Sagging pants, at least from what I witness in my life, have always been guys wearing their normal sized pants, just sagged down, to where the bottoms are closer to the back of their knees, instead of their actual asses.  If they were to ever pull their pants up to where the tops sat around their waists, or even hips, the pants as a whole would look somewhat normal, possibly well-fitting.

Lately though, I’ve seen lots of guys wearing, sagging rather, pants that, don’t really look like they’re meant to be worn like real pants, if they were pulled up.  Like, if they spontaneously grew up and decided that at that very moment, they wanted to pull their pants into a more socially acceptable fashion, they couldn’t.  Or rather, they could, but then it would look like they were wearing capris, which on a guy would look pretty fruity.

Really though, I’m seeing pretty often now, guys sagging pants that don’t look like there’s enough actual pant to where they’re actually pants when worn correctly.  It’s weird, because it’s like sagging pants and skinny capris at the same time, and it just looks really silly.

So either people are deliberately buying pants too small/short for them with the intent to sag them to get appropriate ankle coverage, or there’s a manufacturer out there that’s making pants that are meant to be sagged.

Either way, I still wish upon a star every time I see one that the sagging pants style dies.  Unfortunately, I don’t think I should be holding my breath on this one, though.

When phrases change meanings with the times

The last time I was up at my parents’ house, I was rummaging through some old personal effects, and came across an old binder of basketball cards.

It’s funny to admit this nowadays given the fact that they royally suck, and have been more or less the laughing stock of the NBA over the last decade or so, but back in the 90s, I was a huge New York Knicks fan.  John Starks, Anthony Mason, Charles Oakley, Derek Harper, and of course, the franchise himself, Patrick Ewing.  Loved them all.  Rooted for the Knicks against everyone, including Michael Jordan and the Bulls.  I felt sports-heartbreak in 1994, when the Knicks came so close, and lost to Hakeem Olajuwon’s Rockets in the Finals.  Was even too young to understand the magnitude of the OJ Simpson police chase, and was more irked that a championship game was being preempted.

The point is, I had a ton of Knicks basketball cards in this binder.  Primarily Patrick Ewing, because he was clearly the primary star of the team.  And while flipping through the sheets and sheets of Ewing cards, I came across this particular Ewing card from a ’95-96 Fleer set.

And then I snickered, because in today’s snarky trendy vernacular, the letter D is simply not what it used to be.

Obviously, in a sports conversation, the letter D has always been synonymous with Defense, and in relation to this particular card, Ewing demonstrates his propensity for defense, in grabbing a rebound, a particular skill that he was among the league’s best at, given the fact that he was 7 feet tall.

But instead, I see a card now that says “TOTAL D PATRICK EWING,” and I can’t help but chuckle, because I’m 14 years old, and it’s funnier to think that Fleer would put out a collectible card that did nothing but say that Patrick Ewing is a total D.

Oh, how the changing of times can sometimes make some collateral victims of relics from the past.

While trying to be the prodigal son

Long story short: my parents’ separation isn’t going that smoothly.  Big surprise there.  My sister and I have been doing everything we can from afar, but there will always be limitations to what we can do for them, without actually being them, or at least, being physically present with them while we try and do things for them.

Naturally, the whole ordeal is often exasperating, and leaves the both of us on the phone with ourselves, venting to one another about just how they could possibly drive us even more up the wall than they already are.  Ultimately, the conversations steer back to the fact that they’re our parents, and we’ll do whatever it is we can to make sure that they’re okay, because that’s what supposed good children do once they’re adults, they help their parents.

To those paying attention, know that recently my bank account took a fairly substantial hit, on account of some decisions that my parents made, without necessarily doing enough (read: any) checks and balances to what repercussions may come about with spontaneously changing bank accounts.  Although the incident from a few days ago wasn’t the first time that this had occurred, it was undoubtedly the worst, seeing as how it completely zeroed out that particular bank account and rendered my daily purchases and ability to pay bills compromised until repaired.

That being said, I visited my parents recently, not necessarily just to attempt to fix their problems, but because ultimately, no matter how much they upset me or make me not want to see them, the good prodigal son that I pretend like I am, I still feel that it’s somewhat necessary to periodically check in on them; usually the trips involve a few meals, reading any mail that might be confusing to them, and inevitably, seeing what kind of virus protection scans haven’t been done, and the numerous Windows Updates they haven’t initiated, and they’re wondering why their machines are so slow or completely compromised by malware.

To cut to the chase, I’ve identified, fixed and repaired all of the maladies that led to my own account being withered and zeroed out, and for absolutely zero reason other than my dad phyiscally being present next to me while speaking with a banker, I was able to have my rightful money placed back into my bank account.

The problems are solved.  I think.  For now.

But the reason I felt like writing this was that throughout this whole niggling ordeal, I’ve had numerous people who basically kept telling me that my parents were grown adults and that they should try and take care of themselves, and not rely so heavily on my sister and I to fight all their battles for them.

I really want to agree, and a part of me does, but even if I do, it still doesn’t change the fact that I often times want to, and inevitably do, fight my parents’ battles for them.  Ultimately, the thought process in my head in regards to all this is often times like the proverbial angel and devil on my shoulders, except they’re both saying to help my parents, even if their rationales are completely different.

Angel says: help your parents, because you’re a good, dutiful son, and helping your parents is what good, dutiful sons do.  Your parents will be grateful (whether or not, that’s yet to be determined), and something something about good karma and all that jazz.

Devil says: help your parents, because if you don’t help your parents now, they’re not going to fix it themselves, and in the current state of them being financial problems, they’ll compound, snowball, and become an even larger mess with even greater consequences if not dealt with now.  They’ll have debt collectors hounding them, funds taken out of everyone’s accounts, inevitably lose their homes, have to move in with my sister and I, and become massive burdens where they feel guilty, I feel guilty, and we’re all absolutely miserable.  So help your parents now; or suffer later.

Either way, if and when conflicts like this arise in the future, it’s pretty much a forgone conclusion that I’m going to help my folks out.  Whether the motives are righteous or plain selfish, the conclusions aren’t really going to change.