Sure, we all know we’ll pay for it later.  Like, come actual August.  For today, though, it made for positively awesome pool-going.  Which is exactly what the family and I did since the Swim Club we belong to went to all the trouble to open up and everything.

Which brings me to today’s Saturday Debate.  Against the Puddinette’s wishes, I broke out the Hawaiian shirt this morning for the trip to the pool.

And trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen me strutting the fineness that is Puddin in a loud, floral shirt.

What about you, though, where do you fall on the issue?  Yep, here it is, today’s Saturday Debate…

Hawaiian Shirts: Yay or Nay?

As always, I’m happy to provide you with a matching poll as well:

Oh, and hey, do you have some awesome cabana-wear? We all need to see it, so send me a picture, stat!

Pud’n

I know many of you have been wondering, lo these many years, how I feel about fruiting the beer.  Well, here’s your chance to finally have that burning question answered.

And if that doesn’t make your Thursday better, um, well…

Maybe a nap, then?

Pud’n

But…but…it’s Election Day here in the great Commonwealth of Kentucky!

*throws confetti*

What’s the big deal, you ask?  Well, of course, there’s that whole expressing your individualized will as toward goverance thing, which is pretty cool, even if most of the candidates might only be slightly more electable based on their honesty and trustworthiness than your average potted cactus.

Even beyond that, though, I’m tinkled pink about the arrival of election day because aside from some unfortunate restrictions on when you can buy alcohol today (making it the clear bane of all pub owners), it means I can finally express a great sigh of relief and move on with my life.

A life no longer burdened with All. Of. This. Nonsense:

I know I already complained about this a few days ago, so I’ll spare you the recap rant.  But I wanted to point out that what I photographed above is only from Monday’s mail.  Yes, fair reader, every single last one of those ads pictured above was stuffed into my groaning mailbox yesterday.

I haven’t counted yet, but I’m pretty sure that brings the total of this season’s political fliers to 1,653,258.

Or does it just seem like that many?

Whatever it is, I worry somewhat about having received so many over the course of the last few weeks.  Surely the attention I’ve been getting by flier isn’t typical, right?  Am I some kind of superhero voter, perhaps?  Does my vote count more than the average American?

Well, whatever, I look forward to an emptier mailbox.

So, you’ve done your civic duty, right?  It’s not too late, you know.  Get out there and cast your vote!

What are you waiting for?  Go on. 

Go!

Pud’n

Sad vampire/werewolf-less Puddin is sad.

Luckily, though, I thought, then, that this would be an excellent time to redress a serious and notable absence in my movie-viewing history. I’d recently put Francis Ford Coppola’s Vietnam War epic, Apocalypse Now at the top of my queue, and you know what they say, “if you can’t watch the campy vampire movie you love, love the war movie you’re with”.

Errr…something.

Anyway. Yes, yes. I know, I know.  There’s really no plausible excuse for having reach 39 years of age and not having seen this already.  Hell, it one of Those Movies You’re Supposed to See.  And I’ve got a pretty solid record of seeing Those Movies You’re Supposed to See.

Just don’t hold it against me, eh?

Oddly enough, having seen it now, I’m happy to concede that I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing it and not felt a terrible, cold emptiness eating away at me.

Apocalypse Now – I understand why people fawn all over this one and I believe there’s an interesting movie hidden somewhere inside Coppola’s work, like the toy in a box of Trix.  But, well, I’ll be damned if I found it.  Sure, it succeeded in portraying the insanity and hopelessness of war—especially in Vietnam—and explored darkness in the human soul, but does that need to take three hours?  Worse, I just never become invested in any of the characters. Ultimately, it felt like watching a stranger’s vacation slides from a nude beach.  That is, I was mostly bored and slightly uncomfortable.

I guess if you have three hours of your life to waste and enjoy being either bored, slightly uncomfortable, or both, this is the movie for you.  But I don’t think I’ll be seeing this on again.

No matter what the smell of napalm in the morning smells like.

Pud’n

I know, I know.  It bothers me too.  But she’s my mother, so I choose to overlook it.  At least I’ve weaned her off the A1 sauce.

Anyway, so it’s hot today, and this summer promises to be a scorcher.  Obviously, this got me to thinking about mowing the lawn and having a cold, refreshing beer afterwards.  In fact, I rambled on about it at some length in a Hoperatives post.  Why not check it out over there and come back?  Go on, we’ll wait.

Great.  That brings us to today’s Saturday Debate…

The best lawnmower beer: kolsch, wheat, blond ale, light lager, or, um, other?

As usual, I’ve crafted a poll for you debating pleasure.  So leave your particular pair of cents, eh?

Pud’n

Ok, so I don’t really do that either.  Usually I have to take out the trash or plunge a toilet as soon as I get home. 

Nothing says Welcome Home quite like, “Oh, hi, honey.  Shitter’s clogged.”

That’s okay, though.  I don’t mind; it’s all part of being the modern Renaissance Man.  Or at least that’s what I tell myself halfway through a six-pack.

Ahem.  Anyway, I do like to check the mail first thing.  You know, just in case Ed McMahon wants to award me a few Publisher’s Clearinghouse millions from beyond the grave or something.  As it turns out, there’s typically nothing but the occasional bill, maybe an ad magazine, or perhaps a form letter from Local Corporate Community College X suggesting I go back to school and get a certificate in Computer Support Services.

Um, thanks, LCCCX, but, just, No.  I think I’ll ride my career out with that silly Bachelor’s in Computer Science and Math I earned from, you know, the accredited university back in 1995.  But, hey, maybe I’ll stick your letter up on the fridge, just in case I decide to call for more information (I won’t).

Of course, in addition to all that very compelling daily correspondence, there’s been this lately:

In case you’re wondering, that’s a picture of all the political fliers/mailer cards we’ve received over the past, I dunno, 10 days.

Look at it there.  All of it.  Tremble before it’s massive glory.

Oh, and I took this picture on Monday.  More, so very much more, has arrived since then.

The most impressive thing is that there’s only about four individual types of card there.  Maybe five.  Whatever, the point is that they’re sending me doubles.  Triples, even.  It’s the very definition of insanity.

I’m stockpiling these in case the winter we didn’t get this year returns doubly pissed off and frigid next year.  In which case I’ll have an ample supply of fuel to burn for warmth.  So, I guess, thanks, candidates for that.

But seriously, candidates, THIS IS STUPID.  Look, not only is your mailer card not going to affect my voting decision, sending me multiple versions of the same thing makes me believe that either:

1. You have been employing the “shotgun” method of direct mailings, which includes all the precision and grace as a 13 year-old hopped up on 2 quarts of “Mt. Dew Code: HEADBUZZ XTreeeeeme” trying to shoot a housefly with a fully-automatic paintball gun.
2. You have no idea who you’ve been sending these things to and probably don’t care as long as you spend your budgeted campaign dollars and some statistic someplace (actually compiled by a guy nicknamed “Slumpy”) demonstrates adequate “regional traction”

Either way, such a display does not lead me to believe you and/or your respective campaign teams have your shit together or could find my house on Google Maps, let alone your own collective backsides.

So, as I’ve explained that all the nonsense photographed above is not going to have any affect on my actual voting methodology, could we stop wasting money on all this crap?  I mean, sure, fine, if you must, send me one (1) mailer card.  Whatever.  But after that?

Here’s an idea: take the money you’d have pissed away sending me six of the same pointless, glossy card and donate that sum to the local school.

Try improving my kids’ education instead of wasting money at futile attempts to promote yourself.

That might change my opinion of who to vote for.

In the meantime, I’ll be waiting here with my rainbows, unicorns, and flying donkeys for word that someone’s done that.

Pud’n

1. Kate Beckinsale, duh,
2. Kate Beckinsale in shiny black pleather, ooo!,
3. I loves me some vampire/werewolf shenanigans, and
4. Historically, my taste in motion pictures is entirely questionable

I wrestled with the idea of plunking down the $5.99 and pay-per-viewing it this past weekend.  But, even with my thumb finger poised over the “Select” key on my remote, that annoyingly self-righteous, cheap-bastard voice that I usually keep stuffed in the dark, cobwebby recesses of my mind-void refused to stop muttering about my Netflix queue. 

Because Underworld: Awakening is sitting, all shiny and tempting, at the very top of it. 

Why drop the cash when I very easily could just receive it in the mail from a service I already pay for.

In other words, even though I have the patience of a toddler eyeing the cake on his/her birthday, skinflintiness (shut up, it is so a word) apparently takes precedence.

So I clicked the safety on for my pay-per-view ordering thumb and chose Option B: Curmudgeonly Tightwad Views One of the Netflix DVDs Already In Hand.

I had Apocalypse Now and The Rum Diary.  Yes, I have the two-at-a-time subscription.  Because sometimes Life demands options.

My selection process Saturday night was pretty simple:  I asked myself if I was feeling particularly depressive. 

I wasn’t.  The Rum Diary it was.

Without further adieu, then,

The Rum Diary – I liked this movie more than I expected to, honestly. As a Hunter S. Thompson fan, I expected that I would like it, at least somewhat, but didn’t figure I’d be on it like a fanboy on a replica light saber.  While I still didn’t go geek-gasm over it, I enjoyed it more than Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas*.  Not only is it entertaining, the movie provides some insight into Thompson before he became Hunter S. Thompson.  For me, it was comforting to see he once had the same questions and self-doubts all of us writers seem to have.

So, you know, check it out.  Or don’t.  Whatever.

The truly important thing to take away from this is that I sent a DVD back to Netflix today.

Wish me lucking getting the top movie in my queue.

Mmmmm…vampire movies.

Pud’n

*I’m referring strictly to the film version here. I wasn’t gaga over Fear and Loathing the movie simply because it wasn’t the book.  Usually I have no problem separating the film and written versions of something and treating them individually, but this case, I just couldn’t do it.

Last week I wrote a bit about how I was dragging my feet somewhat in the procession from my first novel to the next, which was, by necessity, going to be about a different world with different characters, etc, etc.  I got some truly awesome, very supportive comments on the post, demonstrating that there more people out there than I ever would have guessed pulling for me in this whole writing business.

So I guess I do have readers out there besides just my mom and wife.  That’s pretty cool.  If I hadn’t traded my capacity to for genuine human emotion several years ago for an Arby’s Medium Roast Beef and 6 bombers of Arrogant Bastard, I might have even gotten all verklempt.

Luckily, though, there’s nothing inside of me but old hay and spiders, so we’re cool.

Seriously, thanks, everyone for the words of support.  I was totally not expecting them.  Also, please don’t take that post to mean I’m even in the same time zone as that dreaded place where I temporarily give up on Famine and slide it in to a drawer for a few years (or—gasp!—consider self-publishing it).  On that score, I defer you to that immortal words of that one navel guy.  I think it was Captain Kirk, or maybe Ramius, or, no, no, Jack Sparrow, that’s it, who mumbled around a fifth of rum, “I have not yet begun to fight!”

I’m kidding, it was John Paul Jones.  Actually, I believe Sparrow would likely say something more akin to what Val Kilmer’s Doc Holliday said in Tombstone, “I have not yet begun to defile myself.”

Anyway, movie-related rambling aside, thank you for the awesome words of support.  And don’t worry, there’s plenty of fight left in me.

Mention the Next: Last week, I got to attend one of the Coolest. Events. Evah.  My dad (previously dubbed “PuddinPa”, I think), who spent the bulk of his professional career working tirelessly as an educator, coach, and administrator at my high school, was surprised at the dedication of the school’s new softball field to find that it was, in fact, dedicated to him.  They suckered him to a game to throw out the first pitch and then, once they had him on the mound with First Pitch Ball in hand, executed the old bait-and-switch by revealing, with a showman’s flourish, a big sign emblazoned with his name.

I believe his discomfort at being the Center Of Attention was equally balanced by his Immense Gratitude for the whole thing.  It was amusing to watch.

Then he did actually throw the first pitch, which made it all the way to the catcher and even looked like a strike to me.  Of course, he’d probably say it was barely good enough for batting practice and would’ve ended up over the fence in center field, but since that’s where I expect they’ll hang said sign-with-his-name-on-it, that seems fitting anyway.

Finally, for an explanation of why today’s ramblings are full of Extra! Bonus! Ramble!, i.e., what made my brain more porous than a cartoon character trying to take a ladle of water after being shot repeatedly (wow, and parents worry about violence in media today!), I hope you enjoy this Theater of Twitter monologue.

First, at about 11 PM last night, there was this:

Something just knocked out power to my whole ‘hood and maybe more.Candles 1, Scentsy 0

— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) May 14, 2012

Which prompted:

It’s amazing how loud one’s house is when all the things that make “white noise” (fridge, pcs, ac units, etc) go off.

— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) May 14, 2012

And then:

Dear battery-powered fluorescent camping lantern, I never realized how much I love you until the power went out.

— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) May 14, 2012

But it wasn’t all fun and games and devotion to lanterns:

Seems that kids used to sleeping w/ soothing white noise don’t sleep so well when it goes away.Kids not sleeping = parents not sleeping.

— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) May 14, 2012

And that’s how I learned to make special requests at the coffee shop:

This explains why this AM I’m rocking a 24 oz concoction of 4-shots of espresso topped of with black coffee. #OHHAICOFFEE

— Jason A. Rust (@jasonarust) May 14, 2012

The most interesting (and painful) thing to take away from this experience is that you’d think that the power going out at night would be No Big Deal, what with most everyone either being or going to sleep.  But it turns out that it can Become Quite A Thing when puddinlings used to comforting background noise and gentle night lights either can’t get to sleep or wake up and freak the hell out because Something’s Wrong.

So, that’s how the Puddinette and I came to be entertaining visits from children pretty much every 30 minutes last night between 2:30 AM and 5 AM.

Which is what brings me to say (and someone should write this down for posterity): today, I am more grateful for coffee than beer.

Of course, I’ll probably deny I even suggested that later.

Pud’n

She works through the day, makes their home clean and neat
Guides them through homework, and cooks dinners to eat

She laughs at little jokes, plays games that don’t stop
Run to practice and scouts, ’til she feels like she’ll drop

Never a complaint, or a word of despair
She sees to their needs, their every last care

She soothes tender feelings, breaks up small fights,
Makes sure they’re all happy, and kisses them goodnight

Four little birdlings fill up her nest,
The mother bird toils, never time enough to rest.

Four little birdlings fill up her nest,
And for four tiny lives, she’s quite simply, the best.

Happy Mother’s Day to the Puddinette and all the mother’s out there that work so hard to make our lives seem easy.

Pud’n

When I asked the Puddinette for ideas to use for this week’s Saturday Debate, she said I should make sure it’s something topical, maybe even controversial.  I suppose there is that whole Time magazine thing blowing around, and “Parenting: Helicopter or Hands Off” might have made for an interesting discussion.  Heck, we might have gotten some good old-fashioned name-calling, finger-pointing, and perhaps even a dollop or two of trolling if we were lucky.

But ultimately I decided I had better things to do with my Saturday afternoon than moderate a flame-war between two 30 year-old men pretending to be 18 year-old single mother in the comments.  So, we’ll skip that topic for the day.

Instead, let’s go with something just as timely, but a little more personal.  We’ve all got a mother, right?  So, then here, you go then:

The World’s Best Mother: Mine or Yours*?

You know what to do in the comments, I hope.  Also, don’t forget to vote in this week’s Mother’s Day poll.

Pud’n

*I’ll be abstaining from participation in the debate, because I think we all know I’m in a position to skew the outcome (also, because my mom’s the best and it’s not fair to you other people)