I'D RATHER BE IN THE RAT PACK


For anyone who reads this site consistently, I feel like I owe you an apology. You see, I've sort of been tricking you. I've bragged about my memory several times and backed it up too. If you know me well, I've probably freaked you out at some point by remembering something you forgot a long time ago. In some of my top lists, I've listed exact dates in many of the lists pertaining to my personal life.

As impressive as my memory may be, it's not the only reason I can pull exact dates out of my ass (like when I got Ric Flair's autograph). I have a confession to make: My name is Gene, and I'm a pack rat. Sorry for the deception. But I'm coming clean now. I hope our relationship is strong enough to get past this.


For my whole life, I've had trouble throwing things away. Instead I collect piles of paper and junk everywhere. You never know when you might need these things. Unfortunately, my mom is quite the opposite. She thinks everything should be in perfect order. These contrasting life styles lead to confrontations every now and again, mostly with her winning. I can't really compete when she yells: "Clean up this shit right now. I'm sick of all your little fucking piles of paper. Organize this shit or I'm throwing the whole fucking pile away."

If it were up to me, we would not have had that garage sale (or garbage sale as mom calls them) when I was 14. Mom sold a lot of good shit from my childhood. I would feel much better about my life if I still had my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys or the He-Man: Master of the Universe ones. I even had this wrestling buddy that I used to beat up. Gone. I've been bodyslamming a pillow for the past 10 years.

As you can see in the picture, I have a box for my collection of events I've attended. I have stubs for every movie I've seen, stacked by the year (though I'm a little behind in the organization). I have a stack of Saints tickets, LSU tickets, Hornets tickets, concert tickets and wrestling tickets. So yeah, I remembered that I got Flair's autograph at a Timberwolves game, but I had to refer to my Hornets tickets to get the exact date. Once again, my apologies.

THE TINA CURSING CORNER

The grass needs to be cut at casa de Guillot. "The fucking grass is growing like weeds."

Mom has been cleaning a lot of dishes. "I'm getting sick and tired of fucking cleaning."

Mom wants to buy season 5 of CSI: Miami. The price is a bit steep. "You know how much it was? Fucking $55!"

GUSTAV TRACKER

I'm getting ready for work Tuesday afternoon when I get a call from Marcus.
Marcus: What are your evacuation plans?
Me: For what? (I had no idea.)
Marcus: Gustav.
Me: Where is it?
Marcus: Over Haiti.

And so began the week of worry. I don't think I went thirty minutes for the rest of the day without thinking deeply about it or hearing someone discuss the possibilities. Since that's all anyone will be focused on for the next several days, I will try to have a daily update on my feelings and the happenings with this thing. For today, I don't think Gustav will hit us. Somehow, I became more confident of that after watching Bob Breck. Go figure. He has this graphic on the news dating from 1851 (I think) to 2006, which shows all the storms that have gone over Haiti or very near it in August. In all that time, not one storm coming from Haiti has ever hit Louisiana. Breck says:

"Look at us there (on the graphic). Nada. (Extends arms in the air.) I love history!

At work, Mike and Phil are looking at the projected path of Gustav. I look too.

Mike: Why don't these things ever go south?
Me: They're not birds.

POOR SIGN OF THE WEEK

Paul and I are watching my tape of Raw when he tells me to rewind back a few seconds. Six fans that went together made a sign for the wrester CM Punk. The sign was actually a fairly large cut out of each letter. Each fan held one letter in the air to spell his name. They were in the front row. However, the sign they held when he came out to the ring said: CM PNUK. Like Paul said: "Why go through all that trouble and put the letters out of order?"

I'm starting to think wrestling fans aren't the brightest group. And it's OK to admit it. You want to know what the CM stands for, don't you? Well, it stands for Cookie Monster, a nickname his mother gave him when he was a baby boy and would grab for more cookies.

PARTING SHOTS

Phil and I are watching the Cubs-Pirates game. Pirates pitcher Ian Snell is struggling.

Phil: Snell does not handle adversity well. (On the next pitch, Snell throws a breaking ball way up that Soriano barely avoids having hit him.)

D finds multiple mistakes in Sunday's blog.

D: I will hook you up, Gene. For $20 a day, I'll edit it real good.

The office is talking about hurricanes and the possibility of sleeping through a storm.

Brick: You couldn't have done that for Katrina, though.

Bake: No. That would have been a wet dream.

THE DAILY TOP LIST

My top 10 guilty pleasure songs, for those songs that I really shouldn't have on my iPod anymore, let alone spend the night jamming to.

10) Fergalicious. Fergie.

"I be up in the gym just working on my fitness." What a great line.

9) Buttons. Pussycat Dolls.

At least I have the image of the hot lead singer in my head when I sing along.

8) Candy. Mandy Moore.

I was like 15 when this song came out. I think I watched the video a half a million times.

7) Summer Girls. LFO.

"You're the best girl that I ever did see; the great Larry Bird jersey 33." With classic rhymes like that, it's a shame the group only had one hit album.

6) Bye. Bye. Bye. N'Sync.

I'm hoping this scores me points with a future girlfriend.

5) He Loves You Not. Dream.

Not as popular as it should have been.

4) Always Be My Baby. Mariah Carey.

David Cook's version isn't bad either.

3) Love Will Find a Way. Christina Aguilera.

Truer words about love were never put in a song.

2) You Drive Me Crazy. Britney Spears.

No matter how bad she ruins her legacy, this song always will have a special place in my heart.

1) Rock Your Body. Justin Timberlake.

I can't help but dance to this one. Mix this song and a few drinks in me, and I'll probably start taking my clothes off.