O is for OMG am I Obsessing on the Sopranos

I’m writing this on Monday, the day after the night of the big Sopranos cut (not fade) to black. But I couldn’t post this until today because I am obviously following a vowel-based pattern with my blog post titles this week. Obsessive, huh?

Not as bad as I am with this thing:

”

I am majorly obsessing over the different analyses of the finale. I offered my simple explanation earlier, but there are some great other ones, like, it’s the viewer who got whacked.

I use the Time Tracker Firefox extension to see how much time I’m blowing on the net.

Look how much time I’ve spent on dissecting the meaning of the 10 seconds of black screen:

3 hours.

45 minutes.

42 seconds.

What have I gained? As they say in my old hometown, not a dayum thang.

What if I’d obsessed over something useful? What if I’d obsessed about producing something, rather than consuming something? David Chase didn’t come up with this brilliant episode by moving his mouse around the net for pictures of Jamie-Lynn Sigler.

He wrote it.

The lesson of the day is Produce more, consume less.

The Sopranos ending was brilliant, and everyone else is wrong

I’m seeing all the hate out there.

You haters best be stepping off.

Tony *was* whacked (is my theory). His death will parallel Phil’s death. Note that Phil was with a woman and two children at the time he was shot, as was Tony at the end.

Note that Meadow, the “good” one, wasn’t in the diner until the very last second. She was too busy trying to park *legally*–and that left an empty space by Tony so the dude could come out of the bathroom to kill him.

Did we need to see Tony get killed? No, we didn’t. We knew it happened. In film, that’s what happens to gangsters. Tony was doomed to die.

I’m assuming the wife and AJ got it, too, with Meadow being spared.

We didn’t see it, but, come on. We know.

Hello, ankly, wheezy, and sexy

Here is a screenshot of a Google image search for “girls smoking” (Safesearch Moderately On, unfortunately).

And, for comparison, the same search minus the “smoking” part:

Both sets contain fine specimens. Well, except for that Ziggy dude. I don’t know which group I’d rather take to a desert island, and I absolutely detest smoking.

At a stop light on my way home from work, I saw a mid-nineties Toyota with a couple of dents in the rear fenders and no gas cap flap. It had a gas cap. But not the flap that you cover the gas intake point up with. All its windows were rolled down. I was half a car length behind the vehicle, and in the next lane, so my angle was bad and I couldn’t see the driver or her passenger.

I did see that each of them were dangling a wrist out the window (that sounds somewhat morbid, as though they had carpals hanging from a chain, or perhaps from a volar radiocarpal ligament, like a good luck charm, but you know what I mean), to keep their smoking cigarettes from smoking up the insides of their beat-up car.

I also saw that they each had a foot sticking out the window. Yeah, the driver did, too. So I got a real nice eyeful of some hot white girl leg. That’s not me being sarcastic. Again, I couldn’t see their faces, but by the hue of toenail polish and the cellulite-free state of their thighs, I’d say they had to have been in their early twenties, and were hot as hell. As a matter of fact, I was thinking, I’d fuck the shit out of both of those girls.

Guys think that way, even nice guys, and even dads, and even your dad. They won’t admit it, though, because we’ve kinda been neutered these past few decades, but even though we can’t say it (unless you ladies ask us to. Please ask us to), we think it, and we think it a lot like that. We don’t look at attractive women and think we’d like to take them to a really nice restaurant and get to know them better. You know, as a person. We think that we’d fuck the shit out of them. Not literally. Well, I don’t.

But, back to the purpose of the wrist-dangling (not that I know the purpose of the ankle-dangling, unless their snatches just needed airing out, or they were advertising, or maybe they were just kind of stupid). Back to the cigarettes.

Cigarettes killed my dad. Lost him last year. Not to cancer, but to COPD caused by smoking. COPD is a real bitch, and I’d never heard of it before my dad was diagnosed.

I quit smoking on December 17, 1998. I still have the very last cigarette butt, in a tiny frame. I’m serious. I’ll have to tell you how to quit smoking sometime. I have a great system (guess it worked, huh?).

I’m down on cigarettes, cigarette manufacturers, and smokers, and I’m not real fond of straws, toothpicks, or clouds, either.

And I was thinking at the stoplight how disgusting it was that they smoked, and how glad I am that I quit, but then I realized that if a girl is hot enough, it really didn’t matter whether she smoked. If a girl is hot enough, really, it really probably wouldn’t matter if she smoked crack and injected PCP directly into her clitoris. Most guys would still bang her, if she was hot enough. She’d have to be really hot, a true dime, but guys would still do her. And I thought that, if the situation was reversed, women would still fazizzle men who behaved in ways they found abhorrent, if the man was physically hot enough. Even moms. Even your mom. No, I didn’t think that, I knew that.

That’s not the lesson, though.

The lesson is, we will have sex with beautiful people (almost) no matter what they do because we are driven to reproduce well.

Unless…unless they do bad shit to kids. I wouldn’t want to be with a woman in any sense, no matter if she made Angelina Jolie look like Rosie O, if they beat up their kids, or worse. Wouldn’t touch a bitch like that. But why?Because of the same reason. We must reproduce well, and there is no point in mixing your genes with some goddess’ genes if she isn’t going to treat the offspring well.

You can understand so much through evolution.

The lesson of the day is It is ok to want to have sex with smokers.

Hello, Periplaneta americana

Yesterday morning I saw my overfed and fluffy jet black cat, Pluto, staring off into the hallway from his perch on the back of the couch. He stares at things often. But something about his expression made me turn and look into the hall to see what he was looking at. I don’t know why. I don’t know if Pluto has eyebrows, so I can’t really say he had much of an expression. And he wasn’t growling, mewing, or hissing. He might have been looking at nothing in particular, and was instead lost in peaceful musings on milk bottle cap rings or the passing of Vonnegut. But there was something that made me turn to look, too, and there I saw it.

Go on, click the thumbnail. Cute, huh?

I checked Wikipedia. It’s where I got this pic, and so I’ll properly credit “Paul Hirst” for this image of an American Cockroach, which he snapped himself in Hilo, Hawaii. Thanks for the image, “Paul Hirst.” I do not live in Hawaii, but I guess Hawaiians are Americans and so can have American cockroaches, just like I can.

I don’t live with a female now, but after many previous years of living with various varieties of them, I guess it’s just part of my makeup (no pun intended) to dispose of such varmints posthaste before I am screamed at, yet again, to dispose of the varmint posthaste. Or, as chicks say, “now.” Plus, who wants cockroaches around?

But Pluto looked to me like he wanted a piece of it. It, which was as big as my index and middle fingers together, crawled up the doorframe, and over it, onto the wall in the hall, with a cocky swagger as I debated Pluto’s expression and whether to handle this problem, or let Pluto handle it.

I ended up simply shaving calmly, wondering whether Pluto was going to come bounding into the bathroom with a wriggling half of a roach in its mouth, or whether the whole thing might make an appearance atop my bare foot.

But, it was somehow liberating to not do anything about it myself. It needed handling, but I decided not to handle it and not worry about it and continue about my morning constitutional (or devotional, or whatever you call that shit you gotta do every morning so people know that you know that it isn’t the weekend).

When I came home that evening, I didn’t see half of a roach, or half of a cat. I saw one whole Pluto and not a sign of the roach. I don’t know if Pluto devoured the sexopod (mm, nice term. Sounds like furniture one might suspend from one’s ceiling) or if the sexopod merely passed through en route to the next apartment.

But it’s gone and it’s like it never even happened.

The lesson of the day is Sometimes problems solve themselves.

(Unless it shows back up. If it does, please amend the Lesson to include the words “do” and “not”.)