Saturday, October 29, 2005

Blog Attire.

Well it came in the mail today.
What? you ask. Did I receive my income-tax refund?


Did I win millions from Ed MacMahon?

Not yet. (But I may already be a winner.)

Did I receive my acceptance into the LAPD?

Well, yes actually, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I am speaking, of course, about my Frank Turk T-shirt from his very own "Shopping Cart a Basket of Goodies." That's right folks, for just $19.99, you too can be a walking, talking, advertisement for Centuri0n's world-famous blog.

"Why", you ask, "would I want to wear Frank's likeness?"

I have no idea. I'm not the only one, though. Frank's shirts seem to be a big hit with the some of the locals.

I don't even think the stat-man himself knows who's reading his blog.

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Thursday, October 27, 2005

Oh thank you. You're too kind.

Call me crazy but I don't think there's any need for a re-count.


Wednesday, October 26, 2005

And now the world knows.

Is this really a surprise to anyone?


Sunday, October 23, 2005

Taking a break.

I hate to jump on the "taking a break" bandwagon but I'm moving in to my new place this week, and I don't have internet access yet.

Posts will be sporadic, but I will have to post a few times; Frank Turk has pulled ahead on hits-per-day and so I can't afford to slack off.


Thursday, October 20, 2005

Yet another reason to hate cats.

Remember that dog that should be put to sleep? Well apparently he has a feline counterpart.

I actually had to do a little research to be certan that that's a cat we're looking at. At first, I thought it was a lab rat that survived some kind of fire or evil experiment. Who knows, maybe this thing is a former roomate of the C-train's sub-par dog.

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Monday, October 17, 2005

... as a sheep before her shearers is dumb

Ever since I was in the first grade, I've been going to the same barber shop. It's an old fashioned place that's manned by two senior citizens both named Henry.

Henry number one, I suspect, has Parkinson's disease, and Henry number two is clearly blind. You can probably imagine what the quality of their service is like. Needless to say; Henry Wonder and Henry J. Fox should not be cutting hair for a living.

As a kid, I guess I never noticed how bad they were at cutting hair. As I got older, I began to notice all the little things that make a visit to their shop quite annoying.

For instance, most barbers, when they want you to move your head, will either motion or ask you to do so. Henry number two likes to stick his finger in your ear and manually turn your head. There's nothing quite like a hair-gel wet-willy.

The Henrys also have a nasty habit of criticizing the plans you have for your 'do. For instance, if you sat down and asked for a "three" on the sides, one of the Henrys would surely say something to the effect of, "Oh that's too short, you're getting a four."

One time, my oldest brother (let’s call him "El Capitan") went to get a haircut and got more than he bargained for. El Capitan had spent the summer growing himself an impressive set of mutton chops that he was understandably proud of. Henry number two apparently didn't like my brother's sweet chops so he promptly cut them off, even after being instructed not to. El vowed to never set foot in their shop again, and he hasn't.

In high school, after I made a similar vow, I had a friend of mine start doing my hair for two reasons: 1. She didn't charge me and 2. She was a she.

There is something weird to me about having a dude who is under the age of seventy-five run his fingers through my hair.

Recently, I've been going to Supercuts. This has been hit-or-miss, to say the least. Half the time I get stuck with a fifty-something lady who does my hair the way guys did back in "her day." Needless to say, the "Pecadillo Pompadour" is not a good look.

How can it be so hard to cut hair? I don't ask for much. Here's everything I want in a haircut:

1. A young, cute girl to spend no less than 20 minutes running her hands through my hair.

2. After she has sufficiently played with my follicles, she will promptly cut my hair in a manner that keeps minimal hair from going down the back of my shirt and itching me the rest of the day.

3. If both 1 and 2 are accomplished, who needs a three?

I don't think that's too much to ask.


Thursday, October 13, 2005

People are more stupider.

Today, a man came into my store inquiring about a new pump for his koi pond. I suspect this was his first contact with the outside world in weeks.

The man was fifty-something and appeared to be wearing the sleeves of a brown wool shag coat. About the time I realized he was wearing a sleeveless shirt, he informed me that his current pump will often "arch" a spark. He also mentioned he's noticed that, when barefoot, he gets a shock whenever he sticks his hand in the water. The man then proceeded to look me in the eye and ask me with a straight face, "Does that sound serious?"

After explaining to him the obvious danger of his pond's electrical setup, I handed him a new pump and UV sterilizer to replace his old ones. He then said—and I promise you I'm not making this up—"I'm not too good with reading words. You'll have to tell me what to do."

Well, now there's a shocker.

There is a family of four that has been frequenting my store longer than I've been an employee. The only problem is I'm pretty sure they've never bought a single thing. Now I don't want to sound like I think everyone who enters our store is obligated to leave having purchased something, but they come in every week—as if we were their own personal, no-admission-fee Sea World®.

Also, I'm not sure, but I suspect their two boys are the spawn of Satan.

I've never caught the boys names, so let's call them "Uday" and "Qusay". These two troglodytes love to wipe their grubby, filthy hands all over our aquariums. I realize that doesn't sound like a big deal but it takes me a long time to clean all those tanks, and I'm proud of the fact that I do a good job. A lot of kids do that, but these kids are out of control. They're constantly running around our store, knocking things over, breaking our equipment, and shouting at the fish. Every time they come in, Uday and Quusay enjoy testing the buoyancy of new kinds of candy by placing it into one of the aquariums.

When their parents discover the havoc their sons are wreaking, they usually respond by laughing or say something like, "Isn't that cute?"

Who are these people, and why do they seem to flock to me?


Sunday, October 09, 2005

How to hold a purse without compromising your dude-hood

We've all been there.

Well, maybe we haven't. Guys, if you've ever had a girlfriend or are currently married, you've probably been there. You're out in public—maybe at church, maybe shopping—and both of your lady's arms are occupied, leaving you with the embarrassing task of having to hold her purse. Such is the inescapable and horrifying lot of the boyfriend.

Embracing the purseSome guys try to ignore their perfectly natural and justifiable feelings of discomfort when presented with this dubious task. To compensate, they often embrace the purse; sometimes going so far as to sling it over one shoulder. I think the theory behind this is that if you look like it doesn't bother you, it won't bother anyone else.

Well they're wrong. It bothers me. It should bother everyone. There is simply no excuse for a guy cradling a purse.

It seems like there is no way out of this predicament. We can't refuse to hold the purse. That would make us look like we're uncaring, selfish lugs who think only of ourselves.

That, of course, is true, but we don't want to let on.

Holding the purse like a bombI, Pecadillo, have discovered a way out, and it is surprisingly simple. You don't hold the purse like a football; you don't sling it over a shoulder. You hold it like a bomb—a bomb that could go off at any moment. Because that's what it is.

Holding it this way will surely draw attention to the purse and your current obligation as keeper of the purse.

This approach goes against our natural instincts of attempting to hide the fact that we're holding a purse. But trust me, it's the only way.

The wrong approachAll too often guys will try to hide it under their arm or keep it out of sight in some way. The major flaw to this approach is that, to the untrained eye, you look like you are in possession of something that you are 1. comfortable holding and 2. accustomed to holding. Both of which should not be true.

Instead, the boyfriend should draw as much attention to the purse as possible in an uncomfortable and truly awkward way. Think of the way C-3PO would look holding a purse. One or both arms should be fully extended, drawing attention to the fact that you don't feel right about holding it. Handle the purse with only the tips of your fingers. Never, EVER clutch it or palm it. Pretend your woman found the purse in the street and you don't know where it's been. While in possession of a purse, every movement you make should be unnatural and unsettling, proving to anyone who notices, that you are not a purse-holding fancy-boy.

I have been fortunate. In my brief and limited experience at boyfriend-hood, I have only rarely been put in such an awkward and undesirable position. However, I have had many a friend suffer the humiliation of the girlfriend's purse.

It's not pretty.

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Friday, October 07, 2005

Live strong; fall strong III The Search for Spock

Well guess what, I really shouldn't have a bike.

During my maiden voyage since having my bike fixed yesterday, I ate it yet again. This time, I must have run over something because my back tire popped about six miles into my ride.

I think this is some sort of sign.

Anybody want to buy a relatively new bike with just a few dents and scratches? Anyone?

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Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Live strong; fall strong part deux

Well guess what. Apparently, I shouldn't have a bike.

That's right, I ate it... again. Although this time, it wasn't due to any ill-conceived plans of going off sweet jumps. Also, I'm pleased to say that this time I stayed on my feet.

It is incredibly windy today; there have been reports of winds up to 45 mph. Nevertheless, I set out to ride on my favorite bike trail, about nine miles or so. The first half was horrible; it was on a slight incline and the wind was so strong I could barely maintain speed. My speedometer averaged a pathetic 6 or 7 miles an hour. Coming back, after the turn-around point, I started out understandably well. I was going downhill and with the powerful gusts of wind to my advantage. Here, my average speed was about 23 miles an hour.

Just as I passed a school playground that shares a fence with my bike path, something happened with my kickstand. My size 14 clown-shoe scuffed the ground, causing it to bounce up and hit my kickstand, sending it into my back wheel. If you've ever seen "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade," you can imagine what happened next. My back tire stopped dead in its tracks, causing the bike to do a front-wheelie for about a second and a half. Somehow my legs made it over the handlebars, so when the bike eventually flipped over front-ways, I was on my feet, skidding to a halt in the standing (more like hunched) position.

For about a nanosecond, I was able to contemplate the wipe-out I had just avoided and the position I was currently in. I came to the reasonable conclusion that I had just pulled off the impossible and come out of it looking pretty cool in front of all the elementary kids.

Then my bike caught up with me and hit me in the head.

Now there was no question about it—I looked stupid. Really stupid. Any doubt I could have had on the matter was immediately erased once the entire playground full of kids commenced the justifiable pointing and laughing.

How is it possible that every time I eat it, there are always punk elementary kids there to laugh at me? I think from now on, I'm going to avoid riding anywhere near children; they seem to always indicate that bad things are afoot.

To make things worse, my friends Joey and Erin Penberthy are both teachers at that school, and may have even witnessed this display of my total lack of bike-riding skills. Who knows, they could have been laughing too. I know I would have.

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Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Pecadillo's Picks, volume 2

The Teak has a post about the differences between American toilets and "dunnies" from his native Australia that has absolutely fascinated me. Apparently, "toities" down under are far more effective than ours. Not only does he describe the mechanics in graphic detail, but in another post, the Teakster published pictures of his very own "Crocodile Dunnie."

I also found the account of his visit to In-N-Out particularly interesting as he visited one that I been have been frequenting my entire life. It's an interesting outsider's perspective that is also good read.

I must say, after reading of the wonder that is the Australian toilet, I have been given yet another reason to travel Down Under. Perhaps the best reason is because Australian chicks have the most attractive accent ever. It has long been my goal to find myself a God-fearing Australian lass, and make her Mrs. Pecadillo.

You'll never see a more realistic classic TV show than the Rockford Files. Today, reality is often the goal; everything is supposed to be as realistic as possible. Back in the 70's, there was one show that stood out among all others as entertaining and believable. James Garner's performance as a private investigator named Rockford paved the way and set the standard for the now redundant anti-hero character. Jimmy never broke even. He almost never got paid for his detective services, and when he did, he usually had to spend it all to get his car fixed, or pay some off a debt he wasn't responsible for. He often got beat up; usually the result of his friendship with a weasly con named Angel played by Stuart Margolin. Any episode with him is a guaranteed winner. Angel's always trying to rip off Rockford, or use him in some way. He's a dishonorable scoundrel you can't help but love.

Here's Angel's description of a chess game between Rockford and his dad (Rocky)—note the strong use of 70's jive talk:

"This game's over, man! You gotta move your Boss or Rocky's gonna lay a subpoenie on him; then his Torpedo is gonna smoke your Old Lady, and all your Heavies'll be doin' time—except for maybe your Mouthpiece, but Rocky's Sheriff's got him put in the corner. You got nothin' left but Punks and Junkies: you're through, Jimmy."

—Angel Martin to Jim Rockford

I love that show.

For the past year or so, I've been using a pen that is wicked awesome. It's called a Space Pen. NASA developed this truly ingenious invention so their astronauts could use pens in space. Obviously, the average ball-point pen would be useless when in zero gravity because it utilizes the gravity system to work. The Space Pen is pressurized, making it possible to write while holding it upside-down.

When I was abroad last year, some of my friends there told me a joke I would not likely have heard in the States: The Americans spent thirty years designing and perfecting a pen that works in space. Russian astronauts use pencils.

I actually know a guy who is an astronaut, but I'm a little reluctant to ask him if they really use these pens. The last time I saw him, he crushed me with the news that they don't really drink Tang. He didn't even know what it was. How can it be called "the drink of the astronauts" when they don't even drink it? And to think, all those times I drank Tang as a wee Pecadillo, thinking that would make me more like a "Space man"—now I know all I got was a better chance at diabetes.

Breaks my heart.

Olive Garden. Before I continue, I want to make something clear; I am not one of those people that thinks the Olive Garden is Italian Food. It may be called Italian Food, but it's about as Americanized as it could be. Calling Olive Garden authentic Italian food is about the same as calling the sushi sold at Costco authentic Japanese food.

That being said, it should be noted that I have yet to meet a single female who doesn't love the Olive Garden. Clearly it has a purpose; dates. I have a theory about this: girls that would otherwise decline to go out with you (in my case, most girls) are more likely to say yes if they know they're getting free Olive Garden out of it.

Also, every so often, Olive Garden has a deal called the "Never ending pasta bowl". The name says it all. You pay for one bowl of pasta, but receive as many as you can eat. If you're anything like me, you like to get your money's worth. If so, it would be a good idea to not partake of the magical never-ending pasta-bowl while on a date. Especially if you suspect the savory cuisine is the only reason you're not eating alone. For more information, my buddy James, a server at "the OG", recently wrote a post about this deal and its effect on Olive Garden employees.

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