Mongols at the Gates of The Fortress

We live in an apartment. It's our Fortress. We like it here, we have a view of a pond with ducks, turtles, and big-ass blue herrons. It's a 2-bedroom, and we're just getting it all comfy like we want it. Lemur Queen and I are newlyweds, and we're slowly but surely sifting through all our crap and deciding where we should put things....on walls.....on shelves.....in dumpsters.......



But, since we have an apartment, we also have neighbors. First, we have the people next to us. They are the ultimate in good neighbors. They have a dog, but you wouldn't know it unless you saw the lady walking it. It's silent. They make no noise, and are ALWAYS nice to us.



Then we have the people across the hall. That apartment has been trouble for us in the past. First it was empty, then the college girls moved in. Tall, blonde, and evidently popular with the boys. They had a bunch of parties, loud parties, and I actually had to go out into the hall and ask some drunk and belligerant gentlmen to please put their pants back on. Now a nice family lives there.......a nice family with the Baddest Weiner Dog EVER. At least, that's what the dog thinks. He's so vicious, he could rip a sock right off your foot!



Below us we have The Tiny Woman (an incredably thin, and freaking tiny asian lady), and her spawn, Drama Girl. Drama Girl has the worst life ever. I've heard her say it, when she's sitting on the bottom of the stairs talking into her $200 cell phone. Yep. Or when she's walking back from her Expedition, which she just drove to the mall. I weep for her. The biggest drama surrounding Drama Girl is her choice in men. From what I can tell, she's in high school. And at all hours she has "very serious" conversations with various and sundry guys. By very serious, I mean, low toned talks about her feelings and all the drama in her life. These talks MUST occur at times when normal people either want to eat dinner, or want to sleep. And they must occur at the bottom step of either the first or second story stairs. That way the entire half of the building can be treated to her theatrics.



Above us, the Norse gods Thor and Modi live. For those of you not in the know, Thor was the god of lightning and thunder, and Modi was his son and the god of battle lust and madness. Basically, they run and boom and jump at night. Usually during prime time TV. Also, they drop things. I'm not sure what they are, but I'm guessing the anvils they practice juggling must be really slippery. The best thing about Thor and Modi is their love of animals. Well, maybe not LOVE. They have a dog. A yappy dog. A yappy dog that is about the size of a husky. I think it's an Akita. They love to keep this dog in its travel crate, which is too small for the dog. They also like to keep this travel crate on their porch, which is in direct sunlight. The dog does not like this, and he lets them, us, and everyone know it. Also, one day Thor and Modi left the dog in the crate, on the porch, in a thunderstorm. The Dog was loosing its mind, but did they care? Nope.



Still they aren't the worst neighbors I ever had. When I was in college, I live with my two buddies Howler Monkey and I.M. (independantly mysterious). We had a second floor apartment (university assigned housing) over 3 black guys. The black guys were cool. No noise (except during World Series and March Madness, but that's perfectly acceptable. I mean, we're all men, and sometimes we need to cuss at the TV. It's genetic), no parties, no wierd smells. Well, two out of the 3 black guys graduates. The last black guy gets two new roomies, 2 japanese guys. Now, the school I went to has a sizable asian population. And evidently these guys were really socialites. There were never less than 20 japanese people in that damn apartment. The last black guy was hiding in his room most of the time. I asked him once how he like living there now, and his reply was "Godzilla madness, yo." Well, the last black guy graduated (he was finishing his MBA), and yet another japanese guy went in. So now, there were usually 30 japanese people living underneath us. One time they had a party and IM and Howler Monkey had a super early ROTC march the next day, so IM went down to ask for a volume reduction. He came back up, and said "they were all surrounding a hibachi grill with an onion on a stick and laughing hysterically. They wouldn't even talk to me, just kept laughing. And there's like 40 of 'em down there." What finally took the cake was one late night, I was lying in bed, trying to drift off the sleep, when IT started.



"BOOM Boom.



Boom Boom BOOM.



THIS IS A STORY ABOUT A GIRL NAMED LUCKY......."



Yep, the japanese had started up Britney Spear's hit "Lucky" and were playing it at high volume.

Then I was surprised again, in a bad way:



"She so rucky, she a star, but CLY CLY CLY with her BLOCKEN HEART........."



Japanese Karaoke......Doing Britney Spears......and it's a guy singing. Oh my sweet lord. That was just a beginning of the night. I was treated to other such excellent songs as "Hit Me Baby One More Time" and "Some Thrice-Damned Japanese TV Show Jingle That All 30 of Those Bastards Must Have Loved Because I Swear I Heard About 10 of The Tone-Deaf Weasels Try To Sing It".



But at least they didn't have a dog............



Fat Rock.





Story about 30 japaneese people that lived underneath us in collge.

A Fatty's Take on Races

Fat Rock here. As you know, my wife is a runner. I have been to several of her races as a spectator, and once as a competitor. I have a tremendous amount of respect for my wife for doing the "running thing". I cannot. I am not a runner. This was made plain when I ran in the "Dook U. Run for the Lemurs 5k", which was a charity run for the Dook Primate Center. "You'll have a great time," said my fit, in-shape runner girlfriend(at the time), "this is totally a low pressure run, and you'll do great!" Since I was love-struck and stupid, I went for it. It was hot, and there was like 100% humidity and then there were plagues of locusts, and lightening and an earthquake because I had upset the balance of the universe by attempting to jiggle my happy ass for 5 kilometers in under 30 minutes. (Note: 30 mins was the time Lemur Queen said I should shoot for, since it was a "slow easy pace for a beginner") I may have a prejudiced viewpoint, but I digress. I was out of breath by the first hill. Lemur Queen wanted to RUN the whole time, while I could only run when I was going downhill. Long story short, I finished 4th from last. I beat out a massive MASSIVE obese black guy, and a pregnant woman in her third trimester. Oh, and I beat the Lemur Queen, because she was behind me......pushing me forward.



So I never competed in a race again. The only time I run now if to and from the buffet.



Anyways, I do go and support/cheer/hoot like an idiot when my wife races. Why? I enjoy supporting her and her interests. I mean, crap, she has actually agreed to go to DragonCON with me this year. And that's like Nerdapalooza. But at least she'll get an opportunity to freak watch, just like I do at her races. I love me some people watching. When we lived in the Capital City, there was this creepy guy that wore 70's shorty shorts with a mountain scene painted on them. To every race. And he never wore a shirt. To every race. And he was hairy like the love child of Robin Williams and Chewbacca. To every race.



But the races down here are still fun to watch. You have your SERIOUS runners, the ones in all matchy running outfits who are either crazy thin or really muscular, vigorously checking their pulses on their necks while bobbing in place. Then you have runners. Lemur Queen falls in this category. She has running clothes, is in good shape, and runs regularly. Not all matchy-matchy, but clothes that are dedicated to running. Then you have the "runners". You know the ones. My kind of peoples. Team Fatty. Jiggles McBee and his dancing Juggernauts. You know. I don't condemn these people, I applaud them. They're doing their best to improve themselves. They are, however, wearing ripped up sweats and a T-shirt from something completely inappropriate (Big D's Bar-B-Q, for example) or they're wearing a running outfit. Ruining outfits have spandex in them. These are the people you don't want to see in spandex.



There is a fourth category of racer: the oddments. These are the high-school athletes there to try to tear out their knees before they hit 18. There's the guy wearing the USMC Force Recon t-shirt with the baby jogger (the guy finished 3rd overall, by the way. And he started at the back of the pack). And then there's the HOLY CRAP IS THAT LADY RUNNING IN HER BRA AND PANTIES?!?!? Oh wait, those are her running clothes. Not underwear. Oh, and there's the really skinny Asian lady that is like normal width from side to side and then from front to back she's about the length of a pencil. A used pencil. Creepy.



But I see all these people show up, pin numbers on themselves, and do some sort of preening before the race. And I get to see said weirdos soon. This weekend actually. So, if your out at any footraces, looking for a fat guy hooting like an idiot and eating a rack of lamb. That'll be me.



Bring Napkins.



Fat Rock.

Fat Rock Recipies

Hi there. Are you a fat guy? Like to eat? Having trouble with the ladies due to a lack of social skill because your favorite hobbies include painting 28mm models, playing World of Warcraft, and screaming at Kung Fu movies? Well, take heart, and impress that woman (or wife) who's way out of your league by cooking for her!

Fat Rock's Chicken-Bake-Pasta-Thing (menu approved by the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster http://www.venganza.org/):

You need: 3 Skinless Boneless Chicken Breat Filets, 6 slices provolone cheese, 1 jar spaghetti sauce (any sauce will do), Fatty's Secret Spice Recipie(rosemary, thyme, garlic salt, ?????, methamphetamines), 2/3 cup pitted black olives, 1/2 cup feta cheese, 1 package of fettucini noodles.

1. Preheat oven to 450 F while thawing chicken. Make sure the chicken is thawed.

2. In a glass/pyrex pan, place chicken breasts in and cover with provolone cheese.

3. Cover chicken/cheese with spaghetti sauce, using the whole jar. Drizzle Secret Spice Recipie over sauce. Place pan in oven (set to 450 F) and cook for 45 minutes.

4. While Chicken is cooking, boil water and cook Fettucini noodles. You should know how to cook noodles. If you don't, your mother didn't love you.

5. While all that's cooking, chop half your olives, and fine dice the rest. Make sure the olive bits are drained, then mix with feta cheese on the cutting board. Set that aside.

6. Ding! Noodles done! Drain noodles and set as a base on the plate. Like a bed for your chicken. DING! Chicken's done! Scoop out chicken onto bed of noodles. The cheese will have melted and ran into the sauce, don't worry about it.

7. Once the chicken's on there good, scoop out the sauce and cover the chicken evenly. Now grab your olive/feta mix and put a dollop of that on top of the chicken.

8. Ding! Your done! Serve and impress the ladies!

Good luck!

Fat Rock.

P.S. This recipie is Lemur Queen tested, Lemur Queen approved.

Tourists and Other hazards to our Sanity

Hi there. You may not know me. I'm a "local". I live, work, shop, and worship in the city you come to for vacation. Yes, I know that this is your "special place" and you're on "leisure time", but I'm not. I live here at the beach, and I have to get to work. Nothing "magical" about this place to me, except that from March to October we get swamped with incompetant morons who left their common sence and driving skills at home, but made sure to pack an extra sense of entitlement. For those of you coming to the beach this summer, I have a few tips:

1. Read a map before you come. Have a general idea of the layout of the city you're going to before you come. I do it every time I go on vacation. It keeps me from getting lost as often, and from driving down the road in the fast lane going 15 miles under the speed limit trying to read all the roadsigns. Seriously people, if you suddenly see the road you're supposed to turn off of 2 lanes over......don't slam on brakes, jerk the car accross multiple lanes of trafic and come to a complete stop before you turn. Just pass it, make a U-turn when you can, and try again. The entire town isn't on vacation. A big reason the traffic here is bad is because of you lot of fools.

2. Stop asking locals "what's good here?". When you're in line at a restaurant and don't know what you want, don't hold up everybody else while you stand there life a freshly caught bass, mouth agape and eyes wide staring at a menu. Get out of the way. Stand off to the side. You've been in line 10 minutes, you should have looked at the menu on the wall before now.

3. Don't ask us where to eat. When you ask a local "what's good to eat around here", the locals (at least me and the Lemur Queen) are going to lie our asses off. Why? We don't want you in our restaurants. That's where WE eat. Where local's go, and we don't want you to mess it up. There's a little italian place that we both LOVE that's a hole in the wall but has melt-in-your-mouth dishes and an increadable waitstaff (that we tip 20%+ every time), there's a authentic german place with rockin' wursts and great beer, and there's a local funky burrito restaurant where all the cool alternative kids work where you can get a giant burrito called the "double bypass". All those places are for locals. If you find them it's purely by accident, because when you ask us "what's good", we're going to say "Big Daddy's Crap Shack! It's right by the beach and it's great and prices aren't bad!". Why are we doing this? Because you are foisting yourself on us and as punishment we're going to try to make you eat only with other tourists at the nastiest, overcrowded, overpriced place we can. Why? Because we hate you.

4. Wear some freaking clothes. I mean seriously, people. The whole town isn't a beach. If you're not at the beach, don't just wear shorts and a bathing suit top. Wear a shirt. Change out of your bathing suit. Wear real clothes. Would you like some random fat guy or hefty chick to come wobbling into the Chik-fil-A with their flubber hanging out in YOUR town? Do you know what it's like to sit in a booth after the guy with the soggy swim trunks sat there? EW!

5. While we're on the clothes topic, let's talk about body types and appropriateness. Lemur Queen is pretty, fit and slim. She can do 150 pushups at a whack, and has six pack abs. She can wear a two piece. YOU are 5'1" and over 200 lbs. YOU do not need to wear a two piece. YOU sure as hell don't need to be wearing a bikini. Guys, a word for a minute. Those european speedos you're wearing? They suck. And those board shorts that you're sagging to the point of almost showing your Kibbles'n'bits? They suck. Pull up your pants and wear something substantial enough to NOT be swallowed by a fat roll. I'm a fat guy. I know what it like to go to a beach and have Greenpeace try to roll me back into the surf every time I come out of the water for a drink. My name is Fat Rock for a reason. I can wear clothes that cover. So can you.

So, to all you tourists out there, please read my rules and live by them. And if you can't do that.....please get out of my town.

Fat Rock.

Southern Goths in the Summer: An Ode to Dedication

It's summer time on the Carolina Coast. No rain, high heat, freakish baking sunshine, and a town that subsists on outside activities make being a Goth hard. I mean if you think about it, there's not a good mall to hang out in, there's no parks with a lot of hardwoods (it's a "Dark Forest", for those of you NOT in the know), there's not really a store that sells AD&D (Advanced Dungeons and Dragons) or any of the things that traditionally Goths like and hang around at. Goths here are like spotted owls in the northwest. Their habitat is either non-existant, or even worse, been destroyed by the bublegum pop teenie boppers. *shudder* Unlike the Spotted Owl, those tree-hugging morons at Greenpeace aren't stepping in to try to save them. Because of their rarity, when you spot a Southern Goth, it's really an event. I have a lot of respect for them. They have perseverance out the ying-yang. Kinda like watching a fat guy jogging in bad weather. The goth has an almost noble quality, like a salmon swimming upstream.











But the other day I spotted TWO goths. Both were Southern Goths. How did I know they were Southern Goths, as opposed to their Northern Cousins? Why, a difference in plumage, of course!! Northern Goths benefit from a generally cooler climate, including longer winters, which enable them to have more showy costumes with more layers and ornamentation. Also, with cooler weather comes the ability to have layered white face-paint, and the all inportant black eye liner. Northern Goths are also more numerous, due to a higher general population density and to an abundance of industrial backdrops and shopping malls to lurk around and act depressed at.









Southern Goths, by contrast, are built for survival. Ornate plumage and display only come after september, when the temperatures drop, and high school goes back into session. Due to high heat, scarcity in habitat, and fewer numbers; Southern Goths have had to rely on camoflage and adaptation. The plumage of a Southern Goth is less flamboyant(as goths go), with usually only a blak pair of massive pants, a black T-shirt, and either a trench coat or bookbag. Note, both the coat and bookbag are used as carrying devices for various gothic odds-n-ends, and usually only one is chosen. All male Southern Goths will assuredly wear very loose fitting clothing, as opposed to the tailored/layered look of their Nothern male cousins. Female Southern Goths usually wear a black tank top and huge pants or waifish black dress.





Paradoxically, while alabaster white skin is prized amougnst the Southern Gothic Community, sunscrean usage is generally restricted to females, as males do not generally have enough sense to put it on.





Anyways, I saw two Goths the other day. The first sighting was at the local Books-a-Million on a saturday. Saturdays are usually when Goths, Nerds and Gamers gather to play Magic the Gathering. This particular Goth exemplified the drive for adaptation and survival. Dressed in ill-fitting black jeans and a black shirt, the male could be observed desperately trying to blend in with the others in the group. Watching him was like watching a sea gull victim from the Exxon Valdez spill. He was flopping and alone, desperate to survive. I was starting to give up on our Southern Goths, untill I had my second sighting in a week. The other sighting was at Wal-Mart, which has become a makeshift meeting site for their kind; since proper shopping malls with food courts are unavailable. Dressed in the huge pants/black top/massive trench coat regalia, he was resplendant as he was pushing the cart with his mother going grocery shopping. Awed by his dedication to his kind, I basked in the dark glory that issued forth from the scragly young man. Truly, he was a Goth after a Goth's own heart.








By the way, if you add 150 pounds to the guy in the picture, this COULD be me and Lemur Queen. Enjoy:



By the way, the male is a Northern Goth. I can't quite determine the breeding of the female.







Fat Rock out.



Note from Lemur Queen: No, not us at all.

In the Slow Lane

I am a runner. I have the tiny shorts, the cool-max tank tops, the fancy socks, and my wonderful Saucony’s. My tee shirt collection is heavily skewed towards old road-race shirts. I even have finishers’ medals.

However

I am a SLOW runner. Not tragically slow, not last racer to finish slow, just first ½ of the middle of the pack slow. 5K’s clock in at about 27 minutes, 10K’s at about an hour, my best half-marathon just at two hours. So fast enough that there is still Gatorade left for me.

However #2

I am COMPETITIVE. I want to DOMINATE. Dammit, I’ve got my snazzy red shorts and my matching sports bra. There is NO reason mister knee-brace should beat me. Eat my dust lady with the baby jogger. Outta my way mister shaved head with the, um Navy SEAL tattoo……….. actually, I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry sir, don’t hurt me.

This causes me to be BITTER at the end of the race. “Good job” Don’t patronize me Mr. Race Volunteer. I am average, I am ok with that. There is no need to rub it in my face. My loving husband, Fat Rock, LOVES to go to races. He is a wonderful partner and friend, and he really seems to enjoy coming out to see me race. At the finish line, he is ready and waiting with a cool bottle of water. Which I reject.

Why? Because at the finish line, I am again reminded that I am slow. The giant timer cannot be denied. I am slow. I don’t DESERVE water. I don’t DESERVE congratulations. So I wallow in self-pity for a few minutes, which isn’t very nice to my sweet husband. That means I am now self-pitying and guilty. After a few minutes I shake it off, accept the water, and am again happy.

There are lots of reasons that I am destined to only be a middle of the pack runner.
1) Size: 5 feet nothing on a good day. With short legs. I’m just not built for speed. I can go for days, just not quickly. I’m a plodder
2) Dedication. I’ve got more going on than running. I’ve got aerobics, a new husband, a full time job, and a deep and abiding love of chocolate. To bring it to the next level, I would really have to knuckle down and join a running group, improve my diet, and ditch the aerobics. Not gonna happen.
3) Lack of a good running partner. My fastest running times were about 2 years ago, when I was in grad school. My running partners were a 5 foot 7 blond gazelle from Colorado, and a 6 foot broad shouldered former special-forces medic. They would run, long legs effortlessly gliding up hills. I would tag behind, gamely yelling “don’t wait for me (puff, puff); I’ll see you at the end! (Gasp)” The idea of being slow was so foreign to them, that Miss Long Legs Colorado thought I had a heart condition. Yeah, it’s called my heart is out of condition.

I have two races coming up, a 5k and a 10k. I’m nervous and excited, and hopefully, this time, will be able to accept that water bottle at the finish.

Lemur Queen

Saturday Lost due to weather.......

[ Scene fade in to focus on an old Frenchman in a black toboggan]



Old Frenchman: 'Ello......I am Jacques Cousteau, and today ve vill be exploring zee downtown area for zee creature known as zee Beech Hobos [Beach Hobos].



[Camera pulls out to show Jacques in a khaki safari getup, complete with knee high socks. With him are two identically dressed weedy-looking assistants]



Jacques: Ah'm sure you all know my assistants........Raoul.......and from my previous expeditions.........zee faithful Felipe.



[Camera moves slowly down a tree lined cobblestone street to a riverfront wharf, while Jacques' voice whispers in the background]



Jacques [off camera]: Oh hoo hoo! Zis prey, she is a tricky one! Zee Beech Hobo population has been in decline over zee last decades......weeth ze loss of prime feeding grounds along zee public beeches [beaches] mostly to blame. We have been een zis area for weeks, tracking what could be zee last known refuges of zis majestic creature.



[Camera pans to Jacques, crouched behind a trash can; while Raoul and Felipe hold a large map over their faces with holes cut out so they can see.]



Jacques: Oh Ho ho! Zere zey are! Ze majestic Beech Hobos! A sight like zis is very rare indeed! [excitedly points to a small group of homeless men, huddled under a picnic shelter trying to get out of the weather]



[Jacques sneaks closer to the picnic shelter, holding up a small branch in a ridiculous attempt to conceal themselves. Raoul and Felipe walk sideways toward the homeless, their faces clearly visible through the cut outs in the map. The homeless men are all looking at the Frenchmen as they move to withing 6 feet from the picnic shelter.]



Jacques: Oh ho! Even though zey have spotted us, they vill not run. Zey have become accustomed to zee presence of people. Over the years, these Majestic Creatures have now been reduced to being fed by man.......



[Jacques raises his arm in a "ready" signal]



Jacques:........Felipe.....



[Behind him, Felipe readies a bucket he seemed to have pulled from thin air. Inside appears to be fish parts surrounded by gristle and red jello]



Jacques:.......Ze Chum........ [Jacques' arm falls in a "go" sign]



[Felipe hurls the bucket of Chum at the homeless men in the shelter. Being hit by the nasty mess, they react loudly]



Hobo #1: What the hell?!?!?......What IS this......

Hobo #2: Can I have a dollar?

Hobo #1:.....I am a MAN dammit, and I deserve to be treated with more respect than this......

Hobo #3: The devil's in my pancakes?!?!



Jacques:.....Ah, see how they wallow in ze chum. They are not satisfied and still zey cry out for more......Felipe.....ease their hunger..........



[Felipe seems to magically have pulled yet another bucket of Chum from thin air. With a grunt, he hurls it at the group in the shelter, hitting Hobo #1 squarely in the chest]



Hobo #3: More pancakes please!

Hobo#1: That's it!! I'm calling the cops!!! [grabs bundle of belongings, runs from the shelter]

Hobo #2: I said I wanted a dollar!



Jacques: Zat is all zee time ve have for today. Come back next time as ve hunt for zee Southern Goth.



[Music fade out, Jacques does a crazy Frenchman jig with Felipe. Raoul stands there, holding map over face still]

_______________________________________________________________



Ah, the weekend. Nothing says "I love you" like going downtown in a thunderstorm to go to the farmer's market (that was closed because of the weather) with your wife.



But the day wasn't a total loss. We found a new place to eat called The Dixie Grill. It seemed to have been an old southern Diner that had been restored to an alternative breakfast restaurant. It seemed to attract tourist, privileged idiots who felt like not obeying the "please wait to be seated" sign and waiting 20 minutes for a table and instead seated themselves, and us. After a better-than-expected breakfast, we tried to do a little shopping by huddling under our too small umbrella and walking in the downtown. Well, most of the businesses there were bars...and closed. Also, people don't seem to understand how to walk around someone holding an umbrella. Most passerby insisted on using the "run straight at the guy and see if he moves" approach. Given that said "guy" is about 6', weighs 260 lbs, has studied martial arts(we call it "dancing" in the family), and is called Fat Rock; I don't think he moved. As we were walking, we found the hobos. Hence the above story.



Fat Rock.