One of my coworkers recently tendered his resignation, an event which freed up an office here at the palacial MattCo executive suites. Prior to this event, I had been sharing a larger office with a colleague, which was cool (I really like the guy), but it’s nice to have my own space.
The furnishings are much better. Now I’ve got a larger L-shaped desk with more surface area:

Sweet.
I also have two bookcases, a table big enough to spread out blueprints and a cushy wheeled chair that reclines startlingly far.

As far as decor goes, it can best be described as…um, basic. Speckled, nondescript carpet, off-white walls, flourescent lighting. The boss’ wife put a sort of plant on one of the bookcases. Not really a plant, though. More like a few dried sticks in a nice vase. I hung my diploma from the wall and put a picture of Diane on my desk. I’ll have to put something else on the wall, too. I’ll keep an eye out.

First things first, though. I have to go through all the crap I moved from my old desk. I managed to throw out quite a bit. The sort of thing you hang onto in case you need it, but you never do. But here’s the stuff I do need — contents of file drawers and current files:

Yikes!

Actually, it looks worse than it is. I’m going to get this all cleaned up by lunchtime. Or rather, I’ll refuse to eat lunch until it’s all cleaned up.

…On a Jane!

…On a Pane!

…In the Rain!

…On a Lane!

…On a Mane!

Might be ‘offensive’ to 7th-century Islamofascist savages.

A five-year-old girl’s passport application was rejected because her photograph showed her bare shoulders.

Hannah Edwards’s mother, Jane, was told that the exposed skin might be considered offensive in a Muslim country.

This is the real threat from Muslim extremists. I’m not really worried that they’ll conquer the free world by force and chop off our leaders’ heads. Instead, they’ll capitalize on our fear of offending anyone, back that up with subtle threats at violence, and gradually erode our liberties in the name of “sensitivity.”

Screw that. Got any bare-shoulder pics? Send ‘em my way, and I’ll put up a montage here and at Lone Star Times.

Angelina sez: “Up yours, savages!”

“Open alcoholic beverage container” shall not mean any bottle, can, or other receptacle that contains any amount of frozen alcoholic beverage unless the lid is removed or a straw protrudes through the lid.

That’s right: daiquiris are effectively exempt from the open-container law. Excellent. So, on the way to Paducah, I stopped off at my favorite daiquiri joint in the whole wide world: The Geaux Cup.

Hell yeah.
The Geaux Cup is a little A-frame building just off Interstate 10 in Crowley, La. In addition to being the seat of Acadia Parish, Crowley is also the Rice Capital of America and the home of my good buddy Mary (aka Clotille). The Cup is renowned for the breadth of its menu, which features literally scores of frozen beverages, including — I am not making this up — the “Jet Fuel” and the “Fuck-Up.”

Wow.

I went with a Lime Kamakazi in a big ol’ Styrofoam up. Then I hit the road:

I love Louisiana.

Fast-forward a few hundred miles, and I came across this sign, pointing me to Cooter, Mo.:

Holland is nice, but…

Then I went to Graceland:

I have done it all.

Graceland was closed, probably because I got there at about midnight on a Thursday. Oh well.

Chris and Sean rock out to Peter Frampton at the post-rehearsal-dinner party.

One of several shots at the party.

The happy couple, riding the trolley to the reception.

Chris and me, in the Joe Hettler pose.

Chris, Mary and me. We are still sober at this point.

Drinking ensues.

Another one.

Mary likes the whiskey.

Shamil, Mary and me. We are quite drunk at this point.

Good times.

Breakfasts will be served from 7:30–8:30 a.m., and lunches will be served from 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. Adults may also participate in the program by purchasing breakfast for $1.60 and lunch for $2.85.

HISD meals are nutritionally analyzed to ensure that children receive the vitamins, minerals, and calories required to maintain a balanced diet.

All that for under three bucks? How could I resist? So I skipped on down to the nearest government indoctrination center, which happens to be Sinclair Elementary School, less than two miles from MattCo.

After making my way past a mean-looking secretary and a bunch of kids who spoke less English than my pet fish does, I found the nearly empty cafeteria, and went through the serving line. The entire waitstaff consisted of one friendly woman in disposable plastic gloves. Here’s what she dished up:

It’s a six-compartment polystyrene tray, loaded with everything a growing boy needs. Today’s main course was breaded chicken strips, accompanied by broccoli cuts, a white roll and mashed potatoes. Accessories included a spork, an absurdly thin paper napkin, and a thin straw. I’ll address each compartment in turn, beginning with the chicken strips and going clockwise.

The chicken strips were thickly breaded, with only a slightly greasy feel. The breading, liberally spiked with black pepper, surrounded a rubbery bit of engineered chicken material. Not bad, as far as chicken strips go. Cream gravy would have been a nice addition, but it was nowhere to be found. The portion was pretty big — five strips! — but I attribute that to the server’s appreciation of my rugged good looks. Sources tell me that the standard portion is three strips.

The broccoli cuts were incredibly hot and somewhat overdone. Despite the overcooking, however, the vegetable’s flavor was unharmed. No seasoning was evident.

The tennis-ball sized dollop of mashed potatoes appeared to have been prepared from dehydrated potato flakes. The texture was perfectly uniform throughout: no bits of skin, no bacon bits, no cheese, nada. Similarly consistent was the utter lack of flavor.

The roll was tasty and dense, but for some inexplicable reason it was sliced latitudinally like a hamburger bun. I suppose the slice could have been an HISD hint, telling me where to apply butter, but none was provided. Pity. The roll was fine by itself, but a little butter or jelly would have gone a long way.As I was going through the serving line, I wondered what the fifth compartment would hold. Dessert, perhaps? Cherry cobbler with little crumbles on top would have been nice. Alas, the server completed her duties without putting anything in the fifth compartment. Was it a metaphor for the emptiness of an overreliance on government assistance, or just some sneaky bastard hoarding all the cobbler?

The sixth compartment was intended to hold utensils. As you can see, it’s designed so that the utensils face up when the compartment is oriented to the right. When you turn it around, the utensils are upside-down and the entree is far away. I’m deeply offended by this not-so-subtle slap at left-handed people, and I hope the superintendent takes measures to rectify HISD’s de facto policy of right supremacy.

No beverage was provided. I thought for sure I’d get a shot of 2% milk, but no dice. I guess calcium is exempt from HISD’s nutritional scrutiny. Instead, I hit the water fountain on the way out.

Anyway, back to lunch. The decor was pretty boring and institutional. The room was large, with round laminate tables, high ceilings, and way too much linoleum, glazed brick and harsh fluorescent lighting.

While I was enjoying my meal, I was approached by a gentleman who asked what I was doing. Apparently, school administrators don’t get a lot of food reviewers, because at first he seemed unconvinced by my explanation. He told me I should have gotten a visitor badge when I came into the school. Okay, no problem. I checked into the office on the way out, and they scanned my driver’s license into some massive HISD database. Pretty intrusive for some chicken fingers, if you ask me.

All in all, it was a pretty good meal, as long as you don’t stop to consider the fact that its mere existence encourages irresponsible parenting and complete, pet-like reliance on government.

Pros: Extra chicken; low price; convenient location; opportunity to mess with befuddled school administrator.

Cons: No drink; getting hassled by The Man; failing our children with a massive educational bureaucracy and welfare state; no gravy.

Decor: (out of four)

Food Appearance:

Taste:

Nutritional Value:

Bang for the Buck:

Overall:

At Mardi Gras in New Orleans. She’s the one in red.

Showing off her new haircut.

At the boardwalk in Kemah.

At my office.

At the beach in Galveston.

King Kong vs. RedZilla

At the zoo.

At The Redhead Piano Bar in Chicago

So there you have it, folks. She’s real. Now quit hassling me about it.

Meg gives me a dirty look.

A bottle opener — dubbed “The Popener” — with a likeness of Pope John Paul II, of happy memory.

A nugget of fried macaroni and cheese.

Meg, expressing her approval of the fried macaroni and cheese.

The most extensive soda fountain I have ever seen.

A Rum Runner. It was good.

The statistic wasn’t attributed to any source — how could it be? The very definition of the statistic makes it unknowable. Whoever wrote that statistic just made it up.

Rape statistics are often inflated in order to add urgency to the situation — particularly on college campuses. Unfortunately, this kind of ploy is destined to backfire if people do their homework.

Yes, rape is awful. Rape victims should come forward, and we should put rapists away for a long, long time. But artificially inflating the number only discredits women and may lead to a “cry wolf” situation in which legitimate rape accusations are doubted.

I went to the inaugural bout of the fledging Houston Roller Derby league this weekend. In a word: awesome. It was held in the ballroom of the Arabia Shrine at North Braeswood and Kirby, and I’d say there were at least 500 spectators in attendance.

It’s a bit like professional wrestling. The pageantry is hilarious. Lots of spotlights, music and drunken cheering. The names are fun, too. The teams have names like Machete Betties and Psych Ward Sirens. The players names are often take-offs of famous women (Dismae West, Elle McFierce, Ashley Juggs), goofy puns (Tex Offender, Carmen Geddit, Ivana B. Sedated) or just tough-sounding monikers (Crasher, Beverly Kills, Chewcifer).

The crowd was diverse in just about every respect. I saw men, women, little kids, old folks, clean-cut suburbanites and dudes with more piercings than fingers. Just about the broadest cross-section of Houston that you could cut. Interestingly, though, the crowd was pretty much all-white, but the best player out there (“Death by Chocolate”) was black.

Here’s how the game works. Both teams line up in a big pack. Each team has a pivot in front and three blockers behind her. In the back is each teams Jammer, the only girl who can score. The teams take off at the first whistle. At the second whistle, the Jammers race ahead and elbow their way through the pack. Once they get in front of the pack, they can lap the pack for points. A Jammer scores a point for every girl she passes. Jams last two minutes, but can be called off by the lead Jammer. Here are the rules in more detail.
Basically, this leads to a couple fast chicks maneuvering about nimbly, while other chicks try to knock the hell out of them. A good time was had by all.

It was a pretty good turnout.

Members of the Psych Ward Sirens warm up.

One of the Burlesque Brawlers gets ready for action.

The play-by-play commentary sucked ass.

A bout in progress.

Next bout is Saturday, April 29. I’ve got a Knights of Columbus event, so hopefully it’ll be over in time for the bout. Roller Derby rules.

Shut the water off.

Shut the power off.

Drained the old heater and moved it off to the side.

Marshalled my forces.

Removed the old leaky hoses.

Moved the new heater into place.

Teflon-taped the hot and cold water connections.

Connected the hot and cold water hoses.

Connected a drain line to the pressure-relief valve.

Turned the water back on and waited for the heater to fill up.

Turned the power back on.

Voila! Plenty of hot water for cleaning up my filthy hovel.

Piece of cake.

St. Patrick’s Day was fun.

Accordingly, the “Matt’s Fat Ass Update” box in the sidebar has been amended.

Matt Drudge, of flashy police light fame, responds with a MoDo caption contest. I’m stealing it and posting it here:

“You know what they say about guys with big feet…”

Leave your suggestions in the comments. Also, feel free to speculate on her cocktail of choice.

 

Real Condi.

EEEVIL Condi.

The Matrix is everywhere.