Frogger gambler

Did you do your New Year’s Resolution in 2017? Mine was to write and publish 150 pieces. I don’t think I quite made it that far — but I really did publish a shitload of writing. Just look at my Medium, it’s got a ton of words and some of them are good.

I’ve never been good at half-assing things. I’m not someone who can really make incremental improvements reliably. I can’t say, you know what, I’m going to eat a little healthier. To really do that I had to move to a completely meat-free diet. I’m also terrible at quitting things: that was 9 years ago this coming spring.

Same thing with drinking and smoking cigarettes / cigars. I couldn’t really say “Ah, I’ll just have one or two beers if I go out.” I had to completely stop imbibing altogether. That was 832 days ago. I haven’t had a drop (even cooked in food) in 832 days. Can you believe it?

I talked to the owner of a small restaurant called B&A Market yesterday morning while I was waiting for my food. His name is Jim, and his wife works there as well, I want to say her name is Norma. They were saying that the residents of a newly rehabbed building a block away were pretty pissed off about the new construction of some derelict buildings across the street. Talk about wanting your cake and to eat it too. If they weren’t complaining about cranes and backhoes, they’d be complaining about their view of a sunk-in roof and their street being overrun with raccoons.

Some people.

I ran into a guy this morning at a coffee shop who has a great idea for a gambling website based around Frogger. If he ever decides to really build it, I’ll invest my own money. People love gambling and Frogger.

This morning I had one of those out-of-body experiences where I’ve had too much caffeine and no food of any kind. My mind steps back about two feet from my head and leaves my mouth sputtering and slurring by itself. I walked with my Frogger friend for a couple of blocks and could contribute nothing of value to the conversation other than “Hell, I’d play.”

I’m going to turn 33 years old next week and I’ll be in Germany. I don’t even know how to say 33 in Germany, though I guess I could “three three”, which I think is “drei drei”. I don’t know how to say “years” or “I am”, though, so I can really just point at myself and say “three three” to Germans who probably already speak English.

I’ll be in the city of Frankfurt, which they say has an immigrant population of 25% and is the banking center of Europe. I wonder if either one of those things will help me have a better birthday. I suppose if I wanted to have a party in the grand atrium of an international bank with a bunch of Turkish expats, it would be the perfect place to go.

No matter what I write in my blog, Stepon from work believes it is a commentary about him as a human being. How roasted red peppers “define him as a man” I will never understand.

I really do wonder about Christmas trees. I am wondering that as I am staring at the 10-foot-tall monstrosity I cut down myself in a large field 40 minutes away that I drove in a truck and dragged up to my third floor walkup. Why is it a tradition to kill a tree, bring it into your house, cover it with lights and plastic knick-knacks?

Later, I will drag the tree out to the curb. If I am too late for the day they pick up trees, I will drag it in the very early morning down the block in front of some other building. As anything else in my neighborhood, it will be taken care of by some mysterious force.