Neighborhood picnic.

We had our “block” party today where the neighbors on my street from several blocks descend upon one neighbor’s pool and then go across the street for a potluck. We had an incredible turnout, so the food actually ran out. I felt like an incredible cheapskate because I brought a quart of potato salad. The trick with the potato salad is that people like the $0.99/lb stuff from Fred Meyer. In fact, it was the salad that ran out first! My buddy Greg even did a side-by-side comparison between the $0.99/lb stuff and the roasted potato stuff, and people hardly touched the expensive stuff. The cheap stuff was all gone.

Which reminds me, I feel like eating a Big Mac. I don’t think I’ve had one in years. They kind of make my stomach hurt, but still, one every few years couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Some things just make me nervous.

Everyone has certain things that make them nervous, and as a geek I feel like there should be a graph of nervous, and if you’re likely to do it. For example, I’m never completely comfortable talking to my boss about my performance. It’s something I always will do, because I have to do it.

Higher up on the scale is like getting up out of bed and telling the loud kids to go the hell home. I just ran off some kids who were way too young to be out this late (I know, it’s only midnight) and were talking too loudly while hanging out by the school. I’ll do that sometimes, but much more often I just bother the police about it. They’re usually just regular (rich) kids from the neighborhood and they’re easy to run off.

Highest on the scale is actually asking anyone out. I never do that. (Besides, I have empirical evidence that I just get shut down, so there’s really no reason to even have to do anything.)

I’m just writing this all down because I’m still jittery from having to confront the future of America and wonder where their adult supervision is. A childless man living with his elderly parents shouldn’t be the one getting these kids home before curfew, it should be their own parents. BREEDERS, I’M TALKING TO YOU!