This is me...

This is a bad picture of a good time...

Play Ball and Brown's Diner

I just figured out that I'm leaving for the softball tournament tomorrow at noon, which is pretty sweet. That means I gotta get up on my laundry so as to have enough clothes to make it until Sunday. As of yet I haven't found my glove, but I'm sure that I'll either find one or be able to borrow one before tomorrow... I'm just that slick.

Otherwise today has been good. I played some poker, breaking even, and ate at a place called Brown's Diner. Brown's diner is a little greasy spoon right off of 21 Ave directly across from the Harris Teeter. I was there because my friend Syria and I met Kentucky and "Slim Road" at Kentucky's house for the festivities.

I'm not sure what it is about waitresses in Nashville... Maybe it's the fact that you make absolutely no money during the day shift, or maybe its the fact that if you added my age and Syria's together you might come close to the average age of the patron's of Brown's Diner. Whatever it was, we got a real gem of a waitress again today.

Syria ordered the cheeseburger and I got the grilled cheese (I haven't been too hungry lately and it sounded good). Mine was supposed to come with fries and Syria's wasn't. When the waitress brought the food out both Syria and I had fries... no big deal. Except the waitress kept bringing it up.

She started by saying "I guess you got fries anyway." Syria thanked her. She then said "I told him not to give you fries, but he did," followed by "I didn't tell him [I assume this "him" is the source of the fries] that you weren't supposed to get fries." Syria and I try not to laugh. Free fries are nice, but should never amount to a conspiracy. The waitress goes on to say "Besides, if I did tell him, I'd just have to throw them away... we're not allowed to re-serve them." It's good to know that Brown's Diner obeys the health code.

As Syria and I stifle laughs, the waitress leans in real close to Syria with a very serious expression. She concludes her free fry monologue, not more than a foot from Syria's face, by commanding in a stage whisper to "Enjoy those fries... You just enjoy those fries." I don't know if she thought we were trying to pull one over on her, or if she thought we were ungrateful for the bounty we'd been given or what... All I know is at that point I had a hard time not laughing out loud.

Other interesting comments made by the waitress include:

1. "[a semi-famous country singer] plays here every Wednesday night.... You guys should come."
2. "The industrial stocks [I think she meant "index" but am not sure] is up. That means... I don't have to tell you what that means, you two look like smart people."

Target Audience

Lately I’ve been getting a lot of inspirational messages from church, t.v. etc. I mean, it’s normal that church and t.v. are filled with inspirational messages, but I feel like these are more on point than usual. I guess I’ve come to a point in my life where I share the common human experiences of the target audiences of both network television and church. For example, Dr. Bob on Scrubs last night summed up the entire episode by saying that “Nothing in this world worth having comes easy,” curing both this incredibly fat girl and Turk. I hope House had a similar message, although it’s unlikely because apparently House has to fire one of his lackeys. Although I usually don’t fall for the Hallmark greeting card bologna, it was good to hear it.

These morally inspirational sayings came in handy yesterday. I was able to work on a car again (a truck actually) and was relatively successful. Over the last weekend I was able to change the breaks on a small Japanese car with little to no trouble. Pumped up from that experience I attempted to change spark plugs on a Chevy Blazer. My friend “D-Nasty” said that it was time to switch the plugs and boom I was on board. Even better, he bribed me with a six pack of Miller Lite, which was entirely unnecessary but much appreciated.

I don’t know who at GM decided that spark plugs were the type of thing that should require tearing down the entire passenger side of the engine, but I hate them. I couldn’t even see the plugs on the passenger side, let alone get a wrench to them. I was able to find the point of distribution from whence you would think you’d be able to trace the plug wire to the plug. No. The General hath deemed this not to be so. The wires extended 3 inches and then sank into the abyss that is the GM V-6.

Undaunted by the prospects that lay ahead, I managed to change two of the plugs on the driver’s side. Although it took considerable effort, it was worth it because ultimately D-Nasty and I were successful. However, in performing all of that work, I think the D-Man and I were able to come across the real problem: when D-Nasty had his battery replaced the last time, whoever installed left the positive terminal only hand tight which means it may have wiggled a little. Cursed battery installer. Anyway, I earned 1/3 of the six pack by changing 2/6 plugs. Not bad, all in all.

Wendy's... Extraordinary Service or Else

Today, my friend and the proprietor of "The Real Dookie," "Spike," and another friend, "Syria" went to Wendy's for lunch.

We all three order our meals, have a seat and eat them. When we are mostly done, an employee of Wendy's comes over and asks if we are done with our trays. Normally this would be considered an added bonus, but the truth is, relinquishing your tray at Wendy's, whether you want to or not is a requirement. I'll explain:

On a previous Wendy's excursion, Spike and I were enjoying a meal when the same employee came up and asked for Spike's tray. Because we weren't completely finished and because having someone wait on you in a fast food restaurant is sort of creepy, Spike said "no thank you, we'll take care of them." End of story, right? Wrong.

Within 2 minutes, the same employee was back asking for Spike's tray. He repeated that he would take care of it in a very polite but understandably creeped out manner. At this point Spike and I begin to think somethings up. I start looking for hidden cameras.

Not 3 minutes after the last encounter, Spike is confronted by the employee again. This time Spike has no choice but to give up the tray. The employee was already on the edge and if Spike had denied her this time I'm pretty sure she would have tried to cut him with a plastic knife...

So, back to today. All three of us, Spike, Syria and myself were confronted by the exact same employee. Unwilling to face the employee in approximately 2 minutes over our trays, we all three allow her to take them on the first try. The employee then asks Spike if he wants a refill, to which he responds "Yes." The employee then asks Spike what he was drinking to which he replies "Diet Coke."

At this point, the employee says to Spike "I've got a free Mr. Pibbs right here, how about that?" I'd like to pause at this point to note 1. Spike's refill of Diet Coke is also free and 2. In no way is a Mr. Pibb an equal trade for a Diet Coke (value judgments aside, I think it's fair to say that the two are certainly not equal) and 3. It's "Mr. Pibb" not "Mr. Pibbs." Spike, however, considering his last run in with this employee just says "ok" and, Mr. Pibbs in hand we all walk out of Wendy's.

Next time we go to Wendy's, I swear that I will bus my own tray or face the employee in the greatest plastic knife fight the world has ever seen.

Happy Trails to Me

Who knew I was so popular? The Staffman's golf game and the blogging action are going to simultaneously suffer tremendously over the next few weeks. I just found out that most of my weekends for the rest of school are spoken for... Hopefully, I be able to get a couple of good stories out of it. Here's my tour schedule:

This weekend (4/2) --> I'm off to play softball at the UVA tournament. "Play" is probably not the right word.

Next weekend (4/9) --> My mom bought me a plane ticket to South Carolina as a birthday present to her. All my friends should feel lucky that I don't require similar compensation from them.

The weekend after that (4/16) --> Although not set in stone, I'll probably be in D.C. finding a sweet bachelor pad from which to dominate the Washington social scene... Look for my parties to be listed in the Post.

Stories from this weekend are to come later...

The Danger of Blog-Surfing

Ok, so I'm thinking "blogging is great... I should read some other blogs." I start by reading my friends blogs, and then simply click on the "next blog" button.

In my "next blog" button adventure, I get to meet a 13 year old kid who can't spell but wants me to be his friend. Apparently he moves a lot and is lonely. I'm sad for him, but not sad enough to send him an email or waste more than 2 minutes on his blog. Next I get some crazy lady who owns horses and keeps bashing "guys." Well, darling, maybe if you didn't rely on dudes you met in a bar in your hometown in Maine things might turn out better.

So far, the blog adventure had been at best a diversion from Wills and or Trusts and at worst boring. At no point did it come close to approaching dangerous but, oh how quickly the tide turned.

I'm sitting in class, and thank god I sit in the back row because all of a sudden I find myself at this site: http://fkyleslife.blogspot.com/ (Do NOT go there if there are children around or if you don't like to stare at a dude's junk in a public setting. Also, I have reports that Mr. Frank Andbeans's website does not always put the pictures in the same order... you may have to scroll down.) So now I'm sitting in class with a picture of a dude's baby's arm on my screen. Great. If I don't get slapped with harassment, I'll have all sorts of invitations to the "disco" this weekend for some appletinis. Worse, I suddenly get stuck in some kind of movie inspired time warp. You know that scene where the bad guy fires a bullet and all of the sudden slow motion kicks in and the good guy is caught saying "nooooooooo" for like half an hour? It was like that, but with my trying to get Johnny No-Pants off of my screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, I don't want to judge others. I don't think that I'm a homophobe, a racist, or a bigot. I think my biggest prejudice is class-based. Regardless, what I came across was out of line. That dude has the responsibility, no, the duty, to put some clothes on and quit being ridiculous. What if that 13 year old lonely dude came across that site? Who knows how much psychological damage would be inflicted on a lesser man. I'm pretty sure the horse lady would be more than down with Mr. F. Kyle, but the needs of the many, man, the needs of the many.

Please Hammer, Don't Hurt 'Em

I don't know how many of you were able to recognize that the title of this post was stolen from Mr. M.C. Hammer's break-out album, but if you did, congratulations: you know something that no one else cares about.

*disclaimer* For those of you with a legal duty to report, the following is only an expression of what might happen should the proper legal remedies not be available...

Yesterday I got some bad news from my mom. It seems that my sister's ex-boyfriend is now calling her and leaving increasingly annoying/disturbing/threatening messages in her voice mail box. One of the most disturbing ended something like "we need to figure this out before one of us gets hurt and the other goes to jail." Apparently, he lives in some kind of a trailer with his parents and hunts a lot. I've met him once. He's a cross between Roscoe P. Coltrane and Larry the Cable Guy... and not in a good way. Son, if you're reading this, going to jail is the least of your worries.

This boy and my sister both attend a private college in South Carolina. I'm not sure if he's stupid or crazy or both, but the boy's not right. I'm from a state school. We don't play. If I didn't think he'd like it so much, I'd kick his ass and tattoo "get r done" on his forehead.

Now, my mother says that the little sister doesn't want my father, brother, or I involved but I'm pretty sure that it's against the brother code not to go out and introduce this gentleman to the business end of my nine-iron. (This is ironic, because after seeing me play some folks would think I couldn't tell you which was the “business” end...).

Interestingly enough, this guy's parents have a home both in South Carolina and in D.C. Hell, I'll be in D.C. soon anyway. I just hope I get there before my dad finds out. Dad is old school. "Play" is not in his vocabulary. I'll keep you updated.

Some Pain, No Gain

I twisted my ankle yesterday. It hurts pretty bad. I wasn't even doing anything stupid. Now I can't do my cardio workouts so I'm going to have to step up the diet... Sorry ladies. What are you going to do?

It's looking more and more like I'll end up in the same building I spent the summer in, or in a building very close. I found a 1 bedroom (700 sq. ft.) apartment for 1175 that includes utilities. Add in another 150 for parking and I can get out for 1325 total. They say I actually have to go up there to fill out the paperwork and whatnot, which means I've got a trip to D.C. to make.

There's also a 700 sq. ft. studio apartment with an L bend that could be used as a bedroom for about the same price in the same building I stayed in this summer... A one bedrrom there costs 1475, but is 900 sq. ft. You still have to add in parking though... All in all, the outlook is bleak but not hopeless.

In fact, hope is on the horizon because I will be able to work on a car either tomorrow or Saturday. That always makes me feel better.

Spend Money to Make Money

The first step in correcting my laziness has been taken.

I just filled out my Bar Exam Loan application. This is a loan that will allow me to live for around 5 months without doing too much of anything except study for the bar.

Because I'm going to live in D.C., I'm going to have to spend quite a bit of money on rent and living expenses and without any form of income, it's going to be very difficult to maintain myself in the manner to which I'm accustomed. (By that I mean mostly what I like to call "eating" and "having health insurance.").

Next step: Find a place to live and fill out the bar application.

Mick Jagger Was Wrong... Time is Not on My Side.

I woke up late again today. Assuming I don't make it to the gym today, which is a very distinct possibility, that's two days in a row I've missed. Sorry about that extra set I talked about earlier, ladies... I'll make it up to you. On the upside, I think I've isolated the problem: I'm lazy.

I also happened to notice today that there are around 3 weeks left of classes. That means that I only have 3 weeks until I have to change the tag-line on this blog. More importantly, I have to try to find a place to live in that short a time. I best get on it.

NIT(e) of a Lifetime

Vandy won!!! I know I shouldn't be so excited about beating the likes of Wichita State in the second game of the NIT tournament, but the end of the game was amazing. Vandy was up by 3 with something near 23 seconds to go. Wichita gets the ball and gets to their side of the court and proceeds to run the clock down to around 4 seconds before getting fouled. Wichita makes the free throw, purposely misses the bonus shot, and grabs the rebound to score and tie the game up with literally .7 seconds left in the game. What happens next can only be described as "Memorial Magic." (Vandy plays in Memorial Gymnasium)

Vandy somehow found an opening, passed the ball the length of the court and turned and shot. The backboard let up with the ball in the air... The ball glanced off of the glass, then the rim and dropped through the net to win the game for Vandy by 2. The crowd went nuts. You'd have thought Vandy just won the NCAA tournament. I rushed the court, along with two other people I went to the game with. Then I went home to watch it all on ESPN sportscenter where it was the 2nd best play of the day according the sportscasters. As it was probably the last basketball game I'll get to attend during my tenure at Vandy, I couldn't have asked for a better night.

After that and a few other amazing moments tonight, it's hard to be too upset about anything.

I Figured Out How to Post Pictures

This is a picture of a 1963 Ford Fairlane. I had to get it off of the internet because I don't have a digital camera or scanner. I think it's important to note that, even from this picture, it is easy to tell that the 1963 Ford Fairlane is clearly superior to both the Chevy Nova II and the Plymouth Fury. The Dodge Dart may give it a run for its money.

Deadwood, Update and Correction

As of yet, I've only found one television show that I watched even somewhat religiously (except the Dukes of Hazard when I was very young. I'm pretty sure that Dukes of Hazard is solely responsible for what little respect I maintain for Chrysler/Dodge). That show is FX's The Shield, introduced to me by the proprietor of therealdookie.blogspot.com (you should check it out... he's a genious). If you haven't seen it, I don't have enough time to go into it here, but it's worth getting basic cable just for that one show.

However, a buddy of mine from Kentucky (who will now be referred to as Kentucky) had me over last night to watch Deadwood on HBO. It's pretty good, even though there was no killing in this episode. (I'm sure that it was a strategic decision, because there were several scenes dealing with how kidney stones were removed in the 19th Century. I can only say that it involved a long, curved tube-like instrument and male genitalia...). I think I'm going to give Deadwood a try because the plot is pretty intriguing and the dialogue is excellent. On top of all that, this show is single-handedly breathing new life into the term "cocksucker."

Update:

The Staffbro has returned to the hallowed home of the Buckeyes safe and sound and angrier than Michael Jackson forced to do community service at an all-girls school.

Correction:

I stated earlier that the "Cycos" were a local rap group. After extensive research (which consisted of looking at the back of the cd cover) I've come to find out that they are based in Chattanooga. (Hence the refrain to one of their songs C-H-A (aaaaa) T-T-A (aaaaa) N to the O to the O G A) They're still pretty good. I know a guy from Chattanooga... I'm going to see if he can rap the next time I see him.

On the Gym

Why is it that when I go to the gym, I'm the only one who makes working out look hard? I guess that's not entirely true because the old guys make it look pretty rough too. Maybe that's how you know when you're an old guy: when you sweat more than the rest of the gym combined.

I've been working out relatively regularly for about 3 weeks and I still haven't figured out how to make jogging in place or riding a stationary bike look attractive or cool. Hell, I haven't figured out how to make it look like I'm not having a heart attack. Worse, whenever I try to actually lift weights, I always end up next to Joe Watch-How-Easy-I-Lift-4-Times-As-Much-As-The-Staffman. Fortunately, I check my pride at the weight room door.

Nevertheless, the beauty that comes from privilege (or vice-versa) can't keep me down. My collar may be blue, (except when I sweat and then it turns this weird dark gray, nearly black color...) and I'll be damned if I'll let Billy UnderArmor or Tad Abercrombie run me off. In fact, tomorrow I'm going to do an extra set just for the ladies.

The Inevitable Happens...

We are now squarely in the aftermath of Hurricane Staffbro. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Staffbro and Friend of Staffbro left Cashville in a haze of Japanese engineered tail-lights. We went to a bar. I remained sober. Others did not. Apparently I am bad at maintaining personal relationships despite my best efforts.

Despite my appalling lack of any ability to keep the people I love around, some hilarity did ensue and is worth noting:

1. The only way we could get into one bar was by convincing the manager that Friend of Staffbro had been accosted by citizens of Mexico on St. Patrick's Day, relieving him of any form of identification. What makes this great is that Friend of Staffbro is at least 23, and the circumstantial evidence that we have suggests that he was in fact accosted by citizens of Mexico and thrown into the woods on St. Patrick's Day.

2. The Roommate gave me a cd that someone had left at his job over a year ago. It featured a local “gangsta” rap group called the "Cycos," which, after considerable effort, I was able to determine is pronounced "Psychos." They are surprisingly good and we did rock out to them pretty hard. How could we not? I mean, according to at least one of their songs, they do run this bitch.

3. Staffbro and Friend of Staffbro convinced me to go to Wal-Mart in search of new underwear. Not because my underwear is bad, but because they believe that they have stumbled upon what they describe as "the perfect underwear." It's made of lycra and, according to reports, does not ride up, feels as though you're not wearing underwear at all, and yet still manages to provide support. I'll probably head to the nearest Wal-Mart today in search of what must be the Holy Grail of under garments.

I Get a Happy Ending...

Ok, so on Saturday I went to a preparation class for the essay portion of the bar examination. I managed to last the duration of this woman's rambling, vague, and generally useless three hour presentation. I can sum up the entirety of the three hours like this:

1. Answer the question asked and only the question asked.
2. Use normal speech and don't cite cases or laws.
3. Use a Conclusion, Rule of Law, Analysis, Conclusion structure
4. Under no circumstances should this instructor be allowed to lead a group activity more complex than the Hokey Pokey.

I was able to survive her comparisons linking taking the bar exam to participating in armed combat during the Vietnam War. I managed to remain seated throughout every single slide of a power point presentation that would make an MBA giddy. However, when she came up to me and scolded me for not following along with the power point presentation in a notebook that contained an exact copy of the PowerPoint presentation, I had to get up and leave.

Apparently, I offended her because I had failed to bring a pen to the presentation and was therefore unable to fill in blanks and write sentences in the way that she wanted. She borrowed a pen for me from a gentlemen behind me and said, and I quote (hence the quotation marks) "Don't make me come up here again." I don't think I made her come up there the first time. Although I'm pretty sure she was out of line, I could not disagree with the premise that it would be best for us not to interact further regarding writing or pens or potential alternative uses for her mouth.

Funny enough, the pen she borrowed for me didn't work which left me with three options:

1. borrow another pen and mindlessly do as I'm told.
2. brazenly sit in my position and "make her come up here" again.
3. take well timed bathroom breaks

I'm pretty sure that 3 was the right choice. I took more bathroom breaks than a three year old on a road trip with a 64 ounce "Bucket 'O' Cola."

On the upside, after the seminar I was lucky enough to participate in not one, but two of the type of experiences that make life worth living. I'm talking about something that could inspire poetry that would make Shakespeare's sonnets look like limericks written on a bathroom wall. Something that I would have sat through two more essay bar exam preparation seminars for, at least. Thanks to that person for my happy ending, no pun intended. Ok, some pun intended.

It's All in the Wrist...

Today I went golfing. Golfing for me is a series of cart rides punctuated by short, humiliating walks. All in all it's a pretty good time. Today was the first day I've been able to get out all year so my swing was particularly bad. Highlights include hitting one of the tee box markers which shot my ball 40 feet into the air at a 90 degree angle from the box landing just over some elderly gentlemen. I yelled "fore" but I think "aft" or "starboard" may have been more appropriate. There was also an incident involving mooning, but I think the less that is said, the better. Regardless, by the ninth and last hole I was able to bring in a par which ain't too bad.

Tonight my brother is coming to town. The news folks have predicted Hurricane Staffbro to take Nashvegas completely by surprise. There may be more to follow, depending on whether my interest in blogging wanes.

Terminal-nator

As a general rule, I enjoy working on cars and take any opportunity to abandon the lofty pursuit of "The Law" and drag my knuckles a little bit. My talents are generally limited to minor diagnostic work and replacing whatever parts I can reach with a wrench. Case in point, yesterday:

My roommate's car wouldn't start on Wednesday, but by the time I got home it was too late to work on it. He assured me that it was the battery (which it was... he's an adept waiter/ballet dancer/mechanic) and I told him that after my early class yesterday I'd come help him switch it out. It should have taken ten minutes and restored my confidence in the therapeutic powers of the socially acceptable form of exercising one's wrist.

After class I hurried home so that we could get the battery change out and I could hit the gym and the books (although generally I don't "hit" the gym... it's more of an open handed swat and technically I'm pretty sure the books hit me). By the time I get home and the roommate and I are ready to exert our mastery over the flow of electrons it's nearly 10:00. Plenty of time.

The battery on the roommate's car (a 1992 Chevy Lumina Z34... think Days of Thunder) has side terminals. For those of you uninitiated in the world of psuedo-mechanics and unnecessary masculine posturing that requires refusing to recognize the outer limits of one's own ability, I'll try and explain the difference. The most common type of car batter in passenger cars is a top terminal battery. This aptly named battery has two metal posts that poke through the top of the batter and which are used to complete a circuit which powers the car. If you've ever had to use jumper cables, the terminals are what you connect the jumper cables to, especially if you ignore that whole "grounding" thing.

A side terminal battery doesn't have posts that stick out. Rather, to save space, you screw bolts into metal receptacles on the sides of the battery. Unfortunately for us, one of the bolts on this car is completely stripped. The bolt is completely round like a pencil eraser. This is bad because now we can't get the bolt out, which means we can't change the battery, which means that in order to pay rent, the roommate was going to have to borrow my car to get to work.

At this point, overconfidence and pride prevent us from even thinking about calling a professional. I mean, it's a battery and we're two relatively smart young men with wrenches. As my roommate noted, "there can be only one."

The first idea to pop into our heads was to use the new and exotic tools that I had gotten for Christmas. (Thanks Dad). So I break out the Craftsman locking vice grips. These are very similar (although in my opinion superior) to vice grips. Essentially they're pliers that can be locked to constantly put a great deal of pressure on anything that is deemed to be uncooperative. In this case, it's the bolt.

After failing miserably because the bolt has gotten soft, the roommate gets the great idea to try to pry off the bolt. Before I know it, he's got a flathead screwdriver and is prying at the terminal. This ultimately succeeds, that is if you consider popping out the entire terminal leaving a hole in the side of the battery success. That wasn't the point, however, because now we can get the batter out (and, courtesy of the hole, slosh acid all over everything.). Quick, to Wal-Mart.

The roommate is smart. He bought the battery almost three years ago at a Wal-Mart in Ohio and saved the warranty and the receipt. So we get to the Wal-Mart automotive department and throw the battery up on the counter. We are greeted by two gentlemen who look like they just missed qualifying to run the key duplication machine. The roommate asks them to test the battery, noting his belief that it's no good. It's important to point out that there is absolutely no reasonable method of testing the battery because, as I said, the roommate had removed one of the terminals. The Wal-Mart gentlemen don't seem to care and walk out to the shop and put it on the testing machine.

The Wal-Mart employees realize that they are now in too deep and call for backup. Fresh from the local joint vocational school, the manager shows up and examines the machine. Despite his gold tooth and Jesse "the Body" Ventura haircut he does not have much of a sense of humor. He confirms the original employee's suspicion that it is not, in fact, possible to test the battery. The discovery of this fact annoys everyone in a blue vest.

The manager comes and talks to the roommate. He says "this isn't normally covered under the warranty. I'm willing to zero it out for you this time because you have your receipt and the warranty, but don't bring us one back like this." Neither the roommate nor I know what "zero it out" means, but it sounds good for the home team. The manager continues quasi-berating us because "batteries don't usually break off like this," but as long as he continues the process of getting us a new battery we don't care. The roommate and I ultimately triumph without me having to use the few lawyerly words I know, like "breach." Sam Walton = 0, The roommate and the Staffman = 1.

So we have the new battery. At this point we're about 45 minutes into the whole process and feeling pretty good, because this should be an easy process. Also, I have yet to see what has actually happened to the terminal of the battery.

We get back to the parking lot of our apartment complex and begin, contrary to the apartment rules, to work on the roommate's car. It's not until he opens the hood and pulls out the positive battery cable, the one that still contains the old batteries metal terminal on its end, which I start to suspect we're in for a long, humbling journey to a professional.

Again we try the channel locks, thinking that because we can apply one set of channel locks to the stripped bolt and one to the old terminal, we'll be able to actually unscrew the terminal from the bolt. This, like my love life, fails miserably. There are three roads we can take: 1. attempt to cut the wires or remove the end of the batter cable and attach a new one. 2. try to cut through the bolt and save the old batter cable end. 3. seek professional help. If you said option number 2, you are correct.

Safety first. As a gift, one of my girlfriends gave me a set of Mechanix gloves, which I had yet to have a reason to use. I collect the gloves and a hack saw and the roommate and I set to sawing through about an inch and a half of steel and whatever the terminal is made of. The gloves are key. Because of the angle and short length of the cable I have to hold the bolt in my palm and saw down. Prior to doing this I tested the gloves, which were more than capable of withstanding the saw blade. I cannot recommend wearing gloves like these when foolishly trying to saw through something. They saved at least two of my fingers.

Literally an hour goes by while we try to saw off the bolt. This hour is spent alternating between cursing, discussing ridiculous alternatives, thanking god I had the gloves, and wishing we had more power tools. The roommate and I take turns hacking away at the bolt.

Finally, we manage to cut through the bolt and half of our problem falls to the floor like a discarded banana peel. Unfortunately, like a discarded banana peel on the floor, we have a whole new set of problems. It turns out that the bolt was actually fused to the cable with corrosion. Quick, to Auto Zone.

We buy Rust Eater. This product eats rust and skin and anything else it comes into contact with. Back to the apartment.

We apply the rust eater to try to free the bolt and solve our problem. We wait an hour. We eat old pizza and generally curse side terminal batteries and General Motors (consciously excepting the Corvette from Chevy. Neither the roommate nor I can bring ourselves to curse the Corvette.).

We return putting our hopes and prayers into the rust eater. The corrosion was gone, so now we have a very shiny, fused half of a bolt and battery cable. The roommate takes a screwdriver and a hammer and tries to beat the bolt out of the terminal. No such luck. The roommate and I agree: God may hate Chevy Luminas. Okay, we're back to the planning point. Option 2 is gone which leaves us with: 1. change the battery end and 3. get professional help. All those that chose 1, you win.

In order to remove the cable end, I have to pry open the bottom part of the cable end. No biggie. I easily remove this part. Next I have to remove much larger clamp like pieces of metal that have adorned this wire since 1992. This is much more difficult. The only thing I can think to do is to use a hammer and a screw driver to try to loosen these larger clamp pieces.

Needless to say I'm frustrated. Wailing on the cable seemed like a good way to relieve some frustration. The wailing began. Halfway through I realize that I am making little process and am preparing myself mentally for the fact that I will not have a car for the evening. However, pride will not allow us to give up, and we are completely invested in this project. It is now 2:15.

In the middle of the severe beating I was giving the batter cable, my roommate starts screaming. I thought a piece of metal had hit him, or he'd cut himself playing with the saw, or he'd found religion. The truth was much better. Sometime during my fruitless attempt to remove the cable end, the bolt had fallen out of the battery cable. Chevy Lumina = 34, The roommate and the Staffman = 1.

After we had a free cable, putting in the battery was a snap. Throw the thing in, slap a few bolts into the side, and mock General Motor's failed attempt to force us into option 3. professional help.

The Origin of Staffman

Hey. It's your friendly neighborhood Staffman. I got the name when I worked for a man that cannot be done justice on an internet website. The initiated refer to him only as "Bossman." One day I answered the phone and the Bossman simply yelled "Staffman rules, Staffman rocks, where you at Staffman?" I relayed my position and he said "Staffman, get your ass over here," which ended our conversation and christened me "the Staffman."

Staffman... on the rocks.

Is it my baggy jeans or my gold teeth that make me different from y'all? I ain't trippin' dog, but listen dog, I was raised a little different than y'all...

Ok, so I'm not exactly a thug. Rather, I'm about to graduate from Vanderbilt law school and enter what is frequently described as "the real world" by people who have never seen MTV's version. I like to think that, when I do arrive in this "real world," I'll end up like Puck. And though I be an honest Puck, I mean MTV's Puck, not Shakespeare's.