Hat

It took a while, but here it is. Photo was taken by the paper’s intern, Emily.

I make funny faces when I laugh.

Drained

It has been a while, hasn’t it…

It’s not that I haven’t had anything to write about. It’s just that I haven’t felt right about writing. As of late, I’ve been pouring so much of myself into my work, that I have nothing left that I feel I can share.

I guess that’s a little unfair. Sorry to hold back.

In the past month, I have:

- Worked 17 days straight (at least four hours of work a day)
- Written a story about a murder
- Written a story about a doctor accused of sexually abusing patients, and then later being indicted on charges that he took that patient’s prescription record and gave it to his defense attorney
- Received a tip from a woman who claimed she killed a yeti, who was wearing backless chaps, and that she has proof and has called a taxidermist (I swear I did not make this up and I am trying to figure out how to save it off my work voicemail, because it is epic).
- Had a coworker suggest she should change her last name to Shafa (or at least hyphenate) because she likes pistachios and so does everyone in my family (nay, millions of people in the whole world)”
- Had the same coworker suggest that she could fake passing out so I could be all office-first-responder just in time for her to come to and say “Oh, Big D, you saved me!” and then suggest that she be given the rest of the day off.

Yes, Big D is now my nickname.

Come to think of it, I’ve had a lot of nicknames…

p.s. - Yes, I am working on a picture of me wearing the hat. Because it is awesome.

“Track record” or “Hair-brained ideas”

This past week and a half has seen momentous days for two of my closest family members.

Dr. Mom celebrated her 10th wedding anniversary, as I mentioned in the last post. And then BigSis celebrated her 16th wedding anniversary.

Good. Lord.

Dr. Dad is fond of making jokes about marriage. His favorite is that “Marriage is not a word. It’s a sentence.” On his 20th anniversary a few years ago, he remarked that he could have murdered two people and stolen a car and been out by now, with a few years to spare because of early parole for good behavior.

I haven’t been quite as successful as my family members. In fact, I think the best way to sum up my history of relationships with women can best be done through the movie Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

That would be my heart.

Anyway, jokes and bizarre sense of humor aside, it really is pretty fantastic for my mom and sister to have pulled this off. So leave them a comment in the comments, yes?

Also, I have some… interesting news… on the blog front.

Up until Saturday, I worked 17 straight days. I didn’t work full days for all of them, but at least 4 hours each day, and the four-hour days numbered 3 out of them. It was insane. But I loved it.

And therein is a telling story about the work I do. I love it. I volunteer for more work. They don’t let us have unapproved overtime, but if they did, I’d probably put a serious hurt on them in overtime wages.

In fact, there’s only been one really negative experience with work. And that’s not because of work. It’s because of genetics.

I am losing my hair, for those of you who are new to here. It is a tragedy of epic proportions. I suppose I’m fortunate to have kept my hair as long as I have. My mother’s brother had lost pretty much all of his by 19, as I’ve mentioned before. But I’m still not used to thinking of myself among the realm of the shiny-heads, or even the soon-to-be shiny heads. So I go outside and with my complexion, I don’t care about the sun.

Except for last week. Big. Mistake. I got a sunburn on my head. On my scalp. It was awful.

So I went to Target and bought an old man hat. A “stingy” fedora as my boss says its called. I only look minorly strange in the hat and I’m planning on making good use of it. Pictures shall ensue.

And there’s one more thing about work… But I think I’ll leave it as a cliffhanger.

Mwahahaha.

“International man of Awesome” or “My eye is a cheetah”

It is. Seriously. It has a spot in it.

Two days ago, I woke up and noticed a fly was in front of my face. No big deal, it was tiny and I swatted it away.

But then it came back.

After watching this thing for several seconds I realized that it was not in fact a fly. There is a spot in my vision that moves with my eyeball. And it is driving me nuts.

Dr. Mom is off celebrating her 10th anniversary in Grand Cayman (I swear, the woman is a total contradiction in terms - living like the cheapest woman alive most of the time and then winging off to some spectacular place whenever the chance arises), so I called Dr. Dad.

Those of you familiar with Dr. Dad know where this is going. This is the one-way train to Dude, what?-ville.

After describing my problem Dr. Dad was silent for a moment. Then he said something I can quote by heart, because he has said it every time I have had a medical problem since I was 3.

“I knew someone who had that… They died.”

And now for the left turn at the traffic lights.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a total nerd. I like sci-fi (I saw Iron Man and Indy 4 2x each). So one of my fellow nerd friends from college reminded me of a fantastic episode from Star Trek: The Next Generation where two characters, Captain Picard and some alien guy who speaks only in metaphors have to learn to communicate.

And The Evans, my nerd friend, started speaking entirely in metaphor. Then he got me thinking of what my life would be like if I spoke only in metaphor… This is probably how it would go in a time sequence too…

Dariush, his eyes red - I am angry

Dariush, at the airport - Trouble possible

Dariush, at the Office of Homeland Security - Trouble imminent

Dariush, on the ocean - Where am I going, and why am I in this handbasket?

Dariush, at Guantanamo - This is the trouble I was talking about earlier

Dariush, on the waterboarding table - Self-explanatory

Seriously, even if you’re not keen on Star Trek I think you should see this episode, just for the interesting acting and dialogue.

Finally, I leave you with some parting goodies. I shot some wedding photos a couple weeks ago and they are online now. Have a look, tell me what you think. It’s the folder on the right.

“That which does not kill me…” or “Jet fuel”

Quick post:

Last night I did not sleep very well. I got about two hours sleep. I am learning to sleep with a CPAP mask, which is a very strange experience.

I will not survive through the day without some form of assistance, and so I have delved into my college days for a cure-all that, if it does not kill me, will certainly assure both complete wakefulness and total spasticness.

Dariush’s Jet-Fuel Wakefulness Drink (I’m sure it has a name elsewhere, but this is what I call it)

2 - 8 oz. cans of Red Bull (I use the sugar-free)

1 - 20 oz. bottle of Diet Mountain Dew

Combine in a container of choice and drink. Have food on hand (preferably something from a convenience store) to keep the acid from eating through your stomach wall (and, if it’s true convenience store food, to keep the caffeine mixture of death from becoming self-aware and breaking out of your body Alien-style).

For those of you who are enraged that I am playing fast and loose with caffeine, I must share with you my mantra: That which does not kill me can only prolong the inevitable.

Which, ironically enough, is the story of owning a cat… But that story will have to wait to be told.

“Abandonment” or “Dude, what?”

Okay, so I finally remembered that I have this thing called a blog.

As for the BBQ fest, I could distill it into timestamps (I had assumed that it would be far more interesting in terms of blogging) but it kinda wasn’t. Instead, it distill down to eating large amounts of delicious animals and a man offering me multiple kinds of alcohol at 6:30 in the morning.

Then there was a visit from a very famous dignitary. I attempted to get an interview. I was unsuccessful. I did, however, get within six feet of him and the fact that the Secret Service did not shoot me is still totally amazing to me.

I have to get to work, so this post is, sadly, short. I will, however, leave you with one final, parting image.

Yesterday I got home at about 5:30 and found something white, papery and shredded on my living room floor. The shredder of said papery stuff was, of course, sitting next to it and totally happy to see me. So I began conducting an investigation.

And found more papery stuff.

And more.

And more elsewhere.

I keep the bathroom door shut when I am not home (and when I am home, since Cyrus likes to jump on the toilet tank lid and rock back and forth to make it make noise). Somehow, the little jerk got in and managed to shred an entire roll of toilet paper.

This is not cute. This is not funny. This is an abomination, an example of buffoonery and ridiculousity such as the world has never seen before.

But I still let the little jerk sleep on my chest at night. Somehow, he has found a way to be completely evil and then completely loveable.

I’m taking notes now. Maybe this is something that can be helpful with the ladies…

“Festivities” or “Reminder”

About a week and a half ago I got an e-mail from a lady whose husband I had written a story about. The man had already beaten the odds and received a heart transplant several years ago, but fate had caught up with him and he was now on dialysis and in need of a kidney transplant.

It was tough to sit on their couch and walk through their home and take pictures while trying, in my mind, to keep distanced. It was because of him that I went and got my blood typed. I knew that someday, someone might need my help and I wanted to help.

His wife wrote me. Her son, her husband’s stepson, had read the article. He got tested. He gave a kidney.

I got into this so that I could tell these kinds of stories.

Speaking of stories, tomorrow is the second and last day of the International Bar-B-Q Festival here in Owensboro. I figured it would make for a good posting event and so I am planning on timestamping the day and blogging it later. I am also doing multimedia work for the paper, so watch for a link to our photos and my audio from the celebration.

Finally, I will leave you with a quick story. Some of you may have seen this article in the news. (Note: I am only linking to Fox News because they say the phrase “junk in the trunk” in the story, and otherwise, I would never promote those hacks).

Feeling very snide, I copied and pasted a link to the article to Dr. Mom and Sis. Let’s just say junk in the trunk runs in the family.

Dr. Mom immediately replied that she was overjoyed that I will never get diabetes.

Dr. Mom - 1, Me - 0.

“Sick day” or “Update on the fate of the ’stache”

Today might just have been the worst day ever. EVER.

I woke up this morning with a migraine. This is, of course, a bad thing. To make matters worse, it was one of the ones where my vision was blurry, I was dizzy and on the verge of throwing up every few minutes.

I immediately called in to work and told my boss I was going to try to come in, but I’d be late. He was fine with this and I immediately went into dark-room seclusion, exiling Cyrus to the living room.

And then immediately vaulted out of bed, into the bathroom and was horrifically, terribly, excruciatingly sick.

And then a few minutes later I was sick again.

And again.

And some more.

After about the third time I had nothing more to be sick with except my futile attempts to stay hydrated. For about two hours I was sitting in my bathtub so as to have easy access to the toilet, thanking the shower wall for being cool and refreshing against my forehead and failing entirely at drinking the glass of water I had brought with.

About the time I was feeling well enough not to hold residence in my shower was also the time that the yard maintenance guy decided that he was going to mow, trim, weed-eat and leaf-blow outside my oh-so-not-soundproof window.

Ugh.

So now, I am trying to eat something. Trying to drink something and trying not to die.

And yes, I shaved.

Good night.

“What is that thing?” or “‘Stache”

Okay, here it is. You all can stop with the making of the threats and the constant harassment.

I finally realized who it is I think I look like…

I look like Inspector Clouseau. And I am not sure I like that.

Anyway, the ’stache is already drawing criticism at work. Today, one coworker, in mid-conversation with another coworker, stopped and said “Okay, I just have to tell you. The mustache? It’s not working”

Feeling very defensive, I asked the coworker she was talking to what HER verdict was.

She just said three words. “Shave it off.”

Another coworker, when I asked her opinion, said, “I’m not going to say anything bad about your mustache.”

But then under her breath said very quickly, “But it would be nice if it was gone.”

This makes me:

So here’s where you come in. Vote the fate of the ’stache!

Does it stay or does it go?

“Suspicion” or “Terrorism!” or “Delaying my ’stache”

Ok, so I went with a triple headline because something totally bizarre just happened.

It’s 10 p.m. Dariush is at home, not doing much of anything except watching BSG and trying to fend off half-hearted feline attacks on my ankles.

Knock knock

“Just a minute.”

I walk around the house shirtless. It’s a trait picked up from my father and his family. When enough men of the Shafa clan gather, it’s quite accurate to say that it’s like a herd of Silverback Gorillas (Gorilli? Gorillae?) wandering about. Either that or just Middle Eastern-descended men who all appear to be wearing thick, black (gray in my dad and grandfather’s cases) sweaters.

I digress.

So I find a shirt.

KNOCK KNOCK

“I said HOLD ON.”

I corral the cat and then go to the door. I’m paranoid enough (And “Only the paranoid survive” as one of my old bosses had emblazoned on her coffee cup) not to trust, well, anyone. I open the door, but the chain stays in place.

Nobody outside. Nobody in sight, anyway.

“Hello?” I ask, feeling more and more like this is a horror movie and I’m the token minority who’s going to cash in his chips first (Jim Brown didn’t die first in “The Dirty Dozen” but he still dies, and I’ve seen that movie about 10K times).

A woman enters my view.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I live across the street and I need to use your phone.”

Justification time: In the Bible, the Pharoah asked Abraham if Sarah was his wife. Abraham said she was his sister, because to out-and-out say Sarah was his wife probably would have gotten him killed. Now, God was okay with this because in this circumstance, Pharoah was not entitled to the truth (higher purposes and all that, is how this is explained) and all turned out okay in the end.

There is NO WAY I am letting this woman into my apartment, no matter the fact that I have a psychotic attack kitty and ninja/Kung fu skills enough to make the largest, meanest of men wet themselves uncontrollably and sob like Nancy Kerrigan (too soon? I think not).

“I don’t have a phone,” I tell her.

“Well, can I use your bathroom?”

She lives across the street and wants to use my restroom. Which is manly. And has lots of hair around it (guys, this is normal, am I right?). That alone would preclude her from using it, but I’ve seen enough trashy horror movie previews to know that if my life were in fact a movie being shown in a theater, someone in the back is screaming “DON’T LET HER IN THE DOOR! SHE’S A VICIOUS SERIAL KILLER!” This person exists constantly in my head and I listen to this person. It’s why I’m still alive.

“No, I’m not comfortable at all with you coming in. Sorry.”

And I shut the door.

And then I dial the cops.

And then the cops are out in my neighborhood, looking for our phoneless crazy woman who has a bulging bladder.

The officer who came to my door said she probably just wanted to grab something quickly to pawn. Whatever. Crazy womens can stay all up out of my business.

***

Last night I had to cover Barack Obama’s visit to Evansville, Indiana. Of course, being a presidential race, there would be a whole ton and a half of security. Local. State. Federal.

While the authorities were doing their security sweep of the building, I waited outside and made small talk with one of the facility’s technical guys. He seemed nice enough and then remarked about how tight security was. I remarked that it wasn’t as bad as two summers ago when Dick Cheney came to Owensboro. I then related to him my run-in with the Secret Service.

And then the guy looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, no offense, but you DO look like a terrorist.”

One of my friends, a journalist in Singapore, agrees and suggested I change my name to O’dariush Bin Lashafa.

Tomorrow, I will let you be the judge. Tomorrow, I will unveil my ’stache.