I’m still trying to decide if I got the letter “i” the word “I” or the Roman numeral one.
Rob from www.cockeyed.com. is giving out link opportunities that are connected to a story in which every single word in the story is linked elsewhere. A very interesting idea. It might be a complete flop, but he thought of it and you’ve got to give the guy credit for that.
I got “I.”
As a bonus, he is auctioning off several words on e-bay. I bid on "sucks" but got immediately outbid. I’ll wait to the very end to snipe my word. If I do win, I’ll link it to the You Suck, Joe Show story.
You can read about it here on The Very Well Linked Story.
I chose the letter “I” because I am a day late and had to pick from the leftover “I”s the “am”s and the “of”s.
Since this is the letter “I” and I am all about me, I will dedicate this page to Doug.
Here are some things you do not know about Doug. Or things you do know about Doug and are afraid to share with your friends:
I have broken my arm twice.
I lost my virginity at 19.
I like going to Outland.
I have been friends with Russ since kindergarten.
I currently have tweleve secret crushes.
I have a list of three famous people I am allowed to sleep if I get the opportunity. They are: Christina Ricci, Leelee Sobieski and Melissa Joan Hart. (I just have to call home first.)
I have had one major concussion, one minor concussion and one major concussion.
I have broken several chairs in my lifetime.
I cannot say the word Woolworths.
Here’s to I!
Red Parked Better
We went to lunch at the Asian buffet today. There isn't any quicker physical turn around than going from starving to the bowel hiccupping, sick that this buffet induces. Still, we go once every two weeks. Time heals all wounds.
As we went in today, I noticed a blue SUV attempting to use the four wheel drive the guy paid an extra 4K for with the Avenger Package.
Looks like you almost got to the top of Everest there Mallory.
Two plates of non-MSG infused batter and sticky rice later, we came out to find blue SUV had left and Red SUV parked in his place.
Red parked better.
As we went in today, I noticed a blue SUV attempting to use the four wheel drive the guy paid an extra 4K for with the Avenger Package.
Looks like you almost got to the top of Everest there Mallory.
Two plates of non-MSG infused batter and sticky rice later, we came out to find blue SUV had left and Red SUV parked in his place.
Red parked better.
Third Leg - A self portrait
It's hard to remember when photos were ever taken on film without the ability to see what you took immediately. I kind of remember f-stops and film speed.
This is my sister Karen's foot and the other two are mine. I only took one shot and didn't know until three months later how well it turned out.
Them's some sexy feets.
Fake Identity Theft
When I was 18, I had one of the greatest fake IDs of all time. It was my older brother Steve’s license. It was so good that I didn't have to memorize the SS# or even the birth date because everyone thought it was real (it was) and mine (it wasn’t.)
The first time I used the ID was at a gas station on the outskirts of town. I was pretty nervous, but my friends were all giddy to get their hands on some beer. I went in, grabbed a six pack and put it on the counter. The girl behind the counter asked for ID. I handed it over. She looked at it for a second and said, “This isn't you. I went to school with Steve. You are not Steve.”
I wasn’t expecting that kind of shutdown. So I quickly came up with a brilliant excuse.
Not-Steve: “Steve is sick.”
Girl Behind Counter: “Why does he need beer if he is sick?”
Not-Steve: “I don’t know.”
Fortunately, she handed the ID back. My friends drove me to a quik-e mart (laughing all the way about the “Steve’s sick” line) and I bought a 12 pack without any problem. It was all downhill from there.
I used the ID in Lancaster, Columbus and at Ohio University. I was never turned down.
Being that I am a generous and kind friend, I decided to loan it to my friend Nick when he asked for it. Nick and some others were heading up to The Newport on the Ohio State campus. Nick is a handsome devil and looked enough like me and my brother to use the ID. I gave it to him and said, “Don’t lose it!”
He lost it.
As it turned out, Nick was buying beers for everyone. Instead of buying three or four at a time, he was buying one, giving it to an underager and going back for more, trying to hit up a different bartender each time. One of the bartenders caught on and asked Nick to show him the ID. With the ID in hand, the bartender said, “You can either let me confiscate this or we can find a cop and find out if this is really you.” Nick walked away.
No more ID. No more Doug drinky drinky.
I never saw it again.
Several months later, Steve called. He had been down from Toledo in Columbus visiting his girlfriend. They had gone on a double date with his girlfriend's sorority sister. All four were queued in line at a bar and pulling out their IDs. The other couple, a younger couple, had their fake IDs.
And dude had my brother’s ID. My fake ID.
I’m not good at math, but those odds are f’ing unbelievable. The bartender must had kept the ID and sold it. Asshole. A great scam I must admit.
So I said to Steve, did you take it back? No? Shit.
As an apology, Nick let me have his older brother’s Ohio University ID. Way back when, the OU IDs had your birthdate on them. It worked in one or two bars in Athens. But it wasn’t the same.
I turned 21 before Steve ever made it back to the DMV.
The first time I used the ID was at a gas station on the outskirts of town. I was pretty nervous, but my friends were all giddy to get their hands on some beer. I went in, grabbed a six pack and put it on the counter. The girl behind the counter asked for ID. I handed it over. She looked at it for a second and said, “This isn't you. I went to school with Steve. You are not Steve.”
I wasn’t expecting that kind of shutdown. So I quickly came up with a brilliant excuse.
Not-Steve: “Steve is sick.”
Girl Behind Counter: “Why does he need beer if he is sick?”
Not-Steve: “I don’t know.”
Fortunately, she handed the ID back. My friends drove me to a quik-e mart (laughing all the way about the “Steve’s sick” line) and I bought a 12 pack without any problem. It was all downhill from there.
I used the ID in Lancaster, Columbus and at Ohio University. I was never turned down.
Being that I am a generous and kind friend, I decided to loan it to my friend Nick when he asked for it. Nick and some others were heading up to The Newport on the Ohio State campus. Nick is a handsome devil and looked enough like me and my brother to use the ID. I gave it to him and said, “Don’t lose it!”
He lost it.
As it turned out, Nick was buying beers for everyone. Instead of buying three or four at a time, he was buying one, giving it to an underager and going back for more, trying to hit up a different bartender each time. One of the bartenders caught on and asked Nick to show him the ID. With the ID in hand, the bartender said, “You can either let me confiscate this or we can find a cop and find out if this is really you.” Nick walked away.
No more ID. No more Doug drinky drinky.
I never saw it again.
Several months later, Steve called. He had been down from Toledo in Columbus visiting his girlfriend. They had gone on a double date with his girlfriend's sorority sister. All four were queued in line at a bar and pulling out their IDs. The other couple, a younger couple, had their fake IDs.
And dude had my brother’s ID. My fake ID.
I’m not good at math, but those odds are f’ing unbelievable. The bartender must had kept the ID and sold it. Asshole. A great scam I must admit.
So I said to Steve, did you take it back? No? Shit.
As an apology, Nick let me have his older brother’s Ohio University ID. Way back when, the OU IDs had your birthdate on them. It worked in one or two bars in Athens. But it wasn’t the same.
I turned 21 before Steve ever made it back to the DMV.
Frozen Turd
My co-worker Angie is looking for a beater car for her daughter. She found this van on Craig’s list and thought it was funny. I have to agree.
B and B excitement quickly turned to scam disappointment
I love it when I see a company named B & B. (You can read why here-> B & B ). I don't care what product or service they are hawking; I'd buy it just to have the B & B label.
At least that's what I thought.
We got the postcard below in the mail today. (The entire rectangular graphic in the white area is actually the backside of the postcard with a little magnification added. Clicky to enlarge.)
I noticed the B & B Promotions in the address and got all happy. It was hard to see the address amongst all the Wal-Mart logos and smiley faces. Looks like the B & B Promotions hooked themselves up with a huge retailer. Of course, B & B is all about hooking up.
Then I noticed the small print:
"Some restrictions apply. Must be a homeowner to participate. Not affiliated with Wal-Mart."
So, basically, this is a scam of some sorts. I’m sure you call the 1-800 number and they will try to sell you insurance or a water purifier or a water purifying insurance policy.
I could give two shits about Wal-Mart, but this "Promotions" company is tainting the proud history of the letter B ampersand letter B. So, I am forwarding on a scan of the postcard to Wal-Mart suggesting they do something about this company that dares take the name of B & B in vain.
If you know of a B & B product that will get me out of my funk, please let me know.I READ YOU
At least that's what I thought.
We got the postcard below in the mail today. (The entire rectangular graphic in the white area is actually the backside of the postcard with a little magnification added. Clicky to enlarge.)
I noticed the B & B Promotions in the address and got all happy. It was hard to see the address amongst all the Wal-Mart logos and smiley faces. Looks like the B & B Promotions hooked themselves up with a huge retailer. Of course, B & B is all about hooking up.
Then I noticed the small print:
"Some restrictions apply. Must be a homeowner to participate. Not affiliated with Wal-Mart."
So, basically, this is a scam of some sorts. I’m sure you call the 1-800 number and they will try to sell you insurance or a water purifier or a water purifying insurance policy.
I could give two shits about Wal-Mart, but this "Promotions" company is tainting the proud history of the letter B ampersand letter B. So, I am forwarding on a scan of the postcard to Wal-Mart suggesting they do something about this company that dares take the name of B & B in vain.
If you know of a B & B product that will get me out of my funk, please let me know.
Pant Leg - Ketchikan, AK 1992
In the Summer of 1992, I worked in Ketchikan, AK as a retorter in a salmon canning factory. I worked with two other guys, Dan and Jim. This is a leg off of Dan's pants and several sayings that we had over the Summer. OK, Jeremy was in on it too. But he was in the can loft and the can loft is for pussies.
Click on the photo to go to my Flickr page and see the detail on the writing.
Public Shaming or Corporate Line Dance
I was recently the consumer of a service which was sub-par. Being passive/aggressive, I did nothing at the time of the transgression and am dealing with it now, two weeks later.
I have two options:
1. Public Shaming
In this instance, I would share my tale of woe with you, my virtuous readers, and make sarcastic comments about the failure of service. I’d mention how f’ed up the situation is and that the only way anything is going to change is if someone points a fiery brand at the problem in front of a large group of witnesses and shames the company into action.
2. Corporate Line Dance
This option involves communication and time. Write a letter to customer service and wait to see their response. Reply back and forth ad nauseum. This is where you attempt to get satisfaction through a corporate level change in policy or in hush-hush coupons.
For the sake of content, I’ll go with the Corporate Line Dance. This allows me to solve the problem without being a dick. It will also give me additional material for future writings.
I’ll let you know how it goes. Hopefully with copies of e-mails and such!
I have two options:
1. Public Shaming
In this instance, I would share my tale of woe with you, my virtuous readers, and make sarcastic comments about the failure of service. I’d mention how f’ed up the situation is and that the only way anything is going to change is if someone points a fiery brand at the problem in front of a large group of witnesses and shames the company into action.
2. Corporate Line Dance
This option involves communication and time. Write a letter to customer service and wait to see their response. Reply back and forth ad nauseum. This is where you attempt to get satisfaction through a corporate level change in policy or in hush-hush coupons.
For the sake of content, I’ll go with the Corporate Line Dance. This allows me to solve the problem without being a dick. It will also give me additional material for future writings.
I’ll let you know how it goes. Hopefully with copies of e-mails and such!
I love hot moms
Miss Sally had to work today while the rest of Columbus sat around in their pajamas for the second day.
Before she left, she gave me a Valentines Day gift. This T-shirt.
I love Miss Sally.
Greg took this photo. He's got to work on the composition and his f-stops are a bit muddy.
A Dignified Death for the Younglings
{Editors Note: This is part one of a three part series concerning bits of the Star Wars movie saga. Yes, I realize this is several years too late, but my son is almost ready to watch the films and these things need rehashed.}
If you don’t give a crap about the Star Wars movies, you can stop reading here. If you know Shaak Ti’s horoscope sign in relationship to the planet she was spawned on, you might want to stop reading as well. (I’m not that fanboyish.)
If you are still reading, you might be familiar with Anakin Skywalker’s complete turn to the dark side when he kills off all the “Younglings” at the Jedi Temple in Episode 3, Revenge of the Sith. It’s a major part of the film as he not only fully envelops himself in the dark side, but he kills off the next generation of Jedi.
I have a few problems with how this was all taken care of in the film. Or suggested. Or actually skipped over.
First off, a side note… who the crap came up with the term “Younglings?” Younglings sounds like these kids are in finishing school. These tots are future Jedi pricks and should be named so. Perhaps it is a way to knock them down a notch and deflate their egos. They should either be named something totally demoralizing (like Poopypants or Twinkle Yum-Yums) or give them a weird sounding name that is actually a foreign capital (like Yangons or Andorra la Vellas.)
In the film, the actual murder of the Jedi and the Jedi-in-training is treated mostly like a flashback when Obi-Won catches the 11 o’clock news and sees the replay on a video screen. It was a nice way of revealing a major plot point while keeping the film safe for all audiences (i.e. pussing out.)
I should have known this is how he would play out the scene. In Episode 2, Lucas didn’t even let us see Anakin kill off a whole tribe of dirty, stinking, mommy killing Sand People. If he can’t have the main character killing off some ugly aliens, he really doesn’t have a pair of Seeker Remotes in his underwear to pull off a really good slaughter scene.
I am not suggesting that we should have seen Anakin sauntering through the Jedi Temple killing everything like the Terminator in a Police Station. I am not in this for the blood shed. What I wanted to see was a bunch of kids working together in a hopeless battle to kill off a Jedi traitor and several battalions of Stormtroopers. These kids weren’t just in their rooms playing with Legos. They were in training to become Jedi. They should have immediately figured out what was going on and grouped together to fight off the invaders. They would have used the weapons at hand. Laying traps. Working in small groups to confuse and attack. Using their hide and seek hidey holes. Sacrificing themselves to save the others. They would have used trickery and their limited understanding of the force. And in the end, they would have all died. But at least Lucas could have given the kids some dignity.
But no. Instead, all we see are a couple of scared children, “huddled in a corner,” asking Anakin who is going to fight their battle for them. Anakin fires up his light saber and we are left to assume the obvious. Anakin is going to kill the children. Does having them fight back make him any less evil? I can see the argument that killing innocent children is more evil than killing kids that are fighting back. But these were not normal kids.
It should have been similar to the battles in the Ender’s Game novel. A group of outnumbered, out muscled kids kicking ass against extraordinary odds. Or Toy Soldier, where kids use their cunning, toy airplanes and the death of Wesley Crusher to hold out against kidnappers. Anyone remember TAPS? I’d even take a bit of the fucking Goonies where the kids fight off self doubt and puberty.
In the end of Sith, all the kids die. Because they had too. But they didn’t have to die cowering in a corner or slashed in the back as they ran in a panic. Give the kids some dignity. The least he could have done was have Yoda say they died fighting the best they could. Or hinted at how there was a last stand. Instead, we are left to remember these young kids as cowering innocents. And I think that is a travesty.
If you don’t give a crap about the Star Wars movies, you can stop reading here. If you know Shaak Ti’s horoscope sign in relationship to the planet she was spawned on, you might want to stop reading as well. (I’m not that fanboyish.)
If you are still reading, you might be familiar with Anakin Skywalker’s complete turn to the dark side when he kills off all the “Younglings” at the Jedi Temple in Episode 3, Revenge of the Sith. It’s a major part of the film as he not only fully envelops himself in the dark side, but he kills off the next generation of Jedi.
I have a few problems with how this was all taken care of in the film. Or suggested. Or actually skipped over.
First off, a side note… who the crap came up with the term “Younglings?” Younglings sounds like these kids are in finishing school. These tots are future Jedi pricks and should be named so. Perhaps it is a way to knock them down a notch and deflate their egos. They should either be named something totally demoralizing (like Poopypants or Twinkle Yum-Yums) or give them a weird sounding name that is actually a foreign capital (like Yangons or Andorra la Vellas.)
In the film, the actual murder of the Jedi and the Jedi-in-training is treated mostly like a flashback when Obi-Won catches the 11 o’clock news and sees the replay on a video screen. It was a nice way of revealing a major plot point while keeping the film safe for all audiences (i.e. pussing out.)
I should have known this is how he would play out the scene. In Episode 2, Lucas didn’t even let us see Anakin kill off a whole tribe of dirty, stinking, mommy killing Sand People. If he can’t have the main character killing off some ugly aliens, he really doesn’t have a pair of Seeker Remotes in his underwear to pull off a really good slaughter scene.
I am not suggesting that we should have seen Anakin sauntering through the Jedi Temple killing everything like the Terminator in a Police Station. I am not in this for the blood shed. What I wanted to see was a bunch of kids working together in a hopeless battle to kill off a Jedi traitor and several battalions of Stormtroopers. These kids weren’t just in their rooms playing with Legos. They were in training to become Jedi. They should have immediately figured out what was going on and grouped together to fight off the invaders. They would have used the weapons at hand. Laying traps. Working in small groups to confuse and attack. Using their hide and seek hidey holes. Sacrificing themselves to save the others. They would have used trickery and their limited understanding of the force. And in the end, they would have all died. But at least Lucas could have given the kids some dignity.
But no. Instead, all we see are a couple of scared children, “huddled in a corner,” asking Anakin who is going to fight their battle for them. Anakin fires up his light saber and we are left to assume the obvious. Anakin is going to kill the children. Does having them fight back make him any less evil? I can see the argument that killing innocent children is more evil than killing kids that are fighting back. But these were not normal kids.
It should have been similar to the battles in the Ender’s Game novel. A group of outnumbered, out muscled kids kicking ass against extraordinary odds. Or Toy Soldier, where kids use their cunning, toy airplanes and the death of Wesley Crusher to hold out against kidnappers. Anyone remember TAPS? I’d even take a bit of the fucking Goonies where the kids fight off self doubt and puberty.
In the end of Sith, all the kids die. Because they had too. But they didn’t have to die cowering in a corner or slashed in the back as they ran in a panic. Give the kids some dignity. The least he could have done was have Yoda say they died fighting the best they could. Or hinted at how there was a last stand. Instead, we are left to remember these young kids as cowering innocents. And I think that is a travesty.
300
I have not been so excited about a movie since The Phantom Menace came out. 300 comes out March 9th, 2007. I am assuming that 300 will not let me down like Menace did.
300 is a Frank Miller graphic novel turned major motion picture in the same style as Miller’s graphic novel, Sin City. I’d go into the detail of the historical significance, but I am bad at history and only average at determining awesomeness.
Let’s go down the movie awesomeness checklist:
Fights (check)
Skies blackened with arrows (check)
Hot chicks with somewhat see-through tunics (check)
Fight scenes mixing the sytles of Asian, Krav Maga and Conan (check)
Dismemberment (Check)
Fields of wheat (check)
Rhinos strapped with armor (check)
Dude getting ass thrown in the well (check)
Impossible odds (check)
Impossible landscape (check)
Impossible violence (check)
Two cowboys eating pudding and sucking dick (check)
I’m hoping my brother-in-law Tom is in town so we can go see the first showing. His whole family gets up for this type of event and I love being involved in their arguments of film style, CG and weapons fabrication.
300 is a Frank Miller graphic novel turned major motion picture in the same style as Miller’s graphic novel, Sin City. I’d go into the detail of the historical significance, but I am bad at history and only average at determining awesomeness.
Let’s go down the movie awesomeness checklist:
Fights (check)
Skies blackened with arrows (check)
Hot chicks with somewhat see-through tunics (check)
Fight scenes mixing the sytles of Asian, Krav Maga and Conan (check)
Dismemberment (Check)
Fields of wheat (check)
Rhinos strapped with armor (check)
Dude getting ass thrown in the well (check)
Impossible odds (check)
Impossible landscape (check)
Impossible violence (check)
Two cowboys eating pudding and sucking dick (check)
I’m hoping my brother-in-law Tom is in town so we can go see the first showing. His whole family gets up for this type of event and I love being involved in their arguments of film style, CG and weapons fabrication.
Mat Shot
There were several occasions when Stephanie, The Witch* and I got into trouble in Denver.
*The Witch has a name and it is Melissa. She really doesn’t appreciate me calling her The Witch. So from now on, I will use her real name because I am a nice guy.
There were several occasions when Stephanie, Melissa** and I got into trouble in Denver.
**I like The Witch better.
There were several occasions when Stephanie, The Witch and I got into trouble in Denver. None of us had any money and so we did cheap things like break into the Denver Botanic Gardens at night or play this game where I would take a shower and they would break into my apartment and scare the shit out of me. They will want you to know that I squeal like a little girl when startled.
It was May 13th, 1995, which is forever ago. Steph , The Witch and I were slumming from bar to bar in the LoDo. I think we ate dinner earlier and none of us were heavy with cash. We found our way to a newer bar called The Firehouse. We saddled up to the bar and the ladies anted some charm to get free drinks.
The bartender’s name was John. John Romero***.
***No. Not the Doom creator and video game visionary John Romero. This John Romero had very similar looks as Mr. Romero, but lacked a good bit of the pink stuff in his skull. It was as if God made two John Romero’s and only had time to make one whole brain before lunch break. Read on.
John served us our first round of beers. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Good looks. Somewhat charming. At one point he took my house keys off the bar, removed some random bottle opener key ring I’d picked up at another bar and replaced it with a newer, promotional one that the Firehouse was giving out. “There you go pal.” He tossed my old bottle opener into the trash. I faked a look of panic and said that was a gift from my dad. He went headfirst into the trash and retrieved my opener. My hero.
Into our second round, the girls and I realized that our drinking would be ceasing very soon as our funds were about gone. The girls poured on the charm and pried at John’s resolve to continue charging us for our drinks.
He gave in, kind of. John said that he would buy our drinks for the rest of the night if one of the girls would do a Mat Shot out of a dirty ashtray. Mat Shot? Sounds like a 2nd string quarterback’s name. We all looked each other and then asked John what a Mat Shot was. He pulled out the black, rubber mat that snuggled up in the narrow crevice on the back of a bar where the bartenders poured their drinks. Bartenders don’t give a shit and are sloppy. Splashed liquids are trapped in the bottom of the mat while the rubber fingers keep the glass bottom mostly dry. The liquids collect and are periodically dumped down the drain. Or into a shot glass, which is a standard Mat Shot. Or into an ash tray, which is what he did next.
There weren’t any butts in the ashtray, but it was full of residual ash. Now it was filled with residual ash and 23 different kinds of liquor. He pushed the ash tray in front of The Witch. She contemplated it for a minute. No drinks or free drinks? Mouth that tastes like mouth or mouth that tastes like ass? She said no. Steph didn’t even have to think about it and said no.
You can see where this is going.
Fortunately, the free beers for the rest of the night washed the ass out of my mouth. My journal says we got hammered. I can believe it. By the end of the night, we were mostly blotto and John ended up with one of the girl’s phone numbers.
Three months later we were lobbing smoke bombs into his front door and catching his couch on fire. It was doomed from the start.
BONUS JOHN INFORMATION
It wasn't that John was dumb. He just sometimes did and said things that weren't entirely that smart. He had enough gray matter to get through life, but his thought process was a little like watching a top spinning on gravel.
John used to create fireballs by spitting lighter fluid out of his mouth and igniting it. It was quite a sight and the intense heat helped to keep his Cro-Magnon eyebrows down to a manageable length. That night he did it at the Firehouse and almost caught some fabric banners on fire. He and Steph went to a Pearl Jam concert at Red Rocks and he got kicked out after exposing several people in the second and third row to hot, drippy fire. (I think I will be able to track down the video… stay tuned.)
Speaking of Pearl Jam… at the time, Pearl Jam had just come out with their Vs album. 99.99% of the world called it “versus.” John called it “V”-“S”. I believe he called their previous album “T”-“E”-“N.”
*The Witch has a name and it is Melissa. She really doesn’t appreciate me calling her The Witch. So from now on, I will use her real name because I am a nice guy.
There were several occasions when Stephanie, Melissa** and I got into trouble in Denver.
**I like The Witch better.
There were several occasions when Stephanie, The Witch and I got into trouble in Denver. None of us had any money and so we did cheap things like break into the Denver Botanic Gardens at night or play this game where I would take a shower and they would break into my apartment and scare the shit out of me. They will want you to know that I squeal like a little girl when startled.
It was May 13th, 1995, which is forever ago. Steph , The Witch and I were slumming from bar to bar in the LoDo. I think we ate dinner earlier and none of us were heavy with cash. We found our way to a newer bar called The Firehouse. We saddled up to the bar and the ladies anted some charm to get free drinks.
The bartender’s name was John. John Romero***.
***No. Not the Doom creator and video game visionary John Romero. This John Romero had very similar looks as Mr. Romero, but lacked a good bit of the pink stuff in his skull. It was as if God made two John Romero’s and only had time to make one whole brain before lunch break. Read on.
John served us our first round of beers. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Good looks. Somewhat charming. At one point he took my house keys off the bar, removed some random bottle opener key ring I’d picked up at another bar and replaced it with a newer, promotional one that the Firehouse was giving out. “There you go pal.” He tossed my old bottle opener into the trash. I faked a look of panic and said that was a gift from my dad. He went headfirst into the trash and retrieved my opener. My hero.
Into our second round, the girls and I realized that our drinking would be ceasing very soon as our funds were about gone. The girls poured on the charm and pried at John’s resolve to continue charging us for our drinks.
He gave in, kind of. John said that he would buy our drinks for the rest of the night if one of the girls would do a Mat Shot out of a dirty ashtray. Mat Shot? Sounds like a 2nd string quarterback’s name. We all looked each other and then asked John what a Mat Shot was. He pulled out the black, rubber mat that snuggled up in the narrow crevice on the back of a bar where the bartenders poured their drinks. Bartenders don’t give a shit and are sloppy. Splashed liquids are trapped in the bottom of the mat while the rubber fingers keep the glass bottom mostly dry. The liquids collect and are periodically dumped down the drain. Or into a shot glass, which is a standard Mat Shot. Or into an ash tray, which is what he did next.
There weren’t any butts in the ashtray, but it was full of residual ash. Now it was filled with residual ash and 23 different kinds of liquor. He pushed the ash tray in front of The Witch. She contemplated it for a minute. No drinks or free drinks? Mouth that tastes like mouth or mouth that tastes like ass? She said no. Steph didn’t even have to think about it and said no.
You can see where this is going.
Fortunately, the free beers for the rest of the night washed the ass out of my mouth. My journal says we got hammered. I can believe it. By the end of the night, we were mostly blotto and John ended up with one of the girl’s phone numbers.
Three months later we were lobbing smoke bombs into his front door and catching his couch on fire. It was doomed from the start.
BONUS JOHN INFORMATION
It wasn't that John was dumb. He just sometimes did and said things that weren't entirely that smart. He had enough gray matter to get through life, but his thought process was a little like watching a top spinning on gravel.
John used to create fireballs by spitting lighter fluid out of his mouth and igniting it. It was quite a sight and the intense heat helped to keep his Cro-Magnon eyebrows down to a manageable length. That night he did it at the Firehouse and almost caught some fabric banners on fire. He and Steph went to a Pearl Jam concert at Red Rocks and he got kicked out after exposing several people in the second and third row to hot, drippy fire. (I think I will be able to track down the video… stay tuned.)
Speaking of Pearl Jam… at the time, Pearl Jam had just come out with their Vs album. 99.99% of the world called it “versus.” John called it “V”-“S”. I believe he called their previous album “T”-“E”-“N.”
The Book of Mormon-cycle
This is for you ChePibe:
When you are done excercising, you can remove the bike from the stand and use it on your next Mission, if you choose to accept it.
When you are done excercising, you can remove the bike from the stand and use it on your next Mission, if you choose to accept it.
Roll out the Knitter
As with many of my writings, I try to protect the innocent with nicknames and plumes of nomness. It’s not their fault that I remember and record. Why should they suffer the burden of my writings and their friends’ internet searches on Google? With this tale I must reveal the name of the main character as it is an integral part of the story. This story involves my friend Knitter. (Pronounced like you would pronounce someone who knits stuff. A Knitter.) Here is a photo of him kissing a 40oz of Magnum at Chris and Karen’s wedding.
No, the story is not about how we snuck 32 bottles of different varieties of malt liquor into Chris and Karen’s wedding (to their dismay,) though it does involve another wedding and the consumption of malt liquors.
Let’s go back about X years to Ohio University and a crisp Spring Quarter Saturday night. Earlier that evening, we had a two 40oz party. The night would start with a trip to the Quik-e-mart and the purchase of two 40oz bottles of malt liquor. There was a time in my life where I could list off 12 – 18 varieties of malt liquor. Oh a whim, let’s see what I can pull out of my ass right now:
Colt 45
Cool Colt*
Lazer
Magnum
Red Bull
Schlitz
Crazy Horse
St. Ides
Mustang
Crap. That’s it. Well, I am from Lancaster and not Lorain.
(*Cool Colt was Colt 45 with spearmint flavoring added. I totally forgot about it until recently at a keg party when I didn’t have a cup and used an empty Rumple Minze bottle to drink from. Nothing like a drunk asshole with fresh breath.)
Back at the Quik-e-mart, you would pony up $3.87 of change and leave with two, mostly cold bottles of, hopefully not skunked, malt liquor. At 23 Palmer Street, we’d sit in the living room and drink down our two bottles of skunked malt liquor and watch public access television. Normally, you could drink one 40ozer and kick in a solid buzz that would last for a few hours and save you $10 up at the bars. Two 40ozers and you would stagger Uptown and try to hold down your cookies after eating $10 worth of beans and meat at the Burrito Buggy.
This night, Knitter continued to drink once we walked uptown and got himself good and solid hammered. And as we walked uphill/downhill home (we are talking about Athens, Ohio) Knitter decided to trip and fall down on the top of a hill. As he lay prone on the brick street, I realized that it would only take a little effort to get him rolling down the hill. I gave him a generous shove with both hands and he began to roll. Any normal person would have airplaned their arms out and stopped the momentum. Knitter tucked his arms in to minimize friction and continued to roll. As we chased/stumbled after Knitter, a song erupted from my mouth that went a little like this:
(To the tune of "Roll Out the Barrel.")
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Everyone joined in on the song, (at least the first verse,) and we took turns rolling him down Mill Street. We got Knitter to the bottom of the hill and he shot upright and was able to walk a straight line back to Palmer Street. I think he slept for 38 hours after that.
Fast forward X – 3 years. We are all at a good friend’s wedding reception on Lake Erie. In a show of respect to the happily married couple, we drank our 40ozers out of plastic cups. I was very good friends with the groom, but did not know the bride or her family that well. I met her family at the wedding, but did not interact with them at the reception.
As it turned out, this patch of Lake Erie waterfront had a slope that was perfect for rolling drunk Polish guys down it. Knitter complied and once again we rolled him down the hill singing our now trademarked song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
You may not realize this, but drunk guys singing “Roll out the Knitter” may be misheard at a distance. It could have been the crashing of the 2” waves on the shore or the shitty sound system, but the brother of the bride thought he heard us singing something else that night. Here’s what he heard:
“Roll out the n*gger, we’ve got a n*gger of fun!”
And it turns out, that does not go over well at wedding receptions.
The in-law only shared this with a few of his family (not the bride) and kept it bottled in for several months. It came out months later at some family event as the brother of the bride finally released his discontent. Upon this revelation, it was quickly cleared up as to what was actually being said and the in-law felt a bit silly if not a lot silly.
It’s been a long while since I have had the opportunity to tread up/down the hills of Ohio University and longer since I have used leverage and gravity to propel my friend, laughing and grunting down a brick laden street. I haven’t had a 40ozer in years. But I still can sing the song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
No, the story is not about how we snuck 32 bottles of different varieties of malt liquor into Chris and Karen’s wedding (to their dismay,) though it does involve another wedding and the consumption of malt liquors.
Let’s go back about X years to Ohio University and a crisp Spring Quarter Saturday night. Earlier that evening, we had a two 40oz party. The night would start with a trip to the Quik-e-mart and the purchase of two 40oz bottles of malt liquor. There was a time in my life where I could list off 12 – 18 varieties of malt liquor. Oh a whim, let’s see what I can pull out of my ass right now:
Colt 45
Cool Colt*
Lazer
Magnum
Red Bull
Schlitz
Crazy Horse
St. Ides
Mustang
Crap. That’s it. Well, I am from Lancaster and not Lorain.
(*Cool Colt was Colt 45 with spearmint flavoring added. I totally forgot about it until recently at a keg party when I didn’t have a cup and used an empty Rumple Minze bottle to drink from. Nothing like a drunk asshole with fresh breath.)
Back at the Quik-e-mart, you would pony up $3.87 of change and leave with two, mostly cold bottles of, hopefully not skunked, malt liquor. At 23 Palmer Street, we’d sit in the living room and drink down our two bottles of skunked malt liquor and watch public access television. Normally, you could drink one 40ozer and kick in a solid buzz that would last for a few hours and save you $10 up at the bars. Two 40ozers and you would stagger Uptown and try to hold down your cookies after eating $10 worth of beans and meat at the Burrito Buggy.
This night, Knitter continued to drink once we walked uptown and got himself good and solid hammered. And as we walked uphill/downhill home (we are talking about Athens, Ohio) Knitter decided to trip and fall down on the top of a hill. As he lay prone on the brick street, I realized that it would only take a little effort to get him rolling down the hill. I gave him a generous shove with both hands and he began to roll. Any normal person would have airplaned their arms out and stopped the momentum. Knitter tucked his arms in to minimize friction and continued to roll. As we chased/stumbled after Knitter, a song erupted from my mouth that went a little like this:
(To the tune of "Roll Out the Barrel.")
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Everyone joined in on the song, (at least the first verse,) and we took turns rolling him down Mill Street. We got Knitter to the bottom of the hill and he shot upright and was able to walk a straight line back to Palmer Street. I think he slept for 38 hours after that.
Fast forward X – 3 years. We are all at a good friend’s wedding reception on Lake Erie. In a show of respect to the happily married couple, we drank our 40ozers out of plastic cups. I was very good friends with the groom, but did not know the bride or her family that well. I met her family at the wedding, but did not interact with them at the reception.
As it turned out, this patch of Lake Erie waterfront had a slope that was perfect for rolling drunk Polish guys down it. Knitter complied and once again we rolled him down the hill singing our now trademarked song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
You may not realize this, but drunk guys singing “Roll out the Knitter” may be misheard at a distance. It could have been the crashing of the 2” waves on the shore or the shitty sound system, but the brother of the bride thought he heard us singing something else that night. Here’s what he heard:
“Roll out the n*gger, we’ve got a n*gger of fun!”
And it turns out, that does not go over well at wedding receptions.
The in-law only shared this with a few of his family (not the bride) and kept it bottled in for several months. It came out months later at some family event as the brother of the bride finally released his discontent. Upon this revelation, it was quickly cleared up as to what was actually being said and the in-law felt a bit silly if not a lot silly.
It’s been a long while since I have had the opportunity to tread up/down the hills of Ohio University and longer since I have used leverage and gravity to propel my friend, laughing and grunting down a brick laden street. I haven’t had a 40ozer in years. But I still can sing the song:
“Roll out the Knitter, we’ve got a Knitter of fun!
Boom, gah, kablitter, we’ve got the Knitter on the run.”
Kipley Matthew Eastep (Kip Eastep)
Kipley Matthew Eastep (Kip Eastep), 40, died on Friday, February 2, 2007. He was born on January 16, 1967 to Larry Eastep and Phyllis (Gullette) Eastep in Columbus, Ohio.
Kip graduated from West High School where he was voted "Most Intelligent" of his class, was honorary "Mayor for a Day" of Columbus, and received many awards. Kip earned his BS in Political Science from Ohio University, where he participated in the OU Singers and received departmental honors on his thesis. After graduation, he attended the University of Cincinnati Law School and received his JD degree, and practiced law in both McConnelsville and Columbus for the next fifteen years. Active in his community, Kip attended Westgate United Methodist Church where he sang in the choir. He was a member of the Dublin Kiwanis, the Ohio Republican's Club and the Masonic Order.
Kip is preceded in death by maternal grandparents Vernon and Oma Gullette and paternal grandparents Hubert and Virginia Eastep. He is survived by his parents; sister, Lia; aunts, Jo Gullette, Patti (Clay) Miller, Shirley Eastep; uncle Frank Eastep; and cousins, Jennifer Jones, Jeff Eastep, Rhonda Stacey, Victoria Whitman, J.R. Stacey and Tracy Schoenholtz.
Kip Eastep, lifelong Republican, lover of knowledge, books, epic Academy Award winning films, Frank Sinatra music, cards, oatmeal cream pies and dill pickles, will be forever missed.
Friends and family may call Monday, February 5, 2007 from 5-8 p.m. at SCHOEDINGER HILLTOP CHAPEL, 3030 W. Broad St. Funeral service will be held Tuesday, February 6, 2007 at 11 a.m. at Westgate United Methodist Church, 61 S. Powell Ave., Columbus, OH 43204. Interment Alton Cemetery. Persons wishing to make donations in lieu of flowers may do so to Westgate United Methodist Church.
Kip graduated from West High School where he was voted "Most Intelligent" of his class, was honorary "Mayor for a Day" of Columbus, and received many awards. Kip earned his BS in Political Science from Ohio University, where he participated in the OU Singers and received departmental honors on his thesis. After graduation, he attended the University of Cincinnati Law School and received his JD degree, and practiced law in both McConnelsville and Columbus for the next fifteen years. Active in his community, Kip attended Westgate United Methodist Church where he sang in the choir. He was a member of the Dublin Kiwanis, the Ohio Republican's Club and the Masonic Order.
Kip is preceded in death by maternal grandparents Vernon and Oma Gullette and paternal grandparents Hubert and Virginia Eastep. He is survived by his parents; sister, Lia; aunts, Jo Gullette, Patti (Clay) Miller, Shirley Eastep; uncle Frank Eastep; and cousins, Jennifer Jones, Jeff Eastep, Rhonda Stacey, Victoria Whitman, J.R. Stacey and Tracy Schoenholtz.
Kip Eastep, lifelong Republican, lover of knowledge, books, epic Academy Award winning films, Frank Sinatra music, cards, oatmeal cream pies and dill pickles, will be forever missed.
Friends and family may call Monday, February 5, 2007 from 5-8 p.m. at SCHOEDINGER HILLTOP CHAPEL, 3030 W. Broad St. Funeral service will be held Tuesday, February 6, 2007 at 11 a.m. at Westgate United Methodist Church, 61 S. Powell Ave., Columbus, OH 43204. Interment Alton Cemetery. Persons wishing to make donations in lieu of flowers may do so to Westgate United Methodist Church.
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