We bought a mattress recently. We also had a baby. Purchasing the mattress was far more traumatic. Really.
With the birth of a baby, you have no control over the proceedings. The water breaks and you drive really fast to the hospital. Three or four different people wearing colorful scrubs stick ¾ of their arms in the mother to be. If you are the au natural type with a thing for extreme pain, the baby comes out with a whole bunch of screaming and yelling. If you believe in modern medical science, some dude sticks a needle in the mother's back and you can balance the checkbook as the baby comes out. They then give you a $45 Advil, several portions of dry chicken and kick you to the curb 47 hours and 59 minutes later. Pretty easy.
The purchase of a mattress requires so much more planning and effort. First off, you never know when a mattress is ready to be replaced (unless it’s a waterbed.) You’ll get a good idea once the springs start poking through or if you’ve worn it down so that you are sleeping on dust and the box spring.
Once you’ve made the decision to buy, you have to pick where to buy. When you are about to deliver a baby, you have two choices: the hospital or the back of a cab. There are over 106 places where you can pick up a mattress in Columbus. (You can sometimes find mattresses along the road for free as long as you can fit Various Stains Brown into your bedroom color pallet.) You’ll pick the wrong store to buy no matter where you go. You will overpay or buy something of low quality or find out another store had a better deal. (Please note: Never ever buy from a store that says they will take your old mattress away when they bring the new. Notice how they show up with a mostly empty truck, put your old mattress inside, close the door and five minutes later pull out the “new” mattress.)
Your purchasing of a mattress really isn’t based on wrapped springs or space age foam or Amish construction. It’s all about how far the salesman rolls his eyes back in his head. When you ask about the floor models, you might get a quarter roll. If you lay down to test a mattress for more than four minutes, you’ll get the full eye roll with the crossed arms and toe tapping. If you walk into the store and wave off the salesman while walking back to the “USED” section, you can get his eyes to roll a full 360 degrees and a sigh big enough to suck the oxygen out of the strip mall. As you walk around the store, watch his eyes and pick the mattress that causes him the least distress.
Once you’ve got the salesman’s eyes back in place and he finishes tacking on the stain guard and undercoating to the bill, he’ll ask about delivery. I highly recommend taking the mattress home with you right there and then for two reasons. The first is so you actually get the mattress you think you want. At the factory in Guam, they make one kind of mattress and 24 kinds of labels to sew on to the mattress (not including the "Do not remove under penalty of law” tag.) The second reason to drive you mattress home is the physics involved with a mattress tied to the top of your car. The tension of the twine. The power-to-weight ratio required to become airborne. Newton’s First law combined with the breaking power of the car behind you. The muscle mass required to hold the mattress on the top of the car with one hand stuck out the window. My buddy Russ passed his third quarter of Physics by showing up to the final with a king sized Sealy Posturepedic attached to his car with a coat hanger and sixteen feet of dental floss.
Your first night with the mattress is the most important. Mainly because the spider eggs hatch that first night after being distressed during transportation. Also be prepared with a good one liner to combat your buddies who ask if you have “broken in” the mattress yet. I suggest the following response:
“Broken in? You kidding? I got fucked at the store.”
(Actually, I am kidding. We just bought a mattress from The Mattress Firm on Morse Road. It was a very pleasant experience and the sales dude was a great guy. We had it delivered and I even tipped the two delivery guys. And no, we haven’t broken it in yet… assholes.)
Oddly enough, I know a guy who is in the Secret Service. I know another guy who isn’t. Him first.
The other guy was the perfect candidate for the Secret Service. He had military service. He liked guns. He was very smart, but just dumb enough to step in front of a bullet. Sadly, he did not pass a certain level of the Secret Service interview tests. I guess they hook you up to a machine and ask you various questions about morals and honor and if you would have sex with a chicken. Sadly, he failed this part of the test. I can almost (almost) guarantee that he wasn’t a chicken fucker, but he did take offense to the implication that he might be. He was not asked back to continue the process. He is now a professional chicken fucker on the internet.
The first guy (let’s call him Ralph) did make it past the chicken fucking question and is now an agent in the Secret Service. While Ralph was still being interviewed for the position, the Secret Service went out and questioned his friends and family. I was one of those people. The dude they sent out to interview me sucked every last drop of dirt I had on Ralph. I didn’t mean to rat him out on the drunken fun we had in college, but this SS agent somehow loosened my tongue and before I knew it I was relating stories about smoking pot and getting into fights and arrests for jay walking. After it was all said and done, I was sure that Ralph would never get the job. Perhaps my answers actually matched Ralph’s. He is a very honest guy.
After a few months, Ralph was assigned Presidential duty. I guess there is a lot of stuff the Secret Service does besides guard the President. Ralph wouldn’t say what, but what he didn’t tell me sounded interesting. What he did tell me was this:
Ralph was assigned to stand around the tarmac by himself, observing the herded crowd, while the President disembarked from Air Force One. He was watching for bad guys. He had the thing in his ear and a gun and sunglasses. He was very excited. The President walked out of the plane and waved to the crowd. Hurrah! He turned in Ralph’s direction and waved. Ralph was the only one standing there… so he waved back. Ralph suddenly realized what he was doing and put his hand down.
Later on, Ralph admitted to some other agents what he had done. In between fits of hysterical laughter, the got a hold of the video surveillance tape and confirmed the wave. I think most of the Secret Service has seen it now. I’m not sure as a joke or if it is being used for training.
You may recall my story about Stephanie and the Witch and how we went out one night and threw smoke bombs in cars and such. (In the photo above, the Witch is on the left, Steph is on the right.)
It seems that through the power of my writing that the two of them decided to cast aside their differences and get together in Denver. Stephanie flew in from Washington and the witch hitchhiked in from northern Colorado.
Click here to see the photos. They met at a really cool bar called The Cruise Room that was modeled after a lounge on the Queen Elizabeth. Steph took me here once and forced me to drink dirty Martinis.
The girls will deny it was a spontaneous visit, but I know that it was the power of my storytelling that brought the two together again.
They will also deny that they got hammered and went streaking past 1082 Broadway (now Club Vinyl) singing Nine Inch Nails songs at the tops of their lungs. Good times.
The Buckeyes play Texas tonight. My prediction is Ohio State over Texas, 24 - 21.
On a different note, the over/under was at 14 days as to when I would be able to go out again to get a drink. At 6:18 today, it will be into the 14 day if you play by the Price is Right rules. Purists and people with common sense will tell you that it is still the 13th day.
Either way, at 7:00pm tonight, I will be watching pre-game from outside my home at The Rack with a chilly brew.
Go Buckeyes!
The Ohio University Marching 110 will be playing today in Northern Illinois. The pre-band warm up football game starts at 2:30 and the post-band football game will play for two more quarters after the band plays.
I was looking for an easy way out of writing tonight and did so by sifting through a bunch of old crap in a file called “Comics and Keepers.” Within that horrible file folder I found one small nugget of gold.
This is an invitation to a party that Handsome Joe and I threw to celebrate our moving in together into 18 ½ Palmer Street, behind Mr. Fee’s house. It was a 40oz party. I remember putting the two Bs on the label in hopes of getting some B & B.
Little did Joe know that a week later I would move out to take an internship at Lyon Video in Columbus. Joe had to scramble to get another roommate. Scary Gary. Then Knitter. Joe has never really forgiven me.
That apartment had the warmest toilet seat in town due to the location of a wall mounted heating vent right at bowl height. I would go back down to OU to visit and Mr. Fee would get pissed that I was sleeping in the apartment that I ran out on and subsequently was not paying rent on. I had to sneak in and out.
That invitation was created on an Amiga 2000 that I bought from Acton, but I don’t think I ever paid him for it.
Now that Miss Sally and little Ann are spending a good amount of time together, Greg and I have become dependant upon each other. He used to request Miss Sally 75% of the time to read books before bed and tuck him in. Now he gets daddy 100% of the time. We are both geting used to it.
Children’s books are two pages away from being depressing stories of real life. Happily ever after glosses over therapy necessary to get over seeing a woodsman kill a talking wolf. They never go into that.
So here’s something to depress the shit out of you if you are familiar with the story.
**** *******
Useless
I opened the cigar box and it creaked as the duct tape hinge relented. It smelled of cigars and dust and oddly enough, fabric softener.
I didn’t mean to find the box and it didn’t need me to find it. The objects inside were used up; meant only to be used as fodder for faint memories or dreams that are gone by morning. There was a folded award for attendance. A snail shell filled with wax. There was the base of a trophy for bowling. There was a love note and a photo of a dog named Kid. A ball bearing and a marble, both the same size. A nail and a safety pin. A silver dollar with a bullet hole through it. Three buffalo nickels wrapped with yellowed tape.
These things removed with a shaky hand and set on the carpet of the closet. I am old now and have no use for such memories and I am grumpy that I ever opened the box. I tipped the box sideways to scoop back up the memories when the last something fell out.
The interior of the box was brown and matched the color of the darkish, lumpish thing. It was easy to miss. Held up in the 60 watt light, it looked like a ball of mud that had dried into a stone. It was warm. And then I remembered…
The Truffula seed.
I had always planned on planting it once I found a place. There was no easy place for the Truffula seed. But there were video games and football practice and girls named Stephanie and Angie. There was no time to look for the exact proper place and to spend the time watering and caring. I had apples to pick and houses to build and boats to carve. It was too big a task and easier to forget.
I pocketed the three nickels. Scooped up all the trash and closed the box. Then put the cigar box back up on the shelf behind the slide projector.
There is something astounding about the human brain that not only allows us to forget, but also lets us half remember.
My buddy Conny was in town for a meeting and we went out after work/meetings, played 18 holes of golf and then had dinner at Hooters. In the good old days, Conny coming in town meant us both skipping out of meetings/work at noon, golfing, hanging out with some of the chicks at a bar who also were in town for meetings and who also bailed at noon to drink margaritas. Later on, we would go to the nudie bar. (If Conny’s wife is reading this, Conny would always go home before the nudie bar. If my wife is reading this, Doug would always go home before the nudie bar.) Either we are wiser now or they keep better attendance at those meetings.
It’s while we were eating wings that I was reminded about mostly forgetting. Or half remembering.
We had a job in Charleston, WV that lasted about six weeks. We’d drive down early Monday, stay for the week, and try to sneak out in the early afternoon on Friday. There were between 5 – 10 people working at a time. In those situations, you all end up waking, working, eating, drinking and sleeping together (not sleeping together, at least in my case.) Eating together is painful. I can eat the same thing at the same place every day. Other people have taste and require a variation in their diet. You also need to be able to eat quickly so that you can run back to work and watch your fabricator drop expensive stuff on other expensive stuff. Where variation and quick crossed paths was at a restaurant called Chef Dan’s. It was close to the jobsite, quick service and had a decent sized menu. Two items on the menu were wings and salad. Wings first and last with salad in the middle.
Wings First I like chicken wings. There is such a variation in preparation and sauces that almost all wings are different. Most wings are pretty blah. Deep fry and dip in Red Hot. I like Red Hot, but it’s definitely a crutch in the sauce world. Arbuckle’s in Boston had good wings. Someday I’ll make it Duff’s. I’m no wing purist, but there are some “cooks” that think you can take baked chicken and dip it in BBQ sauce and voila!
Unless there is a picture in the menu or some other sucker close to your table who ordered them before you, you’ll never know what you are getting until they drop the plastic basket in front of you (with the bonus five rubbery celery sticks!) It’s a crap shoot.
At Chef Dan’s it was more crap than shoot when it came to wings. I actually asked the waitress if the wings were good. She enthusiastically said yes. I don’t know why I trusted her food knowledge. Especially since the Trevor salad incident.
Salad in the Middle Trevor is a pacifist vegan with a hidden rage. His leftist political views are only out curdled by his deadly reaction to milk products. Trevor looked a lot like Jesus, spoke a lot like Jesus, but would rip out your trachea if you pissed him off. He would try to rip out your trachea, but mainly you just end up with some resin smears on your neck. Due to his diet of grass and dirt, he wasn’t a brawny lad.
Trevor was with us on the installation in Charleston. He worked with us, but due to his strict diet, he requested a room in another hotel with a kitchenette so that he could prepare his own not meat, not milk, not tasty food. What this meant was that we didn’t see that much of Trevor outside of the job site. He’d wisp in at dawn and fade away at night. At lunch, he would sulk off with his camping mess kit that I assume was filled with green and brown stuff.
On day, Trevor went with us to lunch. Perhaps the Co-op was closed in honor of Howard Lyman’s birthday or maybe Trevor left his Swiss Army Knife with spork attachment in the kitchenette at the hotel. Either way, he joined us for lunch at Chef Dan’s. Trevor grumbled and sighed through the menu. I don’t blame him. Everything was coated or dipped in or wrapped or soaked in a meat or milk product. (I’m not completely insensitive. I think vegans that don’t eat meat or milk for social/political reasons are idiots. If your body can’t process milk or meat, I feel bad for you (as I suck the ice cream out the bottom of a bacon wrapped cone.)) Trevor questioned the waiter about the salad:
“Does this salad have cheese on it?” “No, sir.” “No cheese at all?” “No cheese.” “Really?” “Sir. There is no cheese on the salad.”
Fifteen minutes later, Trevor’s salad came out, covered in Parmesan cheese. Trevor was pissed:
“Excuse me. What is this white stuff?” “That is Parmesan cheese.” “You said there was no cheese on the salad.” “Sir, that is dry cheese. It’s not real cheese.” “Dry cheese?” “Yes.” “Is there milk in it?” “I would guess so.” “Then it’s fucking cheese!” “But it’s dry.”
Trevor got a new salad with no wet cheese or dry cheese and he never went out to lunch with us again. The moral of this middle part is never trust the wait staff at Chef Dan’s.
Wings Last So I trusted the waitress’ judgment about Chef Dan’s wings and ordered six of them to go with a BLT. I ordered the wings to come out first. As the basket dropped in front of me, I knew I was screwed. They were small, scrawny, un-breaded and drenched in some industrial canned version of sickly sweet BBQ sauce. I was disappointed, but starving. I’ll eat anything. Or so I thought.
I took a few bites from the first wing. The sauce was horrible. And the breading had a very odd texture. My brain played connect the dots with my tongue for a few seconds as I chewed the wings and swallowed. My eyes were included in the dot connecting and they were instructed to look at the un-breaded wing for the stuff that was giving it such an odd texture that might trick my mouth into thinking they might be breaded. Partial breading? Burnt outer skin?
Feathers. My half eaten wing had feathers on it.
I’m not talking about A feather or A COUPLE of feathers. IT WAS ALMOST FULLY FEATHERED. The wing sauce had coated it enough to hide the feathers. In an instant, I went from starving to nauseous. I dropped the half eaten wing and spit the remnants in my napkin. I poked around in the basket and saw that the other wings were covered with feathers as well. Deep brown BBQ sauce and feathers. I don’t know how I could have missed them. When the waitress came back we spoke as such:
“Um, Miss? These wings are bad.” “Oh, what’s wrong?” “They are covered in feathers.” “Oh, really.” (She didn’t even look at them.) “Do you want me to get you some others?” (gag) "No."
I didn’t eat much of the BLT I ordered. I looked on the inside for feathers to amuse my lunchmates and my stomach. It didn’t help.
After that, I didn’t eat wings for about three months. I couldn’t get the texture out of my mind. I also couldn’t eat anything with sweet BBQ sauce. But, after those three months, I only half remembered the incident. I remembered it happening. If I thought about it really hard, I’d feel sick, but when I was eating wings, I would just choose not to not fully remember the feathers. Our brain is a wonderful creature. There are many things in life that if we were forced to fully remember them that we’d never function. Too many heartbreaks and deaths. There are a shitload of injustices and murders and rapes going on right now and if you tried to comprehend it all, you’d never get out of bed. (I guess there are people who don’t get out of bed. Maybe that’s why.)
In the end, we half remember or mostly forget, and get out of bed, get in the shower and go to work.
We then leave work. Meet Conny for golf. Go to Hooters. Order wings.
AND THE WINGS HAVE FEATHERS ON THEM!!!
In three months it will be November and maybe by then I will half forget again. Until then, I’ll be in bed.
Tanya and John are in town with their little girl Elle. She is a real cutie.
Miss Sally keeps predicting that she is having a boy. We both would like a girl to complete the set.
It seems that 95% of the people that want to talk about the sex of our upcoming child have some secret knowledge into what the sex of our child will be. Here are the criteria that these child sex experts have brought up:
How low the baby is If the belly button is in or out If the mother's butt got fat If the mother is craving meat If the mother is craving sweets If the mother has let a metal object swing above her wrist and if it circles or swings back and forth. If the belly is sticking out or rounded If
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OK, that's as far with that post as I got. Before I could finish, we had the breaking of water and so on and so forth.
As you know, we had a girl. And as predicted, 50% of the people who guessed were incorrect.
I've always loved the statistic that 50% of American women are below average while half of all American men are above average.
It's good to be half right, 50% of the time. It's better to be half wrong, 100% of the time.
I got caught up writing about something else and now I don’t like where it went. So instead of reading five pages of drivel, please take a look at the following photo:
I believe this was an attempt by my previous employer to meet and exceed the quota for affirmative action. The guy you see in this photo was:
black gay bald and he stuttered
If he would have been a chick, we would have received an award.
It doesn’t count for affirmative action, but the guy was also not that smart. At least he made some very bad judgment calls. Lucky for us, the guy last strawed, was let go and we hired Lacey.
The other person in the photo is Anne. She is the cat's coffee. She is the corn on the tinternet. She puts the crazy in crazy crazy. And I'm realizing that I miss her.
My co-worker, Angie, got a phone call from her very distraught mother. Here is her mother’s tale:
Angie’s mom walked into her office building and to the elevator on the first floor. Her mom is in her late 50’s so she is familiar with technologies such as the phone and the elevator. Being familiar with the elevator, she pushed the button and got in. She pushed another button to go up. A second after the doors shut and the elevator started going up, the elevator jerked to a stop.
She waited for a bit. No movement. She did what all normal people do and tried pushing all the buttons that weren’t red. Numbers. Open door. Close door. (I don’t know why she even tried those as they don’t work anyways.) All the normal buttons did nothing so she hit the red EMERGENCY button. It was the type that makes a ringing sound when you press it, but stops making the ringing sound when you stop pressing it. A doorbell for people who think they are going to starve to death. She hit it again and again for longer and longer amounts of time, but no handsome fireman’s voice came through the neatly drilled holes in the stainless steel.
Time passes.
She was getting worried. Then she noticed the phone in the little glass booth. She was familiar with that technology.
There were no numbers to dial, so she put the phone to her ear. It was ringing. A woman answered. Something like, “Otis emergency elevator service. How can I help you?”
What do you say in situation like that? Me? I’d joke around about sending up a pizza or that they’d better hurry because the elevator was filling with water and piranhas. Basically, you give them the address of the building and tell them you are stuck. It would probably make them happy not to get a prank call.
What did Angie’s mom say?
“I’m sorry. I have the wrong number.” And hung up.
After this, she started to get panicky. And what does a woman in her 50s do when she is stuck in an elevator with no food or water and gets panicky? Why, with the strength of 80 drunken men she wedged her fingers in between the elevator doors and ripped them open! She then put her fingers between the outer doors and ripped them open! The elevator was about 18” above the first floor so she got on her hands and knees and climbed out of the elevator and flopped (the ungracious kind of flop) out on to the 1st floor. A co-worker was the solitary witness to the floppage. He had heard the emergency bell and called for help.
Why hadn’t the help arrived?
Because between the button pushing and the emergency button pushing and the phone calling and the panicking, she had been stuck in the elevator for a total of five minutes.
Perhaps elevators distort time. When the doors shut, time speeds up on the inside while remaining constant on the outside. Different elevators have different levels of time distortion based on how stinky the elevator is and who is in it with you. When I had sex in an elevator, it seemed like hours, but when we got out, only a few minutes had passed.
Angie’s mom made it out with nothing more than a bruised psyche. I have not asked Angie how many days her mom took the stairs until she got over her fear of that elevator.
We all knew it. No one wanted to say anything. Finally someone did and then it was a Who concert stampede of agreement. Shorty was, in his secret life, Lance Bass. How a Dayton native could grow to receive so much fame was beyond our reasoning, but yet he did. He kept the media circus to a minimum and some how was able to tour and hold down a design job while spending 12 hours a day at DeFabCo while painting Gaelic designs on refrigerators.
Of course, there were rumors. Questions. Elle magazine subscriptions. We all, once again, began to wonder how the fame would go to his loins. Shorty would spend a lot of time at choir practices and The Columbus Men's Origami functions. We knew the news would break... we just didn't know how big it would break. PEOPLE magazine came out with the story. We still love you Lance/Shorty. Just now it the other 50% of us that are more frightened.
I asked our household psychic to help us find the murderer of JonBenet. He drew the following sketch to assist the Boulder police in locating the murderer.
Clearly you can see the drawing of a one finned porpoise. Inside that animal is a street level map of Leadville, CO. There are also two hieroglyphics representing toilet and forge.
The porpoise is winking.
Our analyses of the drawing are probably the exact same ones that you have derived from the sketch:
1. Porpoises are fish that breathe air 2. Leadville, CO once had the 12th largest Jewish community in Colorado 3. The two symbols together can be roughly translated to John-Smith. 4. Porpoises do not have maps on their insides, but have been known to swallow fish sized globes. 5. Do not trust winking porpoises
Here is what can be surmised from the drawing:
The father did it.
The psychic may also have been influenced by me asking him to draw a picture of mommy with baby in her belly. This is still being investigated.
I’m as guilty as the 97% of everyone else who thought the family was involved. I just like to place my blame on the media.
**Please note: I woke up this morning and decided that I think this guy is lying. It was just dusting of doubt over my brain. Since then, more tidbits of information have started coming out about this realy scary dude. I'll withhold my judgement until the DNA tests come back.
If you have five minutes to kill, please watch the following clip from the Price Is Right. Some say this girl is an idiot. I like to believe she is a savant.
“The only way to hurt a man who has lost everything is to give him back something broken." – Thomas Covenant
There was a survey on FARK a few days ago about where readers thought the best pizza in the world was. Everyone had their hometown favorite. My hometown favorite was Fat Cat Pizza in Lancaster, OH. “Was” is the word that puts the anchovies in that sentence.
We started picking up Fat Cat Pizza around 1979. They wouldn’t deliver out to our house out in the country so we had to drive through the bad side of town, the West Side, to get it. They had the BEST freaking pizza. The crust was thin and crisp. The sauce…(Here’s where I realize I am not a food critic nor am I keen to taste adjectives. Let’s just say it was great pizza.)
There was a Fat Cat’s West and a Fat Cat’s East. Rumor had it that a happily married pizza business couple became unhappy and split the family business, as well as the town of Lancaster, in half. The wife took Fat Cat’s West and hubby, Fat Cat’s East. I can’t remember the woman’s name, but she had a dog named Bear.
My brother started working at Fat Cat around 1983. My sister in 1985. I started in 1986. It was a family affair. You’d go in at either 4 or 5 and work until midnight. The dough was made in the morning and allowed to rise in wheeled, Rubbermaid trash cans. You would grab a ball of it and throw it in the flattening machine. A toss here and there and then on to the pie pan. There was some hand held, mid-evil torture device made from plastic that put dents in the dough. Add sauce, cheese and toppings. Into the oven you witch! Ta da, magically a cooked pizza came out the other side. In the box and cut it into squares with the giant, stainless steel scythe. In between pizzas there was time to fold boxes and drink free pop out of flour coated mason jars. What a job.
Then three-a-days started with Coach Redmen in football and I pussied out. I couldn’t keep up with going from 6am practices through midnight making pizzas. So I quit Fat Cat Pizza.
I didn’t quit eating it though. In my opinion, nothing beats a pepperoni/mushroom. I dreamed of it in Alaska and wrote about it in my journal when Acton and I went to Europe. At family gatherings we would always get Fat Cat’s the night before turkey. If you were late, dad would heat up slices in the oven. If you were really late, the microwave.
Now I live in Columbus and Fat Cat’s is still within reach. If I drive down, I can order it from the car and pick it up right as it comes out of the oven. It would still be warm when I got it home, but half of it would get devoured in the car. Corners first and eat inward.
Greg had a party recently. We went out to the Lancaster bars. I left my credit card at one. The perfect excuse to go back to Lancaster and get Fat Cat’s. The following Monday I drove down. I ordered. Picked-up. I was eating a corner within three minutes on the way back to Columbus…
And something was horribly, horribly wrong. The crust was different. Some kind of French bread crap. It was slightly thicker and had a taste that was not Fat Cat’s. The sauce was the same as well as the pepperoni and the mushrooms, but the combination of flavors was not Fat Cat’s. I kept eating squares, hoping that something would change. Nothing did. Doug wept.
I immediately called a few friends. I finally tracked down one that corroborated my taste buds. He had it a few weeks ago and it tasted different to him too. It was true. And an era was over.
Farewell Fat Cat’s.
Author’s note: I haven’t done it yet, but please feel free to call Fat Cat’s at 740-687-1966 and voice my displeasure. Tell them HolyJuan is pissed.
I don’t appreciate the Disney parks as much as I should. Didn’t make it there until I was 29 and by then I was looking at how the fake rock was sculpted and where the electronics were hidden. I’ve never had the opportunity to think it was real and that Mickey wasn’t actually just a 19 year old aspiring actor who was two years from finding out that he is gay.
My favorite part about the parks are the Photo Spots. In case you are not smart enough to figure out that the huge Chinese gateway or the monolithic statue are a good place to snap a photo of Uncle Bob, Disney helps you out by posting a sign telling you that it is.
Here’s a photo of Bill at Epcot and a photo of me at somewhere that is not Epcot.
The news reported this morning that a plan to bomb several planes between the UK and the US was uncovered and (hopefully) thwarted. The security lines at Heathrow were between 3 – 4 hours long because passengers were unable to bring any liquids through security and carry-on baggage was heavily restricted. Damn that sucks.
It’s been discussed that perhaps all passengers should be required to fly nude. This works for two reasons:
One: unless you cram the bomb up your ass, it would be very hard to smuggle on board. Two: religious fanatics are not allowed by their god to see naked bodies and therefore will not fly Three: (I just thought of a third) It has been scientifically proven that suicide bombers have small penises. While covering their shame with their hands, it will impossible for them to commit acts of terror.
I’m all for it. Except for the issue I might have (as illustrated below.)
Handsome Joe was the realtor that handled the selling of the house we used to call home as well as the closing of the house we now call home. Joe has also played the role of “Good Cop” and was the second set of Bs in my B, B, B and B story. Something you may not know about Joe is that he thinks he is a better story teller than I am. Here I must disagree with Joe, but of course, the bear and the fox have been arguing for years as to who is smarter and more handsome.
One other detail about Joe is that he is never wrong. And that is mostly true. There is one time when Joe (almost) might admit to being wrong. I enjoy his admittance.
One of my two problems in college was that I never knew when to leave well enough alone. Most women of college age know that guys are dicks and idiots and that a man will spend the night with a young lady and never call again. It’s expected and probably desirable for both parties. I thought I was clever. I couldn’t just have a one night stand. I’d go back for seconds and thirds. Maybe I felt guilty or maybe I didn’t know what I was looking for or maybe I was just really horny. Either either, I would lay down a fog of personality and talk my way back in the door each time. Suckers? Maybe.
After a couple three nights, their once unconcerned feelings towards me would change. This is when mine would go in the opposite direction. Then things would end not so well. Badly. Hurt feelings. Name calling. Tears. I was only trying to be nice.
The second of my two problems in college was that I always seemed to leave some personal item at a girl’s house, usually after the third or forth visit and especially right before I would call things off. Things like a necklace or a pocket knife or a book. Stuff I really didn’t need, but hated leaving behind. What really sucked was that this gave the girl a focal point to call and leave messages on our machine:
“Hey, this is 19 Palmer. Neither Joe, Betsy, Amy, Paul, Doug or Chris can come to the phone right now, but leave a message after the beep.”
Beep – Hi Doug. You left your necklace over at my place. Come over and pick it up. Beep – Hello Doug. Still got your necklace. Call me. Beep – Doug, I can meet you somewhere neutral. The Pub? Let’s talk. I’ve got your necklace. Beep – Goddamnit Doug. I’m going to throw this thing in the fucking trash if you don’t call me. Beep- Sorry about that. Can we please talk? Do you want this back?
Delete all.
Fall quarter came and went. It took me the whole quarter, but I charmed a girl I really liked from my film class into taking me home with her. The next day, Film Girl made me breakfast and gave me all the perishables out of her refrigerator. The perfect hook up. We did not talk over winter break, but hooked up immediately that winter quarter as if we had not been separated at all. Sadly, after the second night together, I realized that I didn’t like her as much as I thought I did. I got a very distinct and creepy vibe from Film Girl that she realized she couldn’t spend another day without me. I had to get out. So I left. And I left a pocket knife behind.
A few weeks passed and I avoided her calls. Her calls started normal but quickly became creepy. “I have your knife, Doug.” Click. I could have ended it all quickly, but I do not have a spine and pretended to miss her messages and avoid her bars. After a week, I didn’t hear from her and thought she got the point.
Handsome Joe and I went to The Crystal one night that winter quarter. It wasn’t our usual hang out, but Joe was tracking a new girl and in the interest of getting Joe laid, we entered new territory. We were upstairs and Joe was playing pool with said quarry. I drank and watched.
“Hello Doug.” Oh shit.
“Hello Girl from my film class that I really wanted to hook up with but now that I have I have had second thoughts and just want to be friends, but I am too chickenshit to tell you all this.” Actually I probably just said, “Oh, hello!”
“Are you here picking up girls?”
“No, Joe and I are…”
And in a flat tone that was just above the jukebox, but clearly we both knew she was yelling when she said, “I KNOW YOUR TYPE. YOU ARE HERE PICKING UP GIRLS.”
“Um, I… err.”
She held out her hand and my pocket knife was in it. She had brought it to the bar. It had been my Dad’s knife. Nothing I’d hide in my ass for five years in a POW camp, but it was still special.
She was glaring and smiling and talking at the same time, “If you want it back you have to come and get it.”
With that, Joe interrupted. The hate melted off her face as she turned to Joe and her grimace turned into a smile. They traded perfectly sane hellos and she excused herself. Joe said something to the effect that I was going to hook up.
“Joe, she’s crazy.”
“Doug? What are you talking about?”
“Joe, SHE’S CRAZY. We have to get out of here.”
Joe couldn’t believe it. She’s good looking. She’s nice. You are drunk. She’s a great girl.
“JOE, WE HAVE TO LEAVE!”
Joe usually does not give in without a fight or a good argument. So, I told him about the knife and that Film Girl looked INSANE. He didn’t believe a word. But, being Joe, he humored me and said goodbye to his girl. We grabbed our coats and left the bar. As we walked down the street, I kept repeating how insane the Film Girl was acting. Joe kept shaking his head with disbelief.
For some reason that neither one of us can explain, we both turned and looked back towards the bar. We were about a block away and the sidewalk sloped back up to The Crystal. Perfectly silhouetted with a streetlight at her back, Film Girl stood outside the bar.
She thrust her fists down to her side, arched her back and threw her head backwards. The lighting was perfect. Her shadowed mouth opened and into the night air she screamed.
“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”
The words turned to condensation against the cold night air. They shot out in great gouts of steam.
“DOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUG!”
Joe and I both ran.
Later. “Doug, that girl was crazy.”
If you mention this story to Handsome Joe, he won’t concede the fact that he was wrong. What he will do is tell the story again, but in his words. He will describe the night and the smells and the temperature. He will hold out his hand and you will see the knife in it. He will go on about her beauty and how not-insane Film Girl looked that night. He will act out her stance on the street and you will almost see the steam coming from his mouth silhouetted in the cold night air.
A few years ago, Miss Sally received an old, leather bound bible after her grandmother passed away. The movie prop kind with gold lettering and yellowed pages. It contained not only the word of God, but several articles, photos, hand written prayers and even a pressed flower. Nothing was labeled, which is heartbreaking because you know that these items had significance, but they are now almost worthless.
But I am not here to shit in your coffee. I'm here to tell you the fun stuff.
It seems that Miss Sally's grandmother found an article in the newspaper interesting enough to cut out and place in the bible. The aged newsprint relates how Christmas only falls on a Sunday about once every 11 years. Nice. Those were the good old days. (click to enlarge)
But flip the article over and the fun begins. Here it is: (click to enlarge)
Wow! There was actually a sense of humor back in ye olden days.
When I first read the article, I was struck how the word "colored" was used. Obviously it was to state that the person mentioned was black, but even though the article doesn't have any whities in it, you know they aren't going to write, "Then along came Jonas Brown, white, and the real fun started."
I did not realize when I first read the article that it was satire. Real events, I'm sure, but written to make a simple stabbing fill a full column and to poke a little fun at all involved. Luckily today, our professional journalists do not make up parts of the news to sensationalize or create a more interesting story.
The article is cut off at the end and we do not know if poor Alonzo Moore, colored, survived the stabbing. I can only hope that the Brown Collection Agency is still a thriving business and helping whities, yellows, redskins and them sand people to reclaim owed monies.
After several days of oppressive heat, the weather turned and I had all my windows down on my way to work this morning. As I zoomed along at 75 mph, something flew in the driver’s side window and smacked me upside the temple. Fortunately, the part of my brain controlling the car wasn’t affected by the sudden jolt as it was wrapped in a blanket of Miller Light residue from Skully’s last night. I had one of those moments where you cover up a wound with your hand and hold it there hoping that the cut isn’t there and isn’t about ready to spurt all over the place. I slowly peeled my hand back to reveal a reddish area that was a nickel sized blemish and not mangled flesh. Phew.
Now I’m just pissed that something nickel sized flew in my car and hit me. So I start searching my car for the culprit.
A penny? A ball bearing? A washer? A stick? A rock? A box of Nerds? A French fry that would require carbon dating? A pencil? A pen? A bolt? A key? Another key? A coffee lid? An ABBA tape? A quarter? A lighter?
Well, it could have been any of these items because that’s what I found within an arm’s reach of the driver’s seat. I am a slob.
Do not feel bad for Miss Sally. Within the confines of her realm (everywhere that is not my car) her cleanliness reigns and her loyal subject keeps his squalor tidy. She’s got me trained.
I think I’ll spend a few hours and clean it tonight. Maybe it if I set a small fire in the backseat, the fire department will hose it out for me.
It’s interesting what you find when you are unpacking boxes covered in dust.
I once created two lists: one of words that sounded good and one of words that sounded bad. Good words don’t essentially have to have good feelings attached to them and bad words don’t have to be about bad things. They are words that, to my ear, sound good and sound bad. The list started small, but never really grew.
GOOD WORDS Smuckers savor cram Judge Ito Tang slab Camus crelm smock kack freaky grim zip cord creamy boisterous Testaverde caulk mucous smegma (excretion) (parenthesis) (MOIST)
BAD WORDS crust discharge phlegm scab puss feltcher yeast Woolworths
Hmmm. It seems that most the words on the bad list are bodily functions or excretions. Ooh… excretions. That’s a good word. I’ll add that in parenthesis. OOOH! Parenthesis!!! Another good one! I’ll quit now.
We moved to our new home on Saturday. It was 93 degrees and the heat index was in the hundreds. Fortunately, Kit let us all borrow his extremely damp t-shirt to towel our brow and to suck a few drop of sweet sweet Kit nectar from its cotton folds.
I think I just made myself sick.
Thanks to: Russ- who brought steaming hot White Castle coffee on a 90 degree day (he was also the first to arrive and the last to leave.) Kit – for the above mentioned shirt and for taking on the role of load foreman Carl and Toni – for making the beds and not running away when my dad started telling stories. Erik- who made fun of all my stuff and hit on my 8 month pregnant wife Chris- Thanks for not stealing anything Josh and Sarah – Josh, thanks for trying to keep up with Sarah and not pointing out that my porn collection consists of one very used VHS tape. Sarah, you can have your VHS tape back. Greg – for showing up in a collard shirt and always volunteering to lift the heavy stuff Jessica and Dan- What doesn’t destroy a relationship, only makes it stronger Cheri – Thanks for watching Greg and for helping Miss Sally Meshelle – For taking 3 laps around 270 before realizing that it doesn’t dead end into Cleveland Ave. It’s the thought that counts! (Sorry I didn’t answer my phone.) Mom and Dad- “When we moved into the house on Beck’s Knob we only planned on staying for two years… “ Thanks for driving up and the kind words about the new digs.
I recently mentioned Swedish Fish and the JESUS ISREAL sign.
Shorty and I had a business trip to Dayton this morning. On the way back, we stopped at a REAL gas station (no pecan logs here and 23 varieties of beef jerky.) There we bought Swedish Fish!
I also took a crappy photo of the JESUS ISREAL sign.
The call came at 10:00am on Saturday morning and I was soon to be giddy as a school girl. Erik was able to go to Stu’s with me. We would leave at 3:00pm.
Erik asked if he should bring anything. My mind raced back to a story Kit told about his packing for a dudes’ trip to Chicago. Kit’s wife was on a conference call in the kitchen. Kit came down stairs and said, “I’m all packed and ready to go!” In his right hand he held a tooth brush, in his left, a box of condoms. Her brow furrowed and she glared right through him. She silently, though brusquely, beckoned him over. He stepped forward and she swiped the toothbrush out of his hand. “Now you’re ready.”
So I told Erik to bring a toothbrush and condoms.
I drove to Erik’s and threw my bag in his car (though for the entire 21 hour adventure, I only opened it to pull out my camera and later the TUMS.) He pulled out his bag and said, “I brought a condom like you told me.” Really? “I didn’t want to forget it so here…” He turned his bag over to reveal a condom safety pinned right through the middle to his bag. Nice. The trip was off to a banner start.
As we drove, I phoned Stu to tell him I was on my way. Stu only thought I was driving over. I thought it would be a surprise if we didn’t tell Stu that Erik was coming. Except that I kept saying things like, “ We’ll be there in two hours,” and “Where do we park.”
"Who’s we?" Stu’s no dummy. He said they would be on the roof waiting for we.
Along 70, we stopped to buy beef jerky, the required fare of road trips. It was at a combo BP/Dairy Queen/Stuckey’s. I forgot that Stuckey’s was like a firecracker stand that only sells pecan logs. It seemed the store went out and bought a bunch of crap from 7-11 and Cracker Barrel and then put “Stuckey’s” sticker’s over the manufacturers’ names. We chose two varieties of jerky, sodas and Gatorade, mints and a big old bag of Swedish fish.
I was double giddy at this point because Swedish fish are formed from the nectar of flowers that grow in heaven. Like liquid sex molded into red fishies. As we drove off, I popped one in my mouth and it tasted like sugar turd. These were knock off Ju-Ju fish. Fuckers. Fortunately, this was the worst part of the entire trip. (Unless you are Bob.)
We passed a billboard that said “JESUS IS REAL” except that the JESUS was at the top and IS REAL was at the bottom and those letters were crammed so close together that it looked like it said:
JESUS ISREAL
I thought it was an interesting misspelled religious dichotomy. Erik thought it was a sign that I should repent.
Wow, we haven’t even made it to Stu’s yet. Oh, here we are.
We parked, grabbed out bags and went up and out on the rooftop deck. Stu and his wife Ann Marie as well as Stu’s sister Sarah and husband Dave were there. Stu also had four of his work buddies over. Everyone was drinking and preparing to head over to the Broad Ripple Street Festival to see Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s. Any band with a name that long can’t be good, so I wasn’t very excited, though Stu said they were really good. Stu almost won a Grammy, so I was willing to give them a listen.
**Sidebar** On the drive back, I was discussing with Erik how I was extremely happy that he came on the trip, but that (no offense to Erik) the trip would have still been fun without him, just different, as you always have a great time with Stu. This led us to two discussions. One: without Erik there, the Mentos and Diet Coke (about to be mentioned) would never have happened. Two: if Stu is a catalyst for fun and exciting stuff to happen, does this mean that every day of his life is fun and exciting to the people around him and thus to him as well? Does Stu always have a great time because he is with Stu?
Somewhere between the roof and the street fair, Erik brought up the Mentos / Diet Coke 2 –liter video that’s been zipping around the internet. Only a few of the people at the party had seen or heard of the fun stuff you can do with those two items. Erik thought it might be interesting if we did some Mentos related hands on activities later.
We headed over to the street fair and ate meat and shrimp and crabcakes while waiting for the concert to start. Anne Marie, Erik and I discussed religion while Erik and I took sideways glances over at the two chicks in old school roller skates and very small skirts. Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s came on a we listened.
They really sounded great. Hold that. For part of the show, they sounded like frozen pea soup. Their music was awesome. Really awesome. The dude running the board was not smart or there were technical difficulties. I don’t know anything about music, but some instruments were too loud at times and some vocals were non existent. I also thought someone let their epileptic/autistic 17 year old on stage with a tambourine, but it turned he was a dude in the band. I downloaded the album as soon as I got home. Take a listen if you get the chance.
We decided to head back to Stu’s to drink beer that wasn’t $4 a cup. On the way, we stopped at Krogers and bought $55 worth of diet coke and Mentos. Instead of buying a bunch of 2-liter bottles, we settled for the 16oz bottles so that we could experiment. We also bought floss and more beer. The floss was to assist with dropping the Mentos in the Coke. The beer was beer.
Back at Stu’s, we gathered a drill, various bits and tape together. Holes were drilled through the Mentos (and kinda through the countertop) and the floss tied them together in a mostly straight bunch. We tried different variations of holes in the caps and tested them outside. It was no Fountains at Bellagio, but we had a lot of interesting results.
The best was when Stu suggested a duel. We taped one 16 bottle to one guy’s head and another bottle to a guy’s back with the help of a back brace. They stood 10 feet apart and we pulled the floss. The head attached bottle worked great. The back attached bottle shifted positions and basically shot ¾ the bottle into the back of the guy’s head.
Revolutionary War Reenactment Purists would have been disappointed.
While the Mentos thing was dying down, some of Stu’s work buddies began to catch quarters off their elbows. See photos for details. THE STACK
THE CATCH
We circled up and started going around, starting with one. As the coins increased, more and more dropped out. I lost at 11. The winner caught 13. That was the standing record. Everyone tried to get 15 and we all failed. Our rules were that you had to catch every quarter for it to count. We then went for a second round and this time The Dark Horse (my nickname for the night) finished first with 13 coins. I was challenged to break the record with 15. I stacked them and without a flinch, caught them. Someone suggested I do 16, but I stacked on 20.
And caught them.
Then 25. Caught. The crowd were going wild!
Silence. 30 stacked. 30 CAUGHT! In the moment we were all carrying on like this all meant something. And for the moment, it did. High fives. Cries of disbelief and awe. I think I saw Erik tear up a little.
At the time, it seemed like I couldn’t fail. I was a GOD!
I stacked 35… they were hard to position. They were up. I quickly snapped my arm down and my hand grasped shut.
A defiant quarter tipped off my finger and shot into the darkness. 34 caught, but you had to catch them all.
I tried several times in vain to break that record. I couldn’t even catch 15. Could have been the drink or the ten minutes it took to find enough quarters in the dark. I’m not sure if it is a reflection on the quality of my life, but that was the proudest moment I ever had in my life. Oh wait. My marriage was first, then the catching 30 quarters. Oh. First my marriage, then Greg being born, then the quarters. (Ad nauseam, a la Steve Martin’s A Holiday Wish 1991.)
That done, we went inside and took our blood sugar. Sarah was checking hers and I asked if I could check mine. We borrowed the safety pin used to attach the condom to Erik’s bag and heated it up with a match. It seemed too easy to draw blood. My blood sugar was at 108. Erik ponied up with claims that he could beat mine. He registered 123. Ha! One of us won depending on who you ask.
We then left for the bar, our pockets jingling with quarters, our poked fingers just starting to fight off the infection from the poorly cleaned pin. We went to the Broad Ripple Tavern, which is exactly 57 feet from Stu’s apartment. Stu’s buddy is a manager, but wasn’t working that night. This turned out poorly for Bob. As we stood in line with the other intoxicated cattle, Bob was looked over and told he was too drunk to come in. Bob debated the point with the gentleman at the door. The gentleman at the door countered. Bob riposted. Stu intervened with some clever dialogue concerning why Bob should be let in. A second gentleman came to the door and interjected. Bob redoubled his efforts. The second gentleman brought over an officer of the law to suggest the Bob kindly leave the premises. Bob established his position with the officer. The officer took Bob’s words to heart and told him to leave or he would be arrested. Bob conceded his defeat and walked away. And that was that.
Until five minutes later when Bob tried again to talk his way in the bar and he was promptly handcuffed and taken away. Bob lost the debate.
At the time, we were all in between bars, leaving the one Bob couldn’t get into and going to one with a less stringent Bob’s Drunk Policy. None of us knew he had been arrested. So we kept drinking. Sorry Bob.
We finished up the night and headed back to Stu’s. In transit, we stopped at doorway that was pretending it was a restaurant that sold Gyros. Erik’s meat was cut fresh from the slab. My was dredged from a pot sitting on a burner. Erik’s melted in his mouth. Mine was part gravel and part lava rock. Unsatisfied, I stated that I needed pizza. Stu pointed me towards a general direction. I went to the general direction and did not find pizza. Luckily Stu was still in the parking lot with Erik and he walked me to the pizza joint.
Inside, it was packed with people in the ORDER HERE line. Stu walked right up to the PICK UP area which was much emptier.
“Order for Stephens,” he demanded of the pizza dude.
Pizza dude looked at the monitor. Frowned. Looked at the boxes waiting to go out. No Stephens. “Sorry buddy. No order for Stephens.”
“Impossible. Look again.”
Pizza dude took a casual glance at the monitor. “Sir, there was not an order for Stephens. What pizza did you order?”
“Large. Cheese. Check again, please.”
Pizza dude looked at the boxes. Nothing.
“Sir, there is no pizza for Stephens and there is no large cheese.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave.” Then pizza dude stopped. Looked at a box and said, “How long ago did you order it?”
“About half an hour.”
“This pepperoni has been sitting here for two hours.”
“We’ll take it.”
Pizza dude picked up the box and started to ring us up. Stu added, “Don’t forget the breadsticks.”
Minutes later we gorged on pizza and breadsticks dipped in thick garlic butter. I stayed awake long enough to pass out on the couch. Anne Marie had put a sheet over the couch. I’m sure it protected the couch from me rather than me from the couch.
In the morning, we said out goodbyes and drove back to Columbus. Somehow, neither Erik nor I were hungover.
What a tremendous weekend. I was only able to write about ½ of the story before I collapsed. (Collapsed = ate a cheese stick and fell asleep in front of the TV watching re-runs of The Man Show.)
I’m going to make like the Israeli army into Lebanon and invade Indianapolis for a few hours this weekend to see Stu. Erik and I had an ingenious plan for both of us to be able to drive over together, but we have been foiled by my moving homes and a birthday party for some little shit. Looks like I'm going solo. I weep because Erik will never get the chance to see Stu’s bachelor pad. Stu’s bachelor pad (even though he’s married) is right above his work. In the morning, he rolls out of bed, walks down the stairs, and starts churning out the million dollar ideas. This last bit was probably his downfall as the owner is moving the office to an upgraded facility. That’s why when I roll into work, I churn out the thousand peso ideas. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize my 20 minute drive to work. There’s a 500 sq. ft. deck that is perfect for holeyboard and a couch that has all ready been broken in by my drunken farting. Sorry Erik. Have fun eating cake.
Now, I’m not home free either. We have to start packing up our house. Miss Sally has been having Braxton-Hicks contractions and if I’m three hours from home, drunk out of my hat and Sally’s water breaks, I’m (well, SHE’s) fucked. The issue is that if I am away, Miss Sally might stress out which would cause labor issues. I need a plan…
Here’s the plan: On Friday, we sign papers to sell our house. That night, we’ll begin packing for our move the following week. I’ll start to drop hints Friday night that we are running low on tape and boxes. Saturday around noon, I will casually mention that I am running out to buy boxes and tape and moving blankets and beer. Out the door and take 70W for three hours. Every half hour I will call and ask Sally if she needs anything from the store. Repeat 48 times. Sunday morning I will walk in the house and say that I left the boxes and tape and moving blankets and beer at the store. Genius. I’ll have puke on my shirt and my pants on backwards, but it’s still genius.
That’s all that I have to say except that I am sorry Lia! I thought I was going to head to St. James Tavern tonight, but Miss Sally’s womb said no way.
Next week… and I’ll get some material together. Really. I promise. Unless I need to run out for tape. And boxes.
Allen, Joe and I were heading on business trip to LA. I had pathetic luggage and asked Shorty if I could borrow his suitcase that had wheels. He told me to stop by that afternoon to pick it up.
I popped over and Short and Fee were lounging around watching TV (they were both unemployed at the time and I can only assume they were taking a break from masturbating.) Short said he forgot I was coming over and ran upstairs to get the bag. Twenty seconds later he was back down. I grabbed the bag, said thanks and started out the door. Shorty stopped me quickly and said, “Hey, you may want to check the bag to make sure there’s nothing in it.” I could only imagine the dirty sock and soiled underwear that might have been in the hidden pockets of the bag. I set it down and unzipped it.
The interior was empty and I gave a quick hand pass through the top pocket. My hand rammed something that was metal and gun like. I pulled it out and found out why it was gun shaped. It was a Beretta. A real Beretta.
Jerk.
Further inspection revealed a grenade. OK, a fake grenade, but it was metal and heavy. Not your bottom of the Capt. Crunch box grenade.
Fucker.
I searched every pocket as Shorty laughed. A small baggie with an unknown white powder was the last item found. Not sure if he meant it to be cocaine or anthrax. Knowing Shorty, probably anthrax.
Asshole!
We actually had a good laugh devising the possible scenarios of my passing through airport security. Luckily I know show tunes.
The next day we met at the airport. Allen had three bags and asked me to carry his bag with the scripts. I only had the one bag so it wasn’t a problem. On the plane I threw it in the overhead along with my other bag that was now not filled with guns and anthrax.
Take off. Peanuts. Land.
We had a two hour layover in St. Louis so we went to our gate and found a seat. Joe suggested we go over the scripts. “I’ll get the scripts out of the bag! The non-descript bag that looks like any other bag.”
The contents of the bag had magically changed from papers to medical equipment and prescription drugs. That or I grabbed the wrong bag off the plane. Joe and Allen were a bit unhappy but slightly amused. I went to ticket counter where three airline women were working. I sheepishly told them what happened and they scolded me! “You did what?” “Didn’t you look to see if the bag was yours?” “Don’t you know your own bag?” They called the gate where we landed. “There is a very upset woman looking for her bag. Go to the baggage claim office.” I slithered off.
As I waited at baggage claim, I listened to a pissed off chick from some other flight argue with an attendant about a lost bag. They would not give her any vouchers for her lost luggage because she lived in St. Louis. She was coming home from college and didn’t have any clothes or toiletries at her parents’ home. The airline couldn’t help her and the attendant made her quota of un-happy customers.
I knew immediately that the extremely upset woman striding towards me was the owner of the bag I held. She threw my bag to the ground and ripped her bag from my hand. She sat it down on a chair and opened it up to examine what I had stolen or broken. I tried to apologize, but she didn’t say a word and stomped off when she was satisfied I had not disturbed her possessions.
I took the bag back to our gate. We reviewed the script.
To this day, I couldn’t tell you what that medical equipment was. There was something that looked like a saline drip IV bag with fluid in it and a lot of stainless steel rods with plastic or Teflon bits. There were at least four bottles of medicine.
I am now one of those fools with the big ribbon tied to my bags. Just so I know exactly where my gun, grenade and anthrax are.
The good news is that our house is in contract. The bad news is that our house is in contract. We need to get out by the end of the month. We have three options:
1. Buy a house and move in by the end of the month. 2. Rent an apartment. Buy a house at our convenience. 3. Move in with Miss Sally’s mom or my mom. Buy a house before we kill mother/in-law.
Option one would be the best we could hope for, but trying to find a home, sign papers, get inspections and have the current occupants move out by the end of the month will be almost impossible. We have a house that we really, really like. I think we will be making an offer tomorrow. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths. Let’s see if handsome Joe can work some magic for us.
Option two is such a pain in the ass. It would require two moves and all the hassle that is buried in with switching utilities, mail and two cats. It is a good option so that we don’t rush into a house that we haven’t researched or can’t afford. It’s a costly option for the reasons I mentioned above, plus we do not know how long we’ll be staying and could have moving out early fees. What a pain. I forget what apartment life is like. I remember liking it 10 years ago with no kids, cats or sobriety.
Option three makes my bowels turn to water. We would not have to worry about apartment woes, but holy crap what a nightmare. My whole routine would be screwed up. It would be a 45 – 60 minute drive to work every day. I wouldn’t be going out in Columbus at all. My masturbation schedule would be completely whacked. And there’s nothing worse than getting nagged in person rather than over the phone. (Just kidding ma!) It’s a cheap option… but at what cost?
To top all this off, Miss Sally is due September 21st. Even if we signed papers tomorrow, we still would be very lucky to be settled in and building a nest by that date. With our luck, Miss Sally will go into labor caused by hauling my computer monitor up the stairs. I’ll be searching through all the moving boxes, opening the linens box for blankets and the boiling water box for boiling water. Months later we’ll find the Midwife box and laugh about how it could have made things so much easier.
I hope that Miss Sally remembers that we went through a period of don’t ask, don’t tell when we first met. It was very early on in our relationship and we were long distance dating and I’m sure she didn’t have insurance.
Omaha, Nebraska. I won’t beat the town up too much. I arrived there after spending a summer in Boston. No comparison. It was also fall rolling into winter. Not the most gleeful time of year. When I would arrive in a new town, my first goal was to represent my company in the most professional and engaging manner. My 0.5 goal was to find who drank and when and could I buy them a drink. Enter Jane. She worked at the museum as an operations/education type. She was about my age and she had friends that liked to drink. It seemed that many of the people in Omaha were just as depressed as I was about being there. We all drank together. Me and Jane’s friends. And Julie, too. Especially Julie.
I knew that Jane’s friend Julie and I were going to hit it off when we argued the entire first night we met. My take on women is that the more you can aggravate them, the more they like you. (Except Freckled Jen’s friend Tracey. Man, she really hates me.) The second clue was when Julie mooned a group of us as they drove by at the end of the night. The third clue was when we hooked up two nights later.
It was a very casual relationship. We’d go out for drinks and make out back at her place. We’d lie in bed and she’d tell me stories about some guy she dated nicknamed Peanut. He was born several weeks premature and the poor guy was cursed with a small weenier. But she said that when he came, he would shoot either across the room or on to the ceiling depending on the angle and if the fan was on. She was a very fun girl.
The best part about Omaha was leaving to go home and visit Sally. After a month in Omaha, I went home and hung out with Miss Sally for a few days. I really started to like Miss Sally a lot more after that trip home (you should read my journal… I was pathetically in love.) When I went back to Omaha, I told Julie that I still wanted to hang out, but that I was in love with Miss Sally and I couldn’t continue our current relationship. (i.e. I can’t let you suck my dick anymore. Sorry.) She was very understanding. (i.e. Fine. You can’t eat my pussy.) And that was that.
Except for this side note: You will soon be familiar with a Seinfeld episode called “The Alternate Side.” In that episode, amongst other things, Elaine dates an older man named Owen. She was about five seconds from breaking up with Owen when he has a stroke. Because they were still dating, Elaine was obligated to sit with him in his vegetative state, stay by his side and feed him Yankee bean soup. Several weeks after I returned from Ohio with excuses to call off my half-assed relationship with Julie, she had a very traumatic day at work. Julie worked for a company that would collect used American clothing and ship them overseas. The clothes were gathered in huge bundles that weighed over a ton and stacked in a warehouse before shipping. Julie was in the warehouse when a forklift operator on the opposite side of a stack of clothes bundles knocked one over on top of her. This was a ONE TON bundle of cloth that fell from at least 8’ up and she was trapped underneath. The driver, only knowing he had knocked something over, walked to the other side of the stacks to see her unconscious under the ONE TON bundle. The guy then picked up the one ton stack of clothes and moved it off of her. (One of those David Banner wishes he could lift the car off his wife moments.) Paramedics were called and she was taken to the hospital with head injuries. When she got out a few weeks later, she was just not the same. Very functional, just a different personality from the girl I’d met three months prior.
Moral to this story? I’m a shallow son of a bitch because I got to deal with that situation as a guy who was leaving town in a month, rather than as a boyfriend. I’m sure I would have used the “moving on to the next town” excuse to break things off when the time came. I’m just happy I didn’t have to feed her soup.
Damn. I am a complete asshole.
Oh yeah. In that Seinfeld episode, Elaine does break up with Owen while he was still in a vegetative state. Later, she bumps into him on the subway where she learns that he has had an almost full recovery. That’s also when she learns that he was just using her for the sex. Maybe I’m not such an asshole.
I would like to think that this year’s ComFest was supposed to be about music, community and the celebration of diversity. The most entertaining part of it for me was what happened after ComFest while people were leaving and how they interacted with a shopping cart and two hula hoops. Please allow me to present my first photo heavy entry.
Miss Sally, Greg and I drove down to ComFest and I sold what was left of my soul for an awesome parking spot. We loaded Greg and the goods into the little red wagon and rolled into the crowds. Greg got his first sight of hippy and his first smell of weed. We spread out a blanket and listened to music for a few hours. It was a good time. Russ, Cheri and Reed joined us and we all shared grapes, juice and squirt guns.
Reed got to see a spiky, blonde haired lesbian throw up. Greg and I threw a Frisbee with a mentally disabled kid.
Um, at a mentally disabled kid.
Around 8:00pm, Miss Sally had to make water and we did not have the 30 minutes to wait in line at the porta potty. Instead we packed up and wagoned over to my friend Meshell’s house to meet up with some friends. They were all surprised to see Miss Sally’s pregnant belly. (Miss Sally is at best 105 pounds with a wet winter jacket on. The baby has decided to grow straight out and so she only looks pregnant from two angles.) While we were there, Shorty taught my kid how to karate chop an inflatable palm tree.
I took Miss Sally and Greg home and returned to Meshell’s around 10:00pm. I noticed a shopping cart.
“Hey, that’s a shopping cart.”
Earlier in the day, the folks at Meshell’s watched stunned as a man with a broken arm, broken leg and numerous head stitches lurched down the brick paved street with a walker. He and his girlfriend were not making much progress. This dude was a wreck. Someone came by with a shopping cart and offered it up to the guy. With a little careful lifting and tucking, the guy was loaded inside. Girlfriend rumbled him down the street and to ComFest. Hours later they returned, poured the guy out of the cart and headed back the way they came. A true American story of heroism, ingenuity and a guy that got the smoke beat out of him by a baseball bat.
The shopping cart remained a focal point for all those who passed. Some would jump in it and scream. Others would team up and push eachother in circles. Some would just push the empty cart. For something that was obviously stolen, people seemed intent on returning it to its unrightful owners. It never was more than five hula hoops away.
“Hey, those are hula hoops.”
Taresa had brought two hula hoops to Meshell's. They were in use from noon until 2:00am. Taresa was either hooping or helping someone else to hoop all night long. She was really good. Here you can see how good I was. That is until you compare it to these other photos. It only took 8 shots to get one photo that made me look good. The only good thing was that Shorty was as bad as me. We had several hoop offs that consisted of us holding beers and cigarettes while dropping the hoops to the ground at our feet. Repeat. We sucked.
Josh had it going on, though.
Throughout the night, people would random walk up to the hoops and try them out. Others were coaxed in by one of the resident barkers. As the night wore on and beer sales finished at ComFest, many were conned into foolishness with the allure of free beer to anyone who could hula for more than x amount of seconds. (I’m no programmer, but the hula timing went like this: if hula person = chick then x = 3, if hula person = dude then x = 50)
We had one woman drop her top while hula hooping.
We had another without a shirt whose naughty bits were covered by post-its (postits?)and red marker. I think x for her equaled what she had stuck in her mouth three hours earlier.
All in all, a beautiful night. From the guy who couldn’t find his buddy’s house (it was just on the left of the CVS) to the 24+ guys who humped the traffic cones to the dude who actually ran down the street at full speed with a hula hoop around his waist and performed for five minutes straight.
I understand that driving and boredom go hand in hand. Many would say that a good book on CD can help pass the time. Some people (like me) listen to Sirius Satellite radio. This woman, whom we saw driving in Atlanta, was passing her time by reading.
We were driving around 45 - 50 MPH through a construction zone at the time.
At least she's got both hands mostly on the wheel.
A storm passed through our little corner of Columbus this afternoon and was kind enough to knock out the power to our office. All I have to ask is why didn’t it happen three hours earlier? As we sat in the dark and listened to the server backup battery beep, the question was raised if we should leave and get a drink. The answer was of course yes, but as the resident lush, I needed to wait for someone else to commit. It was 4:30 and everyone was hemmin’ and hawin’ about going home. Fortunately, vice-lush stepped up to the plate and we went to Doubles. Three beers and I went home. I knew that if I had four that I would have five which would give me the courage to call home and ask if it was ok to stay out for a little longer knowing full well that it was bath night and that I am going out tomorrow AND Saturday and so I left.
What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.
Allen and I went to LA. (There’s almost a palindrome in there somewhere.) We were there for work, but we were also there to drink. One place to drink is Trader Vic’s. It is located in the Beverly Hills Hilton. It’s a restaurant too, but we were not there to eat.
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Miss Sally, Greg and I were driving in the car on our way to or from somewhere. Greg said that he wanted to carve a pumpkin. I said that pumpkins only grow when it is cold and it was summer and he’d have to wait.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
What do you do when you see someone broken down along the side of the highway? Hood up. Steam pouring out. Talking on the cell phone to the spouse or AAA (or both if your spouse works at AAA.)
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
The second reason to drive you mattress home is the physics involved with a mattress tied to the top of your car. The tension of the twine. The power-to-weight ratio required to become airborne. Newton’s First law combined with the breaking power of the car behind you. The muscle mass required to hold the mattress on the top of the car with one hand stuck out the window. My buddy Russ passed his third quarter of Physics by showing up to the final with a king sized Sealy Posturepedic attached to his car with a coat hanger and sixteen feet of dental floss.
