Thanks to my sister, Amy, my mother now knows about this site and pretty soon all the sex and drugs and bestiality I’ve written about will be brought up at Christmas and during the uncomfortable silence after my dad makes the remark about how hard it was to kill those sneaky bastard Koreans during the war.
So, to thank her, I’m writing this tale from our college years. You can decide whether or not to believe it. I know I all ready do.
Amy was never afraid of anything except perhaps getting caught. During high school she played every sport and, unlike most girls, considered 84% of her classmates friends. She had only one best friend and seemingly endless boyfriends and admirers. She was crowned Miss LHS in 1987 and turned down the opportunity to be the Dairy Princess at the Fairfield County Fair. Always Amy.
Amy left Ohio forever to go to school in Missouri and she never looked back.
Except once…
I was a freshman in college. Or the 13th grade as many of the people who were stuck at the Ohio University – Lancaster Branch called it. By looking out the lounge windows, we could see our high school. If you couldn’t find a window to look out, you could be reminded by listening to the LHS band practice in the afternoon. I attended because a scholarship I earned forced recipients to save money by going to a school that had no dorms and one microwave.
It was Spring. Winter had finally been kicked to the curb and love was in the air. None of my friends wanted to spend such a glorious Saturday night in Lancaster with the possibility of drunkenly hooking up with a relative. So we went to the real Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. We had friends in the dorms and didn’t have a problem finding a place to stay. We did have a problem finding beer. The 12 pack that was split between the five of us was gone in less than an hour and none of us had a fake ID at the time. We decided to try our luck at the Greenery, an 18+ dance bar that was pretty loose with the liquor. The gods smiled upon us on that Spring night and our oldest looking friend was able to buy pitchers of BrainSlammers or MindMelters or CerebellumBreakers or whatever the blue drink of the day was. We drank and danced and tried to hook up with real college girls. We failed, but had fun trying.
We were drunk well before closing and staggered out of the bar yelling stuff that drunk 18 year old men yell when full of watered down rum and unused hormones. Russ, who is rarely the ladies man, decided to try his luck out on a few chicks walking drunkenly the opposite way. I think they saw his OU-Lancaster keychain, immediately made him cease to exist and without breaking stride, walked right through him.
Our next target was a chick sitting on the curb. For some reason, women feel compelled to sit on curbs when they are drunk. Their knees up with elbows pressed against their inner thighs to support their heavy, drunken head. Men go straight for the vertical position in the gutter. Dave, the hopeless and clumsy romantic, asked if the poor girl needed any help. She looked up… it was Amy.
Holy shit. All the way from Missouri Amy.
I guess the most positive part of this story is that Amy went from really, really drunk and sad to extremely excited, happy drunk. She jumped up and hugged me and we fell backwards.
Amy was living in Missouri, but missing Ohio. She tried to assimilate and failed at heart. But she wouldn’t let anyone know. She had a southern accent within six months and started dating several Baptist boys to try and fit in. To nibble off the homesickness, she kept in touch with an ex-boyfriend. He was a year older and going to school in Cincinnati. He flew her in so that they could spend the weekend together. Boys would do that for Amy. This was a top secret trip as Amy had not been home since Christmas and summer before that. If my folks knew she was in a 200 mile radius of Lancaster, they would be a little upset that she did not come home. So mom and dad could not find out.
In the middle of their weekend of love, the dude broke it to Amy that he and his buddies and she were going to Ohio University for a last minute party. They piled into a Blazer and drove to Athens. Amy was a bit concerned because she had to be at the Cincy airport at 10:00am Sunday morning. No problem, he promised.
Six hours later, there was a problem. Turns out that he drank a lot more when he was around his college buddies and that his college buddies also made him a complete prick. He did some heavy prick stuff and she walked out of the party, sat on the curb and unknowingly waited for me to show up.
She didn’t think there was any way in hell that the prick was going to head back to Cincy that night and there was no way that she was going to make her flight. Her bags were back in the Blazer and she was shit out of luck until we showed up.
To cut to the chase, she made her flight. And here’s how.
We all went back to the prick’s party. He and his prick friends were not there, but the Blazer was. Russ, who stopped ceasing to exist, picked up a cement block and bashed out the back passenger side window. We grabbed Amy’s bags and headed back to the dorm.
We snuck Amy into the boy’s dorm and slept for a few hours. At 6:00am, Amy and I awoke, tiptoed though the testosterone and took Russ’ Nissan wagon to Cincinnati. I dropped her off at the airport at 9:45am.
“Please do not ever tell mom or dad about this. Doug... promise.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
And so, mother dear, as you read this please thank your daughter Amy for sharing with you that there is a little corner of the internet where your son writes lies and tells truths and sometimes both at the same time.
The drive back to OU was the longest drive ever.
Scam Baiting
I decided to try a bit of scam baiting. This is the attempt to waste a 419 scammer’s time by having him think you are an easy mark, thus keeping his attention from some church secretary in Omaha. Check out some much better examples of scam baiting at 419 Eater.
This poor fellow found me through my frankenstein hotmail address. It was the third of fourth one I had recieved and thought this might be fun. I decided to go with the reverse-con, bi-polar approach. The e-mails go back and forth between the scammer (Allan Grooves) and me (Frank Chocfactory) and are separated by the dashed lines. {Editor's notes are in these brackets.}
From: "allan_grooves"
Subject: ATTENTION
Date: Mon, 12 Feb 2007 08:54:22 -0800
My Beloved,
Greetings:
My name is Mr. Allan Grooves, I work as an accountant in a bank; I contacted you to work together with me in claiming my late client's estate. Unfortunately he died without a registered next of kin and as such the funds now have anopen beneficiary status. You could be made the beneficiary since you share the same last name with him. This has officially transferred the right to you, as no other person from his family knows anything about this fund with our bank, if you are interested in working with me. Please get back to me as quickly as possible so that I will give you the details of what we are to do. I wait for your prompt response so that I can give you more briefing of what you need to and how to do it Thanks for your co-operation.
Best regards, Allan.
-------------
Dear Allan,
Oh my God! This is bad and good news together. Is this about my great uncle Charlie Andy Chocfactory? PLease let me know more details. I want to make sure this is not a scam.
Thanks, Frank Chocfactory
-----------------------
From: "allan_grooves"
My Dear,
Greetings!
Thanks for your response to my mail. My deceased client died in the year 2001 and his name was Dean Irwin Stein. Since you share the same last name with him hence I contacted you to help in repatriating the funds left behind to any account of your choice. I got your address from the Internet in my search for a reliable person that would help me in this transaction. The amount of funds left behind was 8.6 million United States Dollars only and I would want us to share it 50/50 after we have successfully transferred it into your nominated bank account. It is now very obvious that he died interstate, as I have already made further inquiry to ascertain this. And this is where and why I contacted you, as the money is now marked unclaimed with my bank. Normally After six fiscal years and nobody comes up to claim the funds it would be marked dormant and reverted back to the bank's general coffers and shared among the directors. This I do not want to happen. I now solicit your sincere cooperation so that we can work together to get the funds out of the bank before it goes back to the bank. After we might have talked I would send you a text of application instructing you on how to apply to the bank for the funds release. I will like you to provide me with the following.
a, Your telephone number
b,Yourcomplete names
c,Your mailing address
d,Your Occupation
Hope to hear from you soonest.
You can call me at +44 (0)7926586043
Best regards, Allan
-------------
Allan,
Dean Irwin Stein? Are you sure you don’t mean Charlie Andy Chocfactory?
Please let me know if you find out anything about my great uncle Charlie Andy Chocfactory? I know he passed recently, but I do not know how to get ahold of his money. Please let me know of your research.
Thank you Allen and God bless,
Frank Chocfactory
----------------------
From: "allan_grooves" allan_grooves@canada.com
Subject: RE: ATTENTION Date: Wed, 21
Feb 2007 15:12:40 -0800
I had told you that the name of my client a while ago and you actually have the same name with him. I only needed you to help me with this transaction and that is all. I will never force you to help me okay but this would be beneficial to you.
Thank you.
-------------------
Listen here Allen...
My last name is not Stein. It is Chocfactory. I do know that I have a great uncle who had a lot of money and he died with it. These funds have missing for two years. Please ask your contacts if they know of a Charlie Andy Chocfactory. His mother's maiden name was Stein. Perhaps this is the connection????
Let me know!!!
Signed, Frank
-------------
From: "allan_grooves"
It is possible he lodged the money with his mum's maiden name. I have told you the one i have and it was never a mistake okay. Please if you want to assist, fine but otherwise stop sending me emails okay. The transaction is not such that i have to beg you for okay.
Thank you
---------------
Allan.
If there is something in it for me, I can help you. I did some research and found a D. Stein in my family history.
Praise be if this is the man you represented at the Bank. How can I be of service?
Please let me know.
Thanks!
Frank
---------------------
{He sends me the exact same e-mail with }
a, Your telephone number
b,Your complete names
c,Your mailing address
d,Your Occupation
--------------
Allan,
I can be reached at 1-202-331-8590
{Editors note: this is the number to the NATIONAL FRAUD INFORMATION CENTER & INTERNET FRAUD WATCH in Washington DC.}
My full names is Frank E Chocfactory
Mailing address is in Washington, but I will hold that back for now to ensure this is not a scam.
My Job is with an auto repair shop right outside of Washington in Virginia. I repair mainly BMWs and VWs.
Please let me know how I can help with the splitting of the funds!
Thanks, Frank
--------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Sat, 24 Feb 2007 09:28:02 -0800
I think you are being unserious here. You gave me a number which had been disconnected. I do not know what you are doing concerning these funds. If you are not interested, please let me know or you call me on +44 7926586043.
thank you.
--------------------
Allan,
I just tried to call your number and no one is answering. Is this correct?
I am beginning to think that you are trying to steal money from me. Fortunately, I just got a $2000 bonus from my work!! See, hard work can pay off.
Why do you contact me and then not follow up? I am beginning to think that you have found someone else to help you.
If this is so, I am sorry that we could not work out an agreement.
Best of luck to you Mr. Groves.
Frank
-------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Mon, 26 Feb 2007 15:16:58 -0800
Dear Mr.Frank,
I had been trying to reach you on the number which you had provided but all to no avail. i have not found anyone to do this business with and still believe that you would be able to assist me in all respect.
My number is +44 7926586043,+ 447909833952. you would be able to reach me on those numbers anytime. Please supply me with the information that i requested from you and this process of application would start and we would have enough at our disposal.
Expecting your feedback.
Thank you
Sincerely
Grooves
--------------------------
Hello Allen,
I am bored with all this.
Please just tell me what address to send the money that you need so that you can release the larger funds.
Please check off the following reasons why you need the money and how much you need:
1. International Transfer Fee
2. Notary Public Fee
3. Rebel Alliance Fee
4. National Transfer Fee
Just add up the amounts of money you need and make sure is isn't more than $2,000. I can either send you a cheque or wire transfer.
Please, my good friend. Let's just get this over with so that I can go back to my normal life.
Thank you,
Frank
-------------------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2007 09:43:32 -0800
I dont understand what you are talking about. for now have a nice day.
----------------
Allan,
Listen, I know how this works:
1. I send you money to pay the tax or fees.
2. Once the fees are paid, you send me the larger sum of money.
3. We both end up happy and RICH!!!!!!!
Come on... I know there is some fee or something.
Just tell me what I have to pay and when I can get my hands on the BIG MONEY!
Thanks, Frank
----------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2007 14:54:36 -0800
I think you had been into the wrong thing before. I would never be contacting you if it was not for someone who would be reliable and not run away with these funds. I do not
honestly know what you are talking about.
I know that i dont require you to pay me any amount of money
okay.
Thank you
------------------
Allan,
OK. I feel like we have gone in the wrong direction here.
I want to help you if it will help me. And I want me to help you.
Please let me know what information you need.
Thank you,
Frank
----------------------
allan grooves (allan_grooves@canada.com)
Subject: RE: ATTENTION
i am still waiting for your information to continu okay.
----------------------
Well Allan?
WHERE IS MY MONEY!
I SENT YOU THE MONEY ORDER!!!!!!
WHERE IS MY MONEY!!!!!
{That was the letter I sent tonight. I had not heard from Allan in a while and I assume he moved on to bigger and better things. I really think he grew tired of my bi-polar shit.}
This poor fellow found me through my frankenstein hotmail address. It was the third of fourth one I had recieved and thought this might be fun. I decided to go with the reverse-con, bi-polar approach. The e-mails go back and forth between the scammer (Allan Grooves) and me (Frank Chocfactory) and are separated by the dashed lines. {Editor's notes are in these brackets.}
From: "allan_grooves"
Subject: ATTENTION
Date: Mon, 12 Feb 2007 08:54:22 -0800
My Beloved,
Greetings:
My name is Mr. Allan Grooves, I work as an accountant in a bank; I contacted you to work together with me in claiming my late client's estate. Unfortunately he died without a registered next of kin and as such the funds now have anopen beneficiary status. You could be made the beneficiary since you share the same last name with him. This has officially transferred the right to you, as no other person from his family knows anything about this fund with our bank, if you are interested in working with me. Please get back to me as quickly as possible so that I will give you the details of what we are to do. I wait for your prompt response so that I can give you more briefing of what you need to and how to do it Thanks for your co-operation.
Best regards, Allan.
-------------
Dear Allan,
Oh my God! This is bad and good news together. Is this about my great uncle Charlie Andy Chocfactory? PLease let me know more details. I want to make sure this is not a scam.
Thanks, Frank Chocfactory
-----------------------
From: "allan_grooves"
My Dear,
Greetings!
Thanks for your response to my mail. My deceased client died in the year 2001 and his name was Dean Irwin Stein. Since you share the same last name with him hence I contacted you to help in repatriating the funds left behind to any account of your choice. I got your address from the Internet in my search for a reliable person that would help me in this transaction. The amount of funds left behind was 8.6 million United States Dollars only and I would want us to share it 50/50 after we have successfully transferred it into your nominated bank account. It is now very obvious that he died interstate, as I have already made further inquiry to ascertain this. And this is where and why I contacted you, as the money is now marked unclaimed with my bank. Normally After six fiscal years and nobody comes up to claim the funds it would be marked dormant and reverted back to the bank's general coffers and shared among the directors. This I do not want to happen. I now solicit your sincere cooperation so that we can work together to get the funds out of the bank before it goes back to the bank. After we might have talked I would send you a text of application instructing you on how to apply to the bank for the funds release. I will like you to provide me with the following.
a, Your telephone number
b,Yourcomplete names
c,Your mailing address
d,Your Occupation
Hope to hear from you soonest.
You can call me at +44 (0)7926586043
Best regards, Allan
-------------
Allan,
Dean Irwin Stein? Are you sure you don’t mean Charlie Andy Chocfactory?
Please let me know if you find out anything about my great uncle Charlie Andy Chocfactory? I know he passed recently, but I do not know how to get ahold of his money. Please let me know of your research.
Thank you Allen and God bless,
Frank Chocfactory
----------------------
From: "allan_grooves" allan_grooves@canada.com
Subject: RE: ATTENTION Date: Wed, 21
Feb 2007 15:12:40 -0800
I had told you that the name of my client a while ago and you actually have the same name with him. I only needed you to help me with this transaction and that is all. I will never force you to help me okay but this would be beneficial to you.
Thank you.
-------------------
Listen here Allen...
My last name is not Stein. It is Chocfactory. I do know that I have a great uncle who had a lot of money and he died with it. These funds have missing for two years. Please ask your contacts if they know of a Charlie Andy Chocfactory. His mother's maiden name was Stein. Perhaps this is the connection????
Let me know!!!
Signed, Frank
-------------
From: "allan_grooves"
It is possible he lodged the money with his mum's maiden name. I have told you the one i have and it was never a mistake okay. Please if you want to assist, fine but otherwise stop sending me emails okay. The transaction is not such that i have to beg you for okay.
Thank you
---------------
Allan.
If there is something in it for me, I can help you. I did some research and found a D. Stein in my family history.
Praise be if this is the man you represented at the Bank. How can I be of service?
Please let me know.
Thanks!
Frank
---------------------
{He sends me the exact same e-mail with }
a, Your telephone number
b,Your complete names
c,Your mailing address
d,Your Occupation
--------------
Allan,
I can be reached at 1-202-331-8590
{Editors note: this is the number to the NATIONAL FRAUD INFORMATION CENTER & INTERNET FRAUD WATCH in Washington DC.}
My full names is Frank E Chocfactory
Mailing address is in Washington, but I will hold that back for now to ensure this is not a scam.
My Job is with an auto repair shop right outside of Washington in Virginia. I repair mainly BMWs and VWs.
Please let me know how I can help with the splitting of the funds!
Thanks, Frank
--------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Sat, 24 Feb 2007 09:28:02 -0800
I think you are being unserious here. You gave me a number which had been disconnected. I do not know what you are doing concerning these funds. If you are not interested, please let me know or you call me on +44 7926586043.
thank you.
--------------------
Allan,
I just tried to call your number and no one is answering. Is this correct?
I am beginning to think that you are trying to steal money from me. Fortunately, I just got a $2000 bonus from my work!! See, hard work can pay off.
Why do you contact me and then not follow up? I am beginning to think that you have found someone else to help you.
If this is so, I am sorry that we could not work out an agreement.
Best of luck to you Mr. Groves.
Frank
-------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Mon, 26 Feb 2007 15:16:58 -0800
Dear Mr.Frank,
I had been trying to reach you on the number which you had provided but all to no avail. i have not found anyone to do this business with and still believe that you would be able to assist me in all respect.
My number is +44 7926586043,+ 447909833952. you would be able to reach me on those numbers anytime. Please supply me with the information that i requested from you and this process of application would start and we would have enough at our disposal.
Expecting your feedback.
Thank you
Sincerely
Grooves
--------------------------
Hello Allen,
I am bored with all this.
Please just tell me what address to send the money that you need so that you can release the larger funds.
Please check off the following reasons why you need the money and how much you need:
1. International Transfer Fee
2. Notary Public Fee
3. Rebel Alliance Fee
4. National Transfer Fee
Just add up the amounts of money you need and make sure is isn't more than $2,000. I can either send you a cheque or wire transfer.
Please, my good friend. Let's just get this over with so that I can go back to my normal life.
Thank you,
Frank
-------------------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2007 09:43:32 -0800
I dont understand what you are talking about. for now have a nice day.
----------------
Allan,
Listen, I know how this works:
1. I send you money to pay the tax or fees.
2. Once the fees are paid, you send me the larger sum of money.
3. We both end up happy and RICH!!!!!!!
Come on... I know there is some fee or something.
Just tell me what I have to pay and when I can get my hands on the BIG MONEY!
Thanks, Frank
----------------
From: "allan_grooves"
Date: Tue, 27 Feb 2007 14:54:36 -0800
I think you had been into the wrong thing before. I would never be contacting you if it was not for someone who would be reliable and not run away with these funds. I do not
honestly know what you are talking about.
I know that i dont require you to pay me any amount of money
okay.
Thank you
------------------
Allan,
OK. I feel like we have gone in the wrong direction here.
I want to help you if it will help me. And I want me to help you.
Please let me know what information you need.
Thank you,
Frank
----------------------
allan grooves (allan_grooves@canada.com)
Subject: RE: ATTENTION
i am still waiting for your information to continu okay.
----------------------
Well Allan?
WHERE IS MY MONEY!
I SENT YOU THE MONEY ORDER!!!!!!
WHERE IS MY MONEY!!!!!
{That was the letter I sent tonight. I had not heard from Allan in a while and I assume he moved on to bigger and better things. I really think he grew tired of my bi-polar shit.}
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s at Ohio University on April 14th
Margot and the Nuclear So and So’s is playing at OU on April 14th. I think it is a free show, but I can’t be sure because I lost my secret college free concert sense back in 94’. Oddly enough that is also when I lost my Fish Called Wanda movie poster.
Here is my plan: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. You’ll have to drive your own car and stay in your own hotel, but I’ll be at the show around 8:00pm and then I’ll be at the C.I. from 11:30pm until closing. I’ll be the old guy. Buy me a beer in a can.
Here is my plan B: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. Here’s the pinch - this might be the weekend of Palmerfest as well. If this is so, I will need to sneak out of the house a few hours earlier to attend and I will need your assistance. At 1:00pm on Saturday, we’ll be heading out the door to go to a good friend’s kid’s birthday party. I really want to go to the birthday party, but if you drive by and kidnap me in front of my wife, I will have no choice but to go wherever it is that you take me. If that happens to be Palmerfest than so be it. I’ll split gas cost with you to Athens and back. Just duct tape my mouth and hands before you dump me back off at my house Sunday morning. More than likely, I will have forgotten everything anyways from the alcohol. Your secret is safe with me.
See you at the show. Doors open at 6:00pm. Bring duct tape.
Here is my plan: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. You’ll have to drive your own car and stay in your own hotel, but I’ll be at the show around 8:00pm and then I’ll be at the C.I. from 11:30pm until closing. I’ll be the old guy. Buy me a beer in a can.
Here is my plan B: I am going to this show no matter what and I want you to come with me. Here’s the pinch - this might be the weekend of Palmerfest as well. If this is so, I will need to sneak out of the house a few hours earlier to attend and I will need your assistance. At 1:00pm on Saturday, we’ll be heading out the door to go to a good friend’s kid’s birthday party. I really want to go to the birthday party, but if you drive by and kidnap me in front of my wife, I will have no choice but to go wherever it is that you take me. If that happens to be Palmerfest than so be it. I’ll split gas cost with you to Athens and back. Just duct tape my mouth and hands before you dump me back off at my house Sunday morning. More than likely, I will have forgotten everything anyways from the alcohol. Your secret is safe with me.
See you at the show. Doors open at 6:00pm. Bring duct tape.
Neighbors
"Love your neighbor, but build fences." -Something my dad would always say
We live in a great house in a great neighborhood with great neighbors. It took us ten years, but we’ve finally got it right. We haven’t always had bad neighbors. Actually, I think we were the bad neighbors for the eight years in our first home. We were always friendly, but never interactive. Our cats were always pooping in the neighbors’ mulch and we’d pretend we didn’t notice. We kept to ourselves mainly because we were a newlywed couple, while they were families with 2 – 3 kids. I’m sure we could have been more involved, but we just had other things to do.
When we lived in an apartment during those first two frosting years, we did not have neighbors, we had “people downstairs.” Then we moved to a quad of duplex apartments and we had “the freaks next door.”
The freaks next door moved in over a week long period, one rusted vanload at a time. At 6:00am on Saturday, we were made aware that their alarm clock was moved in. It kept on its electronic droning through the paper thin walls for three hours. Obviously they had plugged it in, set it and they had not been there to turn it off. Finally, it stopped ringing. We assumed that it automatically turned off after a certain amount of time and we tried to snatch a few more minutes of sleep. But the alarm started sounding again six minutes later. Then it went silent. Then we heard voices. The neighbors had slept through their own alarm for three hours and one snooze. An alarm so freaking loud that it woke us up.
And this was not the last time.
Every morning their alarm clock would sound at 6:00am and would not get turned off for 2 – 3 hours. We were usually out the door on the way to work with their alarm still ringing. We tried pounding on the wall, but they could not or would not hear the pounding over the alarm.
I made an interesting connection the day I came home and found a flier on the door handle. It was for a home cleaning service. I looked up from the flier and saw that the neighbor’s rusty van was full of cleaning supplies. I took a closer look inside the van and saw piles of the fliers in the dirty van. (A dirty cleaning van?) I formulated a plan and took the flier upstairs and into the bedroom.
The next morning at 6:00am their alarm sounded. I grabber the flier and the phone and called the number after dialing *67 (selective call blocking.) The phone next door began to ring. The alarm turned off and a sleepy voice answered the phone. I hung up and we went back to sleep.
I did this EVERY morning for a week. On one occasion, I had to call twice when they reset the alarm. They had to be going crazy. Fortunately they were not smart enough to realize what was happening. Unfortunately, I was too dumb to remember to hit *67 one morning and they called me back.
“Hello?”
“Who is this? Why do you keep calling?”
(Pissed off but sheepish) “Um…you aren’t turning your alarm off in the morning for hours at a time. “
“What?”
“We can hear your alarm through the wall!”
“Well, you could of just told us.”
And she was right. We could have told them, but we did not want any interaction with these people. It wasn’t just the dirty cleaning van or the alarm or the cigarette smoke that permeated the wall. It was also the sex.
Hours of sex. It seemed like hours and was actually only 40 minutes, but their bed squeaked with every thrust, she was very orgasmic and when he finally came (thank God) he’s let out a disappointing, one second grunt that Miss Sally and I still make fun of to this day. You’d think after all that banging that he would scream out for 30 seconds. But instead, “Unngh.”
We ended up moving our bedroom to the smaller, second bedroom. All our weekend guests then got to wake up at six in the morning after not being able to fall asleep for 40 minutes the night before.
So in the end, we avoided them. They avoided us. Life goes on.
Then one night, the cops showed up at our door. We were both asleep in the smaller bedroom and we were awoken by the doorbell and knocking. I stuck my head out the old bedroom window and saw a cop car and officers below at the door. Oh shit. My first thought that my parents had been killed. I ran down stairs and opened the doors.
The cops were right to the point.
“Good evening sir. Are you alone?”
“No, my girlfriend is upstairs.”
“Can you get her?”
Oh shit, Sally’s parents were dead.
Sally was at the top of the stairs and was tentatively coming down.
“Yes?”
“Miss, can you come here so we can see you?”
She came and stood next to me. He asked her if everything was all right and if there was any trouble. She said no. He asked if we had been fighting. I said no and that we had been asleep. They said we are talking to her. I shut up. Sally said the same, nervously laughing. No, we had gone to bed an hour ago.
The cop said there had been a report that there was a domestic assault in progress. They seemed to believe us. We asked who made the report and they said they were not allowed to tell. Nice.
A month later, in the middle of the night, the cops were back. This time with a social worker. When I answered the door this time, I knew why. So I said, “Are you here because someone reported hearing fighting?” I said this thinking that I was giving the cops some useful information. Little did I know that it sounded like I knew why they were there because I was guilty. I tried to tell them it was the second time it had happened, but they were only interested in talking to Sally. She was asked to come downstairs. I was made to sit on the couch as they interviewed Sally and she reassured them everything was all right.
When we finally had them convinced that all was well, we impressed upon them that we were tired of the false reports and if anything could be done. They said they would look into it. Thanks.
One week later, Sally was opening the front door on her way home from work when the hard of hearing, orgasmic neighbor lady popped out her door and asked if she could talk to her. She then asked Sally if her husband was home. Sally said no and explained we were only just engaged. The lady was a bit surprised, but then said that she understood what Sally was going through as she was a survivor of an abusive relationship. Now Sally was confused. Sally laughed and said that I was not abusive. Next door lady said she heard the beatings and the fighting. Sally said that was impossible and dismissed her. Neighbor lady left Sally, thinking she was in denial.
When I came home, Sally told me about the conversation. Almost at the same time we both realized what was happening. The stairs that go up to the bedrooms double back before they got to the top. The freaky neighbors were hearing someone get the shit beat out of them… but it was the people living in the duplex on the OTHER side of them. They had their left and right screwed up. Idiots!
We moved out a few months later.
The bad thing is that poor woman who was getting the shit beat out of her never had the cops show up at her door.
The good thing about this was that we later realized that the freaky neighbors must have thought it was the other neighbors who had called them in the morning to wake them up when their alarm couldn’t. Suckers!
We live in a great house in a great neighborhood with great neighbors. It took us ten years, but we’ve finally got it right. We haven’t always had bad neighbors. Actually, I think we were the bad neighbors for the eight years in our first home. We were always friendly, but never interactive. Our cats were always pooping in the neighbors’ mulch and we’d pretend we didn’t notice. We kept to ourselves mainly because we were a newlywed couple, while they were families with 2 – 3 kids. I’m sure we could have been more involved, but we just had other things to do.
When we lived in an apartment during those first two frosting years, we did not have neighbors, we had “people downstairs.” Then we moved to a quad of duplex apartments and we had “the freaks next door.”
The freaks next door moved in over a week long period, one rusted vanload at a time. At 6:00am on Saturday, we were made aware that their alarm clock was moved in. It kept on its electronic droning through the paper thin walls for three hours. Obviously they had plugged it in, set it and they had not been there to turn it off. Finally, it stopped ringing. We assumed that it automatically turned off after a certain amount of time and we tried to snatch a few more minutes of sleep. But the alarm started sounding again six minutes later. Then it went silent. Then we heard voices. The neighbors had slept through their own alarm for three hours and one snooze. An alarm so freaking loud that it woke us up.
And this was not the last time.
Every morning their alarm clock would sound at 6:00am and would not get turned off for 2 – 3 hours. We were usually out the door on the way to work with their alarm still ringing. We tried pounding on the wall, but they could not or would not hear the pounding over the alarm.
I made an interesting connection the day I came home and found a flier on the door handle. It was for a home cleaning service. I looked up from the flier and saw that the neighbor’s rusty van was full of cleaning supplies. I took a closer look inside the van and saw piles of the fliers in the dirty van. (A dirty cleaning van?) I formulated a plan and took the flier upstairs and into the bedroom.
The next morning at 6:00am their alarm sounded. I grabber the flier and the phone and called the number after dialing *67 (selective call blocking.) The phone next door began to ring. The alarm turned off and a sleepy voice answered the phone. I hung up and we went back to sleep.
I did this EVERY morning for a week. On one occasion, I had to call twice when they reset the alarm. They had to be going crazy. Fortunately they were not smart enough to realize what was happening. Unfortunately, I was too dumb to remember to hit *67 one morning and they called me back.
“Hello?”
“Who is this? Why do you keep calling?”
(Pissed off but sheepish) “Um…you aren’t turning your alarm off in the morning for hours at a time. “
“What?”
“We can hear your alarm through the wall!”
“Well, you could of just told us.”
And she was right. We could have told them, but we did not want any interaction with these people. It wasn’t just the dirty cleaning van or the alarm or the cigarette smoke that permeated the wall. It was also the sex.
Hours of sex. It seemed like hours and was actually only 40 minutes, but their bed squeaked with every thrust, she was very orgasmic and when he finally came (thank God) he’s let out a disappointing, one second grunt that Miss Sally and I still make fun of to this day. You’d think after all that banging that he would scream out for 30 seconds. But instead, “Unngh.”
We ended up moving our bedroom to the smaller, second bedroom. All our weekend guests then got to wake up at six in the morning after not being able to fall asleep for 40 minutes the night before.
So in the end, we avoided them. They avoided us. Life goes on.
Then one night, the cops showed up at our door. We were both asleep in the smaller bedroom and we were awoken by the doorbell and knocking. I stuck my head out the old bedroom window and saw a cop car and officers below at the door. Oh shit. My first thought that my parents had been killed. I ran down stairs and opened the doors.
The cops were right to the point.
“Good evening sir. Are you alone?”
“No, my girlfriend is upstairs.”
“Can you get her?”
Oh shit, Sally’s parents were dead.
Sally was at the top of the stairs and was tentatively coming down.
“Yes?”
“Miss, can you come here so we can see you?”
She came and stood next to me. He asked her if everything was all right and if there was any trouble. She said no. He asked if we had been fighting. I said no and that we had been asleep. They said we are talking to her. I shut up. Sally said the same, nervously laughing. No, we had gone to bed an hour ago.
The cop said there had been a report that there was a domestic assault in progress. They seemed to believe us. We asked who made the report and they said they were not allowed to tell. Nice.
A month later, in the middle of the night, the cops were back. This time with a social worker. When I answered the door this time, I knew why. So I said, “Are you here because someone reported hearing fighting?” I said this thinking that I was giving the cops some useful information. Little did I know that it sounded like I knew why they were there because I was guilty. I tried to tell them it was the second time it had happened, but they were only interested in talking to Sally. She was asked to come downstairs. I was made to sit on the couch as they interviewed Sally and she reassured them everything was all right.
When we finally had them convinced that all was well, we impressed upon them that we were tired of the false reports and if anything could be done. They said they would look into it. Thanks.
One week later, Sally was opening the front door on her way home from work when the hard of hearing, orgasmic neighbor lady popped out her door and asked if she could talk to her. She then asked Sally if her husband was home. Sally said no and explained we were only just engaged. The lady was a bit surprised, but then said that she understood what Sally was going through as she was a survivor of an abusive relationship. Now Sally was confused. Sally laughed and said that I was not abusive. Next door lady said she heard the beatings and the fighting. Sally said that was impossible and dismissed her. Neighbor lady left Sally, thinking she was in denial.
When I came home, Sally told me about the conversation. Almost at the same time we both realized what was happening. The stairs that go up to the bedrooms double back before they got to the top. The freaky neighbors were hearing someone get the shit beat out of them… but it was the people living in the duplex on the OTHER side of them. They had their left and right screwed up. Idiots!
We moved out a few months later.
The bad thing is that poor woman who was getting the shit beat out of her never had the cops show up at her door.
The good thing about this was that we later realized that the freaky neighbors must have thought it was the other neighbors who had called them in the morning to wake them up when their alarm couldn’t. Suckers!
John and guy I bought a beer for
We went to Brazenhead in Grandview for St. Patrick’s Day. It wasn’t Chicago, but it was a very good time. (Remind me to tell you about the Alphabet Girls.)
Towards midnight we noticed a tall dude. He knows he’s tall. Idiots probably remind him of it every day. Bigger idiots ask to get a photo taken with him. At least this guy is smart enough to make it worth his while. Once I asked him if he’d let us take his photo, he said yes, for a beer.
It was worth it.
Damn that dude is tall.
My date with Cory Kennedy
Yes, I know. There are several reasons why I should not have gone on a date with Cory Kennedy. I’m married. She’s 17. We don’t listen to the same music. We only have a few things in common. Scratch that... we have nothing in common besides drinking. But drinking is the great equalizer and so I thought that by the end of the night, it would all work itself out.
And oddly enough, it did.
I was in LA for business. On a whim, I called my buddy who runs a recording studio. He’s a testicular cancer survivor and swears that his raw food diet has kept him in remission.
I gave my studio buddy a call and he mentioned that he recently had a celebrity in the studio. That celeb knew a guy who dated a bouncer who had a Facebook account. And one of his friends on Facebook was none other than a Facebook friend of Cory Kennedy’s.
Cory Kennedy is an internet fabricated personality. She’s interesting like a pork kite is interesting. You wonder how she got famous and why she is still famous, which makes her more famous by your wondering. But you cannot help yourself. She’s pretty because we are told she is pretty. She is fashionable because we are told she is fashionable. And I was going to go on a date with her because I told myself I was going to go on a date with her. Why not?
I tried to get her to accept me as a MySpace friend. She denied me. So I found one of her MySpace friends’ friend and they blindly added me. I was in her extended network which is almost like being in her Blackberry. I sent the friend of a friend a note to pass on to Cory that we should go out very soon. I didn’t get a response. I assume MySpace was down.
I enrolled as a substitute teacher at her high school. Since I was only in LA for a few days, I didn’t really enroll as a sub, but I did carry a briefcase as I marched around the school’s campus. I narrowed down my search by not looking for anyone wearing matching clothes, or anything with blue, red, yellow or any combinations of those colors. I had it narrowed down to about 218 girls when the cops hauled me off campus by my iPod ear buds.
I was let off with a warning after I mentioned that I had a date with Cory Kennedy planned for that evening. Cop number one said, “I’ve got a color blind daughter of my own at home. Go get her, champ.” Cop number two said, “Isn’t she only sixteen?” but I didn’t hear that as I was all ready running off through Burbank.
That night I had everything planned. I rented a limo and bought a TON of Red Bull and some menthol cigarettes. I waited outside her window for her to sneak out, but it turns out she just walks right out the front door on her way out to the clubs at 11:00pm. I ran back to the Limo and had Asphed follow her to eighteen different clubs: Rants, Jimmy 8, Outré, Sim Sim, Lookie Tick, RED, Front Door, Rex, Symbol, Number Ten, Camel Tent, WOO Tavern, Capitol G, Upstairs Twice Club, Yeast, Juvie Nile, Kliq and Epstine Fillmore and the Rat VooDoo Soul Club. I couldn’t get into any of them. I would sit in the limo and wait for her to leave. Sometimes I would put on my chef costume and try to sneak in the back door, but it turns out most clubs don’t have chefs. As a matter of fact, none of them do.
So at the end of the night or the start of the morning as we call 6:00am here in Ohio, I tracked her down at a Jerry’s Famous Deli. She was with a large group of people and I couldn’t force my way into the corner booth to ask her how she felt the date was going. So I ordered a Yummy (a cream cheese and jelly sandwich, battered and deep fried) and sent it over to her table.
The waiter handed her the plate and pointed in my direction. She pointed to some other guy and the waiter shook his head no and pointed more at me. She pointed again and the waiter shook his head no and came over to my table and held his hand over my head.
She mouthed the words “thank you” or something very similar.
All in all, the date turned out really good. I felt like a gentleman buying her dinner/breakfast and she gave me a lot of space so that I could grow. A very positive experience for both parties.
So in the end, it all worked out.
But, I do not think it is going to work out. She’s way too Hollywood for me. And the restraining order keeps me at 150ft away. Plus her arms are way too hairy.
Palmerfest 1992
There is really too much to write about Palmerfest. If you went to OU after 1990, you probably have gone to one or two. Shit, you might even claim to have originated it.
Sadly, the backyards of 19, 21 and 23 Palmer are gone. Replaced when the three houses were extend backwards so that Mr. Gevas could make a couple more bucks.
I hope he bought a new blue van.
It actually is the worst fight scene ever
This video is labeled "The Worst Fight Scene Ever!"
I was going to try and convince you that it is actually the BEST fight scene ever, but I cannot because it is the worst fight scene ever.
To make matters worse, the video compression is causing the audio to be out of snyc. Actually, that makes the clip that much funnier.
I was going to try and convince you that it is actually the BEST fight scene ever, but I cannot because it is the worst fight scene ever.
To make matters worse, the video compression is causing the audio to be out of snyc. Actually, that makes the clip that much funnier.
My kid can fall asleep slower than your kid
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a “My Kid” writing. I suggest you stop reading now. I really do not like to hear people talk about their kid because unless it is a story about them pooping their pants at the recital, I’m not interested in hearing it. Sorry. Most kid stories go like this: My kid “X” did “Y” and did it better or more interestingly or faster than any kid I’ve ever seen. He/She is advanced for his/her age. Blah… Again, stop reading. I warned you.
My kid had an incredibly crazed night. He was extremely excited and running around and I knew all the way through reading books to him that this was not going to end well.
As I turned off his light, he started asking for mommy and then crying for mommy and then ranting for mommy. Mommy came up to calm him down and it worked until she needed to leave. Then he asked for daddy and cried for daddy and so on and so forth.
After the second shift change, Miss Sally calmed him down and we gave him goodnight kisses and he seemed like he was going to be all right, but then he pulled the “sleep with me” card. I’ve slept in his room on two or three occasions in the middle of the night when he was sick or upset. I do not want to start that as a trend.
So, here I am, typing because he can hear it from the other room and it seems to comfort him to know that I am in the other room. It’s an odd connection that my clamoring on the keyboard reassures him. If only he knew that I was usually typing crap about drinking or nudie bars.
So, for the next few minutes, I’ll type. And since we are on the topic of Greg, I’ll continue this one-sided conversation.
Greg sometimes has a problem with listening. Most kids do. If we get reports from his teachers that he wasn’t a good listener that day, then we end up keeping the TV off or not letting him play Lego Star Wars. My kid Greg is the best non-listener of any kid I’ve ever seen. He’s an advanced non-listener for his age.
Lego Star Wars is a beautiful game. Watching Greg play is interesting and frightening. He picked up on it in a few weeks and he’s pretty good. There is a dual player mode so that two people can play in tandem to complete the goals. Greg thinks that it is funny to chase me down and shoot me with his blaster. When we are in the middle of a quest, I get a bit peeved that he kills me. I’ll warn him once or twice and then I’ll drop out of the game and let him finish on his own.
The other day he came up to me around Star Wars time. He said the following, “I was a good listener at school today and I promise not to kill you.”
I almost wept. My little boy is growing up.
And now he is asleep.
This is a “My Kid” writing. I suggest you stop reading now. I really do not like to hear people talk about their kid because unless it is a story about them pooping their pants at the recital, I’m not interested in hearing it. Sorry. Most kid stories go like this: My kid “X” did “Y” and did it better or more interestingly or faster than any kid I’ve ever seen. He/She is advanced for his/her age. Blah… Again, stop reading. I warned you.
My kid had an incredibly crazed night. He was extremely excited and running around and I knew all the way through reading books to him that this was not going to end well.
As I turned off his light, he started asking for mommy and then crying for mommy and then ranting for mommy. Mommy came up to calm him down and it worked until she needed to leave. Then he asked for daddy and cried for daddy and so on and so forth.
After the second shift change, Miss Sally calmed him down and we gave him goodnight kisses and he seemed like he was going to be all right, but then he pulled the “sleep with me” card. I’ve slept in his room on two or three occasions in the middle of the night when he was sick or upset. I do not want to start that as a trend.
So, here I am, typing because he can hear it from the other room and it seems to comfort him to know that I am in the other room. It’s an odd connection that my clamoring on the keyboard reassures him. If only he knew that I was usually typing crap about drinking or nudie bars.
So, for the next few minutes, I’ll type. And since we are on the topic of Greg, I’ll continue this one-sided conversation.
Greg sometimes has a problem with listening. Most kids do. If we get reports from his teachers that he wasn’t a good listener that day, then we end up keeping the TV off or not letting him play Lego Star Wars. My kid Greg is the best non-listener of any kid I’ve ever seen. He’s an advanced non-listener for his age.
Lego Star Wars is a beautiful game. Watching Greg play is interesting and frightening. He picked up on it in a few weeks and he’s pretty good. There is a dual player mode so that two people can play in tandem to complete the goals. Greg thinks that it is funny to chase me down and shoot me with his blaster. When we are in the middle of a quest, I get a bit peeved that he kills me. I’ll warn him once or twice and then I’ll drop out of the game and let him finish on his own.
The other day he came up to me around Star Wars time. He said the following, “I was a good listener at school today and I promise not to kill you.”
I almost wept. My little boy is growing up.
And now he is asleep.
What to do the day after Conny takes the Bar Exam
1. Wake up drunk in Conny's hotel living room
2. Call boss and tell him you are still drunk
3. Yell at Conny and ask how I got on a fold out bed
4. Listen to Conny’s explanation
5. Thank Conny for not letting you fall asleep on the fold out bed while it was still folded up into the shape of a couch.
6. Sit up
7. Lay back down
8. Ask Conny what he is making me for breakfast
9. Sit up again.
10. Stand up
11. Go pee
12. Mistake not being hung-over with still drunk
13. Go down stairs for awesome breakfast at the Drury Inn
(Actually Step -1) Forget the Arnold Classic is in town
14. Remember the Arnold Classic is in town
15. Try not to stumble into huge dudes that are eating all the French toast
16. Smile at self for skillful ladling of sausage gravy on biscuits
17. Eat coffee and drink sausage gravy
18. Watch Conny mangle waffle with spatula on grill and finally give up and use fingers to pull shredded waffle off grill.
19. Watch Conny not eat mangled waffle
20. Sit for an hour and watch hot chicks with huge dudes with tiny pee-pees go by
21. Go back up to Conny’s room
22. Grab shit and leave
23. Go to parking garage
24. Look for car
25. – 27. Continue looking for car
28. Find car
29. Drive car to gate and realize you need room key to leave garage
30. Drive in reverse up steep hill
31. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
32. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
33. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
34. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
35. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
36. Sigh as call to hotel goes into Conny’s room’s voice mail
37. Conny stops taking a shit and calls me back
38. Drop off Conny at hotel doors after he lets me out of parking garage with his room key
39. Say goodbye again
40. Drive home 9/10th way home
41. Receive call from Conny
42. Answer, “No, I don’t think your car keys are in my car but I will check when I get home.”
43. Check
44. Call Conny and tell him keys are not there
45. Call Meshell and ask her to check her car (she dropped us off at the hotel.)
46. Answer call from Meshell and say, “Thanks for looking.”
47. Call Conny and ask if he’s looked in X for the keys.
48. Ask if he’s looked in Y for the keys.
49. Ask if he’s looked in Z for the keys.
50. Begin to feel hung-over
51. Look at clock and see that it is 11:00am
52. Get in car and go back to Conny’s hotel
53. Fight Arnold Traffic
54. Pick up Conny
55. Drive Conny by Char Bar just in case
56. Car Bar is closed and take Conny to my home
57. Conny calls Toyota dealership
58. Dealership says they can give key with VIN number
59. Drive back down to hotel get VIN number
60. Stop halfway there as Conny remembers VIN number is on insurance card
61. Turn around and go home
62. Conny drinks a diet coke and I drink a diet 7up.
63. Go to Toyota Direct
64. Sit in car listening to Howard Stern show from 1994 while Conny convinces dudes inside he is not a car thief
65. Fall asleep for 2 minutes
66. Awake screaming as Conny knocks on window
67. Take Conny to hotel
68. Drop off Conny
69. Arrange to meet Conny for dinner on Tuesday night when he’s back in town
70. Say goodbye again again
71. Promise not to go drinking when meeting Conny for dinner when he is in town next Tuesday
72. Drive home without call from Conny
73. Look at clock and see that it is 2:00pm
74. Fail at napping
75. Post photo of Char Bar chalkboard
76. Remember at the last minute to call Conny’s house in Akron and leave a message that his wife will get saying that you are the manager of a nudie bar and that you found Conny’s key’s in the $150/hr VIP room and that "Mr. Moneybags" can come back anytime and pick them up
77. Reply, “Awe CRAP” when Conny answers the phone at his house instead of it going into voicemail.
2. Call boss and tell him you are still drunk
3. Yell at Conny and ask how I got on a fold out bed
4. Listen to Conny’s explanation
5. Thank Conny for not letting you fall asleep on the fold out bed while it was still folded up into the shape of a couch.
6. Sit up
7. Lay back down
8. Ask Conny what he is making me for breakfast
9. Sit up again.
10. Stand up
11. Go pee
12. Mistake not being hung-over with still drunk
13. Go down stairs for awesome breakfast at the Drury Inn
(Actually Step -1) Forget the Arnold Classic is in town
14. Remember the Arnold Classic is in town
15. Try not to stumble into huge dudes that are eating all the French toast
16. Smile at self for skillful ladling of sausage gravy on biscuits
17. Eat coffee and drink sausage gravy
18. Watch Conny mangle waffle with spatula on grill and finally give up and use fingers to pull shredded waffle off grill.
19. Watch Conny not eat mangled waffle
20. Sit for an hour and watch hot chicks with huge dudes with tiny pee-pees go by
21. Go back up to Conny’s room
22. Grab shit and leave
23. Go to parking garage
24. Look for car
25. – 27. Continue looking for car
28. Find car
29. Drive car to gate and realize you need room key to leave garage
30. Drive in reverse up steep hill
31. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
32. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
33. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
34. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
35. Sigh as call to Conny goes into voice mail
36. Sigh as call to hotel goes into Conny’s room’s voice mail
37. Conny stops taking a shit and calls me back
38. Drop off Conny at hotel doors after he lets me out of parking garage with his room key
39. Say goodbye again
40. Drive home 9/10th way home
41. Receive call from Conny
42. Answer, “No, I don’t think your car keys are in my car but I will check when I get home.”
43. Check
44. Call Conny and tell him keys are not there
45. Call Meshell and ask her to check her car (she dropped us off at the hotel.)
46. Answer call from Meshell and say, “Thanks for looking.”
47. Call Conny and ask if he’s looked in X for the keys.
48. Ask if he’s looked in Y for the keys.
49. Ask if he’s looked in Z for the keys.
50. Begin to feel hung-over
51. Look at clock and see that it is 11:00am
52. Get in car and go back to Conny’s hotel
53. Fight Arnold Traffic
54. Pick up Conny
55. Drive Conny by Char Bar just in case
56. Car Bar is closed and take Conny to my home
57. Conny calls Toyota dealership
58. Dealership says they can give key with VIN number
59. Drive back down to hotel get VIN number
60. Stop halfway there as Conny remembers VIN number is on insurance card
61. Turn around and go home
62. Conny drinks a diet coke and I drink a diet 7up.
63. Go to Toyota Direct
64. Sit in car listening to Howard Stern show from 1994 while Conny convinces dudes inside he is not a car thief
65. Fall asleep for 2 minutes
66. Awake screaming as Conny knocks on window
67. Take Conny to hotel
68. Drop off Conny
69. Arrange to meet Conny for dinner on Tuesday night when he’s back in town
70. Say goodbye again again
71. Promise not to go drinking when meeting Conny for dinner when he is in town next Tuesday
72. Drive home without call from Conny
73. Look at clock and see that it is 2:00pm
74. Fail at napping
75. Post photo of Char Bar chalkboard
76. Remember at the last minute to call Conny’s house in Akron and leave a message that his wife will get saying that you are the manager of a nudie bar and that you found Conny’s key’s in the $150/hr VIP room and that "Mr. Moneybags" can come back anytime and pick them up
77. Reply, “Awe CRAP” when Conny answers the phone at his house instead of it going into voicemail.
Pizza Technical Difficulty
There is a small chain of pizza/stromboli stores in Columbus called Pizzano's. It’s not the best pizza in the world, but it’s decent and quick. We get it at our office and Miss Sally likes their cheese/black olive/banana pepper stromboli.
On President’s Day, we tried to order some Pizzano’s for the office. Their phone rang and rang, but no one answered. We assumed they were closed for the holiday and we ate Lori’s stash of chocolate for lunch instead.
Last night, I tired to order some for dinner. Again, the phone rang and rang. Pizzano’s web site was up, but their outsourced, online ordering system said CLOSED. Oh dear. I ordered Donatos and drove over to pick it up.
Being a curious little boy, I drove by Pizzano’s to see if their building was open. I remembered on the way over that Pizzano’s was in the middle of a name change or take over by Mama Ghambi’s Pizza and Stromboli. They had big “Grand Opening” signs in their front window from our previous successful visit. Maybe they had just changed their number.
Not so much…
I’m not sure how a Pizza place can have a technical difficulty, but it seems they somehow do or did.
I hope everything works out for them. I grow weary of chocolate for lunch.
On President’s Day, we tried to order some Pizzano’s for the office. Their phone rang and rang, but no one answered. We assumed they were closed for the holiday and we ate Lori’s stash of chocolate for lunch instead.
Last night, I tired to order some for dinner. Again, the phone rang and rang. Pizzano’s web site was up, but their outsourced, online ordering system said CLOSED. Oh dear. I ordered Donatos and drove over to pick it up.
Being a curious little boy, I drove by Pizzano’s to see if their building was open. I remembered on the way over that Pizzano’s was in the middle of a name change or take over by Mama Ghambi’s Pizza and Stromboli. They had big “Grand Opening” signs in their front window from our previous successful visit. Maybe they had just changed their number.
Not so much…
I’m not sure how a Pizza place can have a technical difficulty, but it seems they somehow do or did.
I hope everything works out for them. I grow weary of chocolate for lunch.
Char Bar Chalkboard
Conny was in town this week taking the Ohio Bar Exam. He had called a few weeks ago to say that once he completed the test, he wanted to go out for a lot of drinks.
He finished the test. We had lots of drinks.
Here is one photo from this night:
At the Char Bar, they have a chalkboard in the men’s bathroom above the two urinals. We utilize that board to make fun of each other and discuss who is banging whomever else’s wife.
By the end of the night, there were several modifications. I hope to get those photos from Jenn as my camera battery died trying to take photos of this idiot parking her car on the curb.
.JPG)
I'll update once I am less hungover.
He finished the test. We had lots of drinks.
Here is one photo from this night:
At the Char Bar, they have a chalkboard in the men’s bathroom above the two urinals. We utilize that board to make fun of each other and discuss who is banging whomever else’s wife.
By the end of the night, there were several modifications. I hope to get those photos from Jenn as my camera battery died trying to take photos of this idiot parking her car on the curb.
.JPG)
I'll update once I am less hungover.
Marion County Common Please Court
My co-worker Angie picked up some documents in Marion County. As she was standing in line to deliver the documents in Franklin County, she noticed the typo/spelling error.
I think that it's positive to suggest that problems one might have with the County could be resolved just by going to the County Please Court. If you are polite, they'll let you off.
Polite or not, she still had to pay the fine.
I
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!
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.
The Most Awesome Ice Scraper Ever
I live in a house with a garage in Ohio. I think I am cool because I do not have to scrape my windows on the average winter morning. But someday I will become that homeowner who fills his garage with worthless crap and squeezes his car out onto the driveway.
When that day comes, I will be prepared to face the frost filled mornings because I own the Ultimate Ice Scraper.
About 15 years ago, I purchased a state of the art ice scraper. It was a new twist on an old technology. A strip of brass was inserted into a plastic handle. Because brass is softer than glass, it cannot scratch it. The creators of this miracle device even guaranteed that it would not scratch glass or they would pay for your windshield.
This ice scraper worked like the dickens. It would plow through the toughest ice and scrape right to the glass. Never a scratch! I loved my ice scraper.
Some idiots tried to break up ice on their windshields by pounding the windshield with the edge of the brass. Needless to say, windshields cracked. The manufacturer shrugged. People sued. And they stopped making the ice scraper.
Suckers! I still had mine. It still worked like a champ and except for an unusually thin handle, mine would last forever.
So, forever expired one cold day after work. As I was scraping thick ice off my windshield, the handle snapped and the brass end went flying into the snow. I madly dug through the snow and found the end of the scraper. There was a little bit of handle left, but not enough to hold on to for that quality scraping leverage.
As my tears froze to the windshield, a co-worker gave me her spare Hoppy brand plastic shitty ice scraper and told me to keep it. Thanks.
I spent 15 minutes scraping my tears off the windshield and I think it was actually my hot, cursing breath that finally melted the ice. The Hoppy brand plastic shitty ice scraper wasn’t set correctly in its handle and I couldn’t tear into the ice.
In the car I examined my brass scraper. There was no way I’d be able to glue it. It was done for. I also looked at the Hoppy brand ice scraper. Its two part construction was laughable. The plastic scraper wasn’t setting right in the handle and I was able to pop it right out.
And in a rare moment of genius.. I slipped the brass blade into the Hoppy handle.
It fit! It held! By some impossible chance they nested together as if they were meant to be! I suddenly realized that the original brass handle was flawed. It wasn’wasn't long enough and it wasn’t thick enough. My creation was The Ultimate Scraper. I was so happy you might have thought that I just pulled it out of a stone and become king. I jumped out of the car and scraped the windows again. Great leverage. Curved handle to fit in my hand. The power of brass slicing through the ice. The perfect ice scraper.
The garage isn’t full of crap yet so I haven’t had the chance to use my scraper. But maybe I’ll leave it out next week, just to let the kid stretch his legs.
You can still purchase the original brass scraper. But it's not going to be the same.
When that day comes, I will be prepared to face the frost filled mornings because I own the Ultimate Ice Scraper.
About 15 years ago, I purchased a state of the art ice scraper. It was a new twist on an old technology. A strip of brass was inserted into a plastic handle. Because brass is softer than glass, it cannot scratch it. The creators of this miracle device even guaranteed that it would not scratch glass or they would pay for your windshield.
This ice scraper worked like the dickens. It would plow through the toughest ice and scrape right to the glass. Never a scratch! I loved my ice scraper.
Some idiots tried to break up ice on their windshields by pounding the windshield with the edge of the brass. Needless to say, windshields cracked. The manufacturer shrugged. People sued. And they stopped making the ice scraper.
Suckers! I still had mine. It still worked like a champ and except for an unusually thin handle, mine would last forever.
So, forever expired one cold day after work. As I was scraping thick ice off my windshield, the handle snapped and the brass end went flying into the snow. I madly dug through the snow and found the end of the scraper. There was a little bit of handle left, but not enough to hold on to for that quality scraping leverage.
As my tears froze to the windshield, a co-worker gave me her spare Hoppy brand plastic shitty ice scraper and told me to keep it. Thanks.
I spent 15 minutes scraping my tears off the windshield and I think it was actually my hot, cursing breath that finally melted the ice. The Hoppy brand plastic shitty ice scraper wasn’t set correctly in its handle and I couldn’t tear into the ice.
In the car I examined my brass scraper. There was no way I’d be able to glue it. It was done for. I also looked at the Hoppy brand ice scraper. Its two part construction was laughable. The plastic scraper wasn’t setting right in the handle and I was able to pop it right out.
And in a rare moment of genius.. I slipped the brass blade into the Hoppy handle.
It fit! It held! By some impossible chance they nested together as if they were meant to be! I suddenly realized that the original brass handle was flawed. It wasn’wasn't long enough and it wasn’t thick enough. My creation was The Ultimate Scraper. I was so happy you might have thought that I just pulled it out of a stone and become king. I jumped out of the car and scraped the windows again. Great leverage. Curved handle to fit in my hand. The power of brass slicing through the ice. The perfect ice scraper.
The garage isn’t full of crap yet so I haven’t had the chance to use my scraper. But maybe I’ll leave it out next week, just to let the kid stretch his legs.
You can still purchase the original brass scraper. But it's not going to be the same.
Thank you, previous home owners
Thank you, previous home owners. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to spend my weekend (and I am taking tomorrow off work) attempting to paint the living room. Twenty hours of work later and I just put on my first coat of paint. You did some amazing things when you painted the living room that wonderful Soylent Green color.
For future reference, here are some prep and painting tips:
1. Remove wallpaper before painting
2. If you do remove the wallpaper, remove it all and do not leave the paper backing stuck to the wall and paint over it.
3. When you do remove the wallpaper, take it all the way down to the paint and then STOP. Do not scrape any further. If you see a dark empty space, you have removed too much.
4. It was a good idea to fill in the holes with spackle. It’s also a good idea to sand those areas down. Especially those built up a quarter inch from the surface.
5. If you are a good painter, you can cut in the edges without tape. If you are an OK painter, you tape every single edge. If you are you, use tape, paint over tape, and leave the painted tape on wall.
6. When finished with a brush, some wash it out. Most just throw them away. A very rare few might throw it in the return air vent. You are a rare few.
In the middle of my home improvement, Kit stopped over and brought McDonalds. We sat, hunched over in the kitchen at a temporarily relocated coffee table and swapped John B stories. Later, he helped to sand down the walls and clean up.
Thanks Kit.
Idiots.
For future reference, here are some prep and painting tips:
1. Remove wallpaper before painting
2. If you do remove the wallpaper, remove it all and do not leave the paper backing stuck to the wall and paint over it.
3. When you do remove the wallpaper, take it all the way down to the paint and then STOP. Do not scrape any further. If you see a dark empty space, you have removed too much.
4. It was a good idea to fill in the holes with spackle. It’s also a good idea to sand those areas down. Especially those built up a quarter inch from the surface.
5. If you are a good painter, you can cut in the edges without tape. If you are an OK painter, you tape every single edge. If you are you, use tape, paint over tape, and leave the painted tape on wall.
6. When finished with a brush, some wash it out. Most just throw them away. A very rare few might throw it in the return air vent. You are a rare few.
In the middle of my home improvement, Kit stopped over and brought McDonalds. We sat, hunched over in the kitchen at a temporarily relocated coffee table and swapped John B stories. Later, he helped to sand down the walls and clean up.
Thanks Kit.
Idiots.
Take Back the Night
My friends know me for the sexist pig that I am or rather can be. I am OK with that. Somewhere in the dark, ichor filled cavern that is my soul, I think that I am actually a much nicer guy than that. It’s just so hard to see through the profanity and lust.
For example, being the nice guy that I am, I went to the Take Back the Night march at Ohio University with my friend Chris and his then girlfriend (now wife) Karen. At the time, the march was for women only and Chris did not want to be left standing behind by himself. So I went along. I didn’t think anything of it.
No less than three times during the night, I was accused by people I knew that I was there to pick up chicks. I explained that I was there for Chris’ sake and to support the march. You usually don’t hear much laughing at Take Back the Night, but I did after that explanation.
At the direction of a very loud woman, the women gathered and started the march while the men were left behind. Someone dressed in a lot of black gathered us all up and we formed a discussion circle. The moderator opened up the discussion with the topic of how we could comfort our friends after the march. It opened my eyes to the release of emotion that some of the women would be feeling after the march and I started to understand the whole of the march and why it was so important to some.
And then someone else crushed that empowerment by suggesting that all feminine and masculine forms of words should be banned and that only gender neutral words be allowed in all languages. Oh Christ. The moderator was only able to rope in that thread in the conversation by stepping in the middle of the circle and raising his voice.
In an extremely odd moment, a guy took advantage of the following silence to thank everyone for coming out. He noted that he saw a lot of friends in the circle. He said he was nervous. He paused and nodded. He said felt a lot of positive energy flowing through the men and that was great. And he said that he just wanted to say that he was bi-sexual.
Silence again. He sat there and nodded. More silence. Finally a very effeminate guy in the back of the circle yelled, “Good for you!”
Chris kept elbowing me to see if I was taking it all in or maybe to see if I was going to laugh. The self outing was followed up by a discussion about gayness and bisexualism and his statement that, “I’m not 50% straight and 50% gay… I’m 100% bi-sexual.” Thank the lord that the march returned and the women came over to pick up their friends, sheepish boyfriend, sheepish boyfriend’s friend and now bi-sexual friend.
As we walked uptown, small groups of women huddled together. Comforting each other. Tearing up pieces of paper with the names of the men that hurt them.
I’ll always remember the silence after the dude came out of the closet. You could hear the marching women chanting in the distance.
For example, being the nice guy that I am, I went to the Take Back the Night march at Ohio University with my friend Chris and his then girlfriend (now wife) Karen. At the time, the march was for women only and Chris did not want to be left standing behind by himself. So I went along. I didn’t think anything of it.
No less than three times during the night, I was accused by people I knew that I was there to pick up chicks. I explained that I was there for Chris’ sake and to support the march. You usually don’t hear much laughing at Take Back the Night, but I did after that explanation.
At the direction of a very loud woman, the women gathered and started the march while the men were left behind. Someone dressed in a lot of black gathered us all up and we formed a discussion circle. The moderator opened up the discussion with the topic of how we could comfort our friends after the march. It opened my eyes to the release of emotion that some of the women would be feeling after the march and I started to understand the whole of the march and why it was so important to some.
And then someone else crushed that empowerment by suggesting that all feminine and masculine forms of words should be banned and that only gender neutral words be allowed in all languages. Oh Christ. The moderator was only able to rope in that thread in the conversation by stepping in the middle of the circle and raising his voice.
In an extremely odd moment, a guy took advantage of the following silence to thank everyone for coming out. He noted that he saw a lot of friends in the circle. He said he was nervous. He paused and nodded. He said felt a lot of positive energy flowing through the men and that was great. And he said that he just wanted to say that he was bi-sexual.
Silence again. He sat there and nodded. More silence. Finally a very effeminate guy in the back of the circle yelled, “Good for you!”
Chris kept elbowing me to see if I was taking it all in or maybe to see if I was going to laugh. The self outing was followed up by a discussion about gayness and bisexualism and his statement that, “I’m not 50% straight and 50% gay… I’m 100% bi-sexual.” Thank the lord that the march returned and the women came over to pick up their friends, sheepish boyfriend, sheepish boyfriend’s friend and now bi-sexual friend.
As we walked uptown, small groups of women huddled together. Comforting each other. Tearing up pieces of paper with the names of the men that hurt them.
I’ll always remember the silence after the dude came out of the closet. You could hear the marching women chanting in the distance.
Goodnight Cannibal
I read books with my kid every night. As he looks for books to read, he usually asks, “What book do you want to read?” Whichever one I pick, he says that he doesn’t want to read that one and continues to search in his collection of 1,543 books for the one which is stuck between the bookcase and the wall. Looking for two books to read each night takes longer than actually reading them. Especially if I read the first page and then accidentally skip to the last. Hey, it works with Atlas Shrugged.
One book I like and one that you might remember fondly from your childhood is Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown with pictures by Clement Hurd. Basically it is a story about a rabbit stalling so that he doesn’t have to go to sleep.
The little rabbit in the story says goodnight to all the things in his room as he slowly doses off.
But there is one thing to which he does not say goodnight.
It’s a black and white painting of a rabbit fishing. It’s hanging behind the old woman whispering hush.
It’s cute. The rabbit even has waders on. That’s really cute. And the rabbit has a carrot on the end of his line as bait.
A carrot?
Yes. A carrot. Because if you take a close look, you will see that the fisherrabbit is fishing for BUNNIES!
Look!!!!
What the hell is up with that? That’s cannibalism! Or Rabbitbalism. He’s going to catch him, swoop him up with the net, shove him in his wicker fish (bunny) creel, take him home and eat him. Hopefully he’ll at least cook the cute little bastard.
I could understand it if perhaps the bunny was the runt of the litter and the momma rabbit had to eat it… that is natural. This is cruel and I just don’t get what the hell Clement Hurd was trying to illustrate.
Which is why I’ve taken to pointing it out to my son and telling him that he has two choices in life: either he can be the fisherrabbit or he can be the rabbit in the stream. After he stops crying, I hug him and comfort him with promises of carrots for breakfast.
One book I like and one that you might remember fondly from your childhood is Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown with pictures by Clement Hurd. Basically it is a story about a rabbit stalling so that he doesn’t have to go to sleep.
The little rabbit in the story says goodnight to all the things in his room as he slowly doses off.
But there is one thing to which he does not say goodnight.
It’s a black and white painting of a rabbit fishing. It’s hanging behind the old woman whispering hush.
It’s cute. The rabbit even has waders on. That’s really cute. And the rabbit has a carrot on the end of his line as bait.
A carrot?
Yes. A carrot. Because if you take a close look, you will see that the fisherrabbit is fishing for BUNNIES!
Look!!!!
What the hell is up with that? That’s cannibalism! Or Rabbitbalism. He’s going to catch him, swoop him up with the net, shove him in his wicker fish (bunny) creel, take him home and eat him. Hopefully he’ll at least cook the cute little bastard.
I could understand it if perhaps the bunny was the runt of the litter and the momma rabbit had to eat it… that is natural. This is cruel and I just don’t get what the hell Clement Hurd was trying to illustrate.
Which is why I’ve taken to pointing it out to my son and telling him that he has two choices in life: either he can be the fisherrabbit or he can be the rabbit in the stream. After he stops crying, I hug him and comfort him with promises of carrots for breakfast.
Draw to the right
This is the last Meshell - Shorty - Doug napkin drawing post. I swear. Really!
This was one of the first sketches we did which was to draw the person on your right. I thought it would be interesting to see everyone's perspective from the left side. That's why I drew mine like this:
Of course, I was wrong. Meshell drew Shorty as he looks at others. Other chicks that is.
And Shorty just drew my face. The joke being that my head is too big to fit on a single piece of paper.
Asshole. His head is exactly the same as mine. Too big.
Feel free to e-mail me sketches of yourself. I'll post you along with a 17 word description of who I think you are.holyjuan@gmail.com
This was one of the first sketches we did which was to draw the person on your right. I thought it would be interesting to see everyone's perspective from the left side. That's why I drew mine like this:
Of course, I was wrong. Meshell drew Shorty as he looks at others. Other chicks that is.
And Shorty just drew my face. The joke being that my head is too big to fit on a single piece of paper.
Asshole. His head is exactly the same as mine. Too big.
Feel free to e-mail me sketches of yourself. I'll post you along with a 17 word description of who I think you are.
Buckeyes e-mail from Carpanza
> >From: Carpanza
> >To: Holy Juan
> >Subject: Buckeyes
> >Date: Tue, 9 Jan 2007 11:02:28 -0600
> >What the hell happened?
> From: frankkenstein56@hotmail.com
> To: Carpanza
> Subject: RE: Buckeyes
> Date: Tue, 9 Jan 2007 21:09:46 -0500
>
> COMPLETE SYSTEM FAILURE
> BOOT DISK UNREADABLE
From : Carpanza
Sent : Tuesday, January 9, 2007 11:47 PM
To : Frank Stein
Subject : RE: Buckeyes
Have you tried rebooting?
I figured you were in a drunken stupor trying desperately to make the memories go away. There'll be a lot of crying yourself to sleep and sitting alone bawling in the john at work. You just can't drink enough to make the Buckeye's loss any less painful. You turn to hard drugs. Every time you see a sweater vest you can't stop thinking about what that bad man did to you. You think about changing your name to Kane and walking the earth, like in Kung Fu. You quit caring anymore. Just when you think it couldn't get any worse, you see a Gator... you fall to pieces and it's more painful than ever.
Don't go down that path man! Choose life! Just let this comfort you.... at least you're not a Gopher's fan.
> >To: Holy Juan
> >Subject: Buckeyes
> >Date: Tue, 9 Jan 2007 11:02:28 -0600
> >What the hell happened?
> From: frankkenstein56@hotmail.com
> To: Carpanza
> Subject: RE: Buckeyes
> Date: Tue, 9 Jan 2007 21:09:46 -0500
>
> COMPLETE SYSTEM FAILURE
> BOOT DISK UNREADABLE
From : Carpanza
Sent : Tuesday, January 9, 2007 11:47 PM
To : Frank Stein
Subject : RE: Buckeyes
Have you tried rebooting?
I figured you were in a drunken stupor trying desperately to make the memories go away. There'll be a lot of crying yourself to sleep and sitting alone bawling in the john at work. You just can't drink enough to make the Buckeye's loss any less painful. You turn to hard drugs. Every time you see a sweater vest you can't stop thinking about what that bad man did to you. You think about changing your name to Kane and walking the earth, like in Kung Fu. You quit caring anymore. Just when you think it couldn't get any worse, you see a Gator... you fall to pieces and it's more painful than ever.
Don't go down that path man! Choose life! Just let this comfort you.... at least you're not a Gopher's fan.
Decisions, decisions
I drew the first sketch. Meshell fleshed it out.
I'm not sure what the sketch was supposed to represent. If this was some kind of Sophie's Choice, I'd have to take out the mouse. And then the cat.
I'm not sure what the sketch was supposed to represent. If this was some kind of Sophie's Choice, I'd have to take out the mouse. And then the cat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)