John's 32nd Birthday Suprise

I was just reminded of John’s 32nd birthday party. Wait. Let me rephrase. John’s 32nd surprise birthday party. No one told me it was a surprise until after I asked John about his party. I was scorned and accused of anti-suprisism. Screw them. No one told me.

The next weekend, something else was planned. This time I wasn’t given any details. Probably a smart move. I was told to go to John’s apartment where a new surprise was going to take place. Miss Sally and I headed over. I decided to wear my orange sweater with a blue stripe. John and his brother Chris were hanging out. We chit chatted for a few minutes, acting casual and waiting for a stripper or a horse or whatever to show up at the door.

There was a ruckus at the back door and in through the kitchen stormed eight chicks dressed in black and wearing masks and bandanas. John was quickly subdued, handcuffed and blindfolded. This was going to be interesting.



Until they did the same to me.



As I was cuffed and blindfolded, I was called a traitor and a sneak. Submerged in total darkness and tightly bound, we were dragged out of the house and put in separate cars.

The rest of the night went like this:

1. The cars would stop (unbeknownst to John and I) at landmark locations around Columbus
2. We would be pulled out
3. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my body
3a. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my and a male stripper’s body
4. There would be several flashes
5. We would be thrown back in the cars

We stopped about five or six times. At the end of the night, we were walked across a busy street, into a crowded bar and unmasked. Many of our friends were there. A cake and gifts for John were spread out along with 30 or so Polaroid photos from the evening.

It was a very memorable night. And I’m sure I was supposed to have learned a lesson from the evening, but I can’t tell you what it was.

Later on I realized that Miss Sally knew what was going to happen that night and she didn’t let on. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

……..

Oh yeah. I changed a few facts in this story.

A. It was actually seven girls and one gay guy that kidnapped us
B. I wore a blue sweater with an orange stripe
C. The handcuffs were the really cheap plastic variety and the blindfolds were the type Mrs. Howell would have worn. I had to re-snap my cuffs on every three minutes. We were very willing participants.

See the photos of the night here:

John's 32nd Birthday Photos on Flickr

Note to Self: Idiot

My job is an unhappy place. There is no joy in the work. The only happiness is derived from the interaction with the people in my office. It has its moments, but compared to some of the exciting stuff I’ve done in the past… this job is purgatory.

What really stinks is that I’ve known this for over a year, but every morning I get out of my car and walk into that rotten building. (Morning is being generous. I’ve taken to rolling in at noon some days. At least the job has that going for it.) I know that I’ve known this for a while because I just received an e-mail from myself telling me just that.

Explaining…

There is a website called FutureMe.org. From this site you can write an e-mail to yourself that is delivered at some point in the future specified by you. On the site, you can see what other people have written to themselves. Letters of Happy Birthday or Are You Married Yet are not uncommon. Every so often you get Am I Dead? Last Thursday morning, I was greeted by this e-mail as I strolled into the office (very close to noon.)

From: FutureMe.org [mailto:pastme@futureme.org]
Sent: Thursday, May 18, 2006 5:00 AM
To: Doug
Subject: Do you still work here?


(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Sunday, December 18, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)

Dear FutureMe,

If you are reading this, it means you still work at (INSERT MY CURRENT JOB HERE) and that you are a TOTAL FUCKING LOSER!

Quit now.

Then kill yourself.

You (me)

Last December, I was applying for a job where I thought I was a shoe-in. In my mind, I shouldn’t have been interviewing for the job, they should have been recruiting me. Little do (did) I know (knowed.) When the phone call came, I thought it was for the last of the interviews with VPs and the P. Instead it was the FU; “We’ve gone with someone else. Thanks!” I about shit my pants. The best part must have been listening to me reply back, “Hey, thanks for letting me interview. I totally understand your decision.” Boo fucking hoo.

So, six months later is now five days ago. I still haven’t quit the job and killing myself just isn’t in the plans (unless it’s through drinking.) So I guess I have two choices… move on or shut up. I guess the third scenario would be that my boss reads this and fires my sorry ass.

It could be worse.

1995 Honda Civic

I am waiting for the car repair guy to call. My breaks broke, so I guess they are working perfectly.

They’ve simplified their pricing:

Nothing wrong (which means they didn’t have a chance to look at it.) = $50.00
Something Wrong = 1 credit card
Holy Shit = 2 credit cards plus a free oil change (thanks!)

He called. Holy Shit.

Kid Rituals

I have a kid. Other people do too. Seems to be a trend.

My ex-co-worker, Steve, has a little girl. As a special gift of love, he would write a small note that would go with her everyday to preschool. The note would say things like “Daddy loves you” or “Have a great day.” Cute. That is until the day they forgot to give her a note and she had a, now predictable, meltdown for several hours.

Solution: They started hoarding old notes and recycling them. They also started giving the teachers at pre-school a stockpile of notes in case they forget again.

My warning to you: Do not interact with your child in any special, out of the ordinary way. Keep it basic. Keep it mundane. Keep your sanity. Currently with our kid, the bedtime ritual includes: read two books, ensure all stuffed animals are in bed, blanket number one, blanket number two, hug, kiss, I kiss you, high five, double high five, thumbs up, secret sign, I have to pee, repeat. If any step is missed, he’ll tack it on the end and then want to do all the others that come after it. If you miss blanket number two and he decides to do an inventory on the stuffed animals, you could be there all night.

I’m sure someday we’ll look back and reflect on how cute it was.

Actually, I’m lying. I’m totally into creating an elaborate combination of moves, signs and dance steps before bed. I’m hoping to get up to 25 steps before my wife figures out what I’m doing. This is the only time I’ll be able to get away with this before my kid figures it out and starts thinking I’m gay.

I Am Almost Old

The best thing about life is that you can always find someone worse off than you to make you feel better about yourself. –Rich Sparhawk

I feel the end coming on. It’s looming. I am about to get old. One kid with another on the way. Buying a second house for the first time. It’s there, right over the edge of the sink, in the mirror where the grey hairs have started to nest.

You can look at your parents and grandparents and see that they are old. They are old because they have given up. You get so much piled on top and you just give in to old age. It’s inevitable. You look at yourself and you can see it roosting. You’d like to avoid it, but you just can’t. Usually you can fight it off by being too busy to notice, but you can’t avoid it forever. Now, there are a very slim few who can fight it off for a little bit. (Robert Redford did for a bit. So did Britney Spears.) Everyone else who tries to stay young just looks creepy. You can date young and you can wear young clothes and dance at the young clubs, but you still hurt in the morning and can’t crap when you want.

I’m still young though. I sneak by through hanging out with younger people. It about time I dump my current friends and pick up new younger ones. They were great five years ago when they were 25, but now they are all getting married with kids… old. I need a new batch of green punks that still have good parties and don’t mind being four hours late to work. I need new irresponsibility.

But that’s not going to happen, because the one thing that takes and knocks your old ass over the old edge is going to pop out any day now.

This thing I keep rambling on about is the “I don’t get it.” As soon as you say or even think it, you are old. It’s either fashion or dance or technology that dumbfounds a forty something right into Depends. So far I have been able to accept baggy pants and bluegrass-acid jazz and tattoos behind the ear and 16 year olds with pacifiers and IM and blogs and lip piercing and Ugg boots and tipped – no- slanted – no- backwards – no – oh shit they’ve gone full circle and now it’s hats on straight. I’ve made it though. But I am waiting for the one trend that makes me shake my head and pull my belt up to my tits.

So screw that. I’m inventing that trend. I am going to be behind the movement that pushes most 30-somethings into old age. The synchronic screams of passing youth will fill the air as the stock in Rascals triples.

The trend is: Knock Yourself Out Dancing. It goes like this: Try to punch yourself into unconsciousness while dancing. Its beauty is its simplicity. It will start quite simply: A random teen punk will be searching the internet for “beer bong” and “Elvis riding a unicorn” and stumble across my blog. As he reads every tenth word, he’ll accidentally read “Ugg boots” and slow down enough to catch the phrase Knock Yourself Out Dancing. Later that weekend at the 16+ dance at the Reef Graveyard, he’ll begin the trend. By the end of the night, the floor will be covered in Red Bull and bruised wannabes. So it begins…

He’ll take the credit, but you will all know the truth behind your own giving in. I’ll sit and smile as web sites bulge at the seams with comments on how that Knock Yourself Out Dancing (or NyO as it will be called) is the dumbest thing in the world and that they just don’t get it. Kids these days.

Ohio has something called the Golden Buckeye Card for seniors. I hope your state has the same.

Late Night Shopping

I was shopping at Kroger’s around midnight. Late night shopping is the best. No people to slow you up. The night stockers leave zig zag paths through their isles that you can race down, trying not to hit the unshelved product. And if you go with a buzz on, you can buy 10 -15 items that aren’t on the list that sound really delicious at the time. It’s fun to hear Miss Sally ask why we have four 32oz cans of Corn Beef Hash in the cupboard. Though you need to time it right at checkout so you are not stuck behind the embarrassed food stamp people who also shop late at night. “I’m sorry miss, you can’t buy Basic 100s with your WIC coupon.”

I was at the stand up coolers deciding between the Klondike Regular and the Klondike Krunch. (I was off the list.) It was a little hard to see in the cooler as there was a bit of condensation on the inside. I opened the door and was hit with a blast of hot, wet air. Something was amiss. I grabbed the Krunch variety and SMOOOOOSH. The packaging squished in my hand as the melted contents of each individually wrapped bar tried to seep out.

The coolers must have broken. Or there’s a secret switch on the back that reads COLD and HOT and someone was having a bad first day.

There was an employee in the isle that I recognized from my other late night shopping trips. I walked up to him and said, “Hey, the coolers are broken and everything is melted.”

He leaned in towards me and whispered, “I get out of here in 15 minutes. Don’t say anything or I will have to stay and help clear it out.”

“O.K.”

In the checkout line, I got a Kit Kat and ate it as I waited for the food stamp person to write a check without ID.

Money talks...

"I'd rather be lucky than rich. Luckily, I've had a run of bad luck." -Doug

Sorry folks. I've had a paid writing gig and have been focusing my efforts there.

Did you know that Penthouse pays $.01 a word for forum stories?

Comedy Club

"25% of comedy is keeping people in suspense." - Robert Reall

My friend Jason was in town last night to do stand-up at the Funny Bone comedy club. They had an amateur/semi-pro “competition” where seven newbies and three seasoned comics performed. The audience voted with applause at the end of the show. He’s been doing stand up for a few years and is trying to get in to the next level of comedian. I can’t tell you exactly what the levels are, but from what I saw last night, they go something like this:

Level 5 – Your top comedians. You know who they are. They get paid millions and sell out auditoriums. They also usually get TV shows with their character having the same name as them so there is no confusion on set.

Level 4 – These comedians travel the circuit, have guest appearances on the Late Night shows and usually play the Level 5 comedian’s In-Law on the major TV show.

Level 3 – Never going to make it big time, but still very funny. These comedians you see in snippets on Comedy Central and opening for the Level 4 comedians at the clubs. The ones you read about dying of an overdose and not recognize they are a comedian. If they find someone dead in a hotel room, alone, with a huge jar of grape jelly, it was probably a comedian.

Level 2 – On the circuit and doing shows for $20 a gig. They pray to the God they make fun of during their act that they will be noticed and make it to the next level. This is the worst part of the job because this is where most comedians dwell. Or toil. Toil’s a better word. Jason toils here.

Level 1 – Amateur Night comedians. Aspiring comedians work on their material, practice in front of their friends and stutter through jokes on the stage. You cringe at their unnecessary use of the word fuck and have to think twice about whether the ass gravy joke was funny. It wasn’t.

But, there was some very good stuff on the stage. One super hot chick (rare in the comedic world) tried to get women to embrace the word “slut.” Very funny stuff. Another guy who was unkempt and fat (not rare in the comedic world) did a bit on getting a yeast infection in his nose from doing blow off the kitchen table where his roommate had been banging a prostitute. (Yeah, not funny when I write it, but I laughed my ass off.)

There was some good stuff. But then…

Level 0 – Holy shit. Level 0 comedians. Only funny after the show when you talk about how badly they crashed and burned on stage. I can only compare these people to American Idol contestants who are told by everyone at the Karaoke bar that they can sing. They get up to perform and afterwards are surprised that they suck. “They don’t know what talent is.” I give these people credit for getting up in front of an audience, but please go over your material with someone before the show. Oh, and avoid these words and phrases (gleaned from last night’s show):

Corn and peanuts on my dick
Juices (vaginal and ass)
Fuck (I’m a big fan of the word, but keep it down to less than 23 times, champ.)
Cunt
I’m not a homophobe, but I don’t like gay peoples
Eating that pussy
Mommy (while acting out the phrase above…)

And, yes, edgy comedy can be hysterical. All those examples above can be funny under the right circumstances. One girl almost accomplished it last night. But you've got to be practiced before you start throwing around “weight loss by abortion” lines.

Jason was really funny last night. He’s got some great material. Not that I’m the town crier for decency, but his act is very clean and still very funny. That takes talent.

Jason made it on to the next round (he was the funniest of the three semi-pros) and will be performing next Monday at the Funny Bone in the semi-finals. I’ll see you there.

Looking Back

“Hindsight is 20/20. Foresight is 50/50” – Emmanuel Gevas

I tend to reminisce. Not that everything than happened before today was better. I have had a lot of experiences and enjoy remembering them. I’m actually very happy to be living right now. I hope to be living right now for many years to come.

There is one thing I do not like looking back upon. It seems that I can look back about a year and say to myself, “What was I thinking? Idiot! What the hell was I doing?” The problem is that I do this every year. Look back a year. Wonder in amazement at the idiotic choices I was making. And then I realized something:

A year from now, I will be looking back to today and be amazed at the idiotic decisions I was making. Am making? Are maked.

So I’m screwed.

All I can say is future me is a real jerk and he should realize I'm right on the edge. I don't know what comes next.

I’m going to hate myself for writing that. At least I’ve got a year before I have to think about it again.

I Can't Believe This Guy Is Kicking My Ass

I want to share with you a true story I call the Three Fists of John. (A good fight story has the word fist or iron or master in its title. Throwing a number in there helps as well as it gives the illusion that he’s got a really cool invisible psychokinetic appendage or some deformity.)

John is not a big man. He’s pushing 5’ 6”. But he can bench press about 250 pounds. He doesn’t have the mentality that he has to quadruple his size to make up for his stature. He’s just in really good shape. You’d never know with a quick glance that John is A: strong, B: quick as shit and C: knows a little bit about Tae Kwon Do. (John knows a little about Tae Kwon Do just like I know a little about pornography.) Sadly for a few dudes out there, they made the mistake of only taking a quick glance at John. Here are their mistakes as I have been told.

Doughnut Guy
One fine evening in Lancaster, Ohio, a bunch of us were headed to an after hours at friend’s house. We all left the bar and went straight to the party. John wanted a donut. He drove through the Tim Horton’s, but they were out of donuts. Out of donuts? He went to the Jolly Pirate instead. They don’t have a drive-thru so he parked and walked towards the door. A dude with his girlfriend and two side kicks were hanging out in the parking lot, laughing off a night of drinking. The head dude stepped in front of John before he could get to the door. The dude, excited with exaggerated gestures said, “Man, you have got to try their French Crullers. They’ve got the best fucking French Crullers in town.” Side kicks and girlfriend laughed in the background, as they should. John said a sideways thanks as he slipped past the dude, thinking nothing of it. John picked out his donut and they put it in a bag. Donut bag in hand he walked out the door straight towards his car, avoiding the dude. Dude noises erupted behind John and he spun around. The dude said something to the effect of, “Hey man, I was talking to you,” rushed at John and attempted to shove him. Attempted.

John threw up his own hands (donut bag held firmly,) blocked the dude’s attempted shove and punched the guy squarely in the throat. The dude dropped to his knees, grasped his throat with both hands and gagged.

The dude’s girlfriend said, “Oh my Gawd” in a very matter-of-factly tone. The side kicks stood there in amazement. They looked at each other and then started to tentatively advance. Dude was still on his knees gasping for breath. John took a step back and set himself for round two. I can imagine him rubbing his thumb along the side of his nose, Bruce Lee style, donut bag in hand. Luckily (for whom?) a cop car drove around the corner and the side kicks panicked, grabbed the dude by his arms and dragged him backwards towards his car. John got in his car, party forgotten, and drove home.

Shortcut Guy
John was down in Miami visiting his girlfriend. She worked several blocks from the apartment and left directions for John to visit her at work during lunch. The directions were to walk several blocks that way, turn, and then walk several blocks that other way. Easy enough. After the lunch visit, he decided to take a shortcut and walk at a diagonal back towards the apartment. Two points, straight line and all that. It was the middle of the day. What harm could come from walking down unknown areas of downtown Miami?

His straight line took him down several back alleys. One such alley was two big buildings, back to back, with doorway alcoves lining the length. The alcoves were deep enough to hide a person. There was also enough room for that person to have a knife.

So a guy jumped out of the doorway with a knife, right in front of John. He held out his other hand and demanded John’s wallet. John kicked the knife out of the guy’s hand and then kicked him in the chin, knocking him down. Whoa… I am not lying here. Just like in the fucking movies. Let’s review the script:

JOHN

This alley looks safe to me.

GUY IN ALLEY

Give me your wallet.

JOHN

I’m kicking the knife out of your hand.

GUY IN ALLEY

Wow. You just kicked the knife out of my hand. Just
like in the movies!

JOHN

Here comes the kick to the chin the knocks you down.

GUY IN ALLEY

Yep. I’m flat on my back.

JOHN

Now several blows to the face and head.

GUY IN ALLEY

Yep. I’m severely beaten.

I have to describe the last bit of that in a joking manner because John let loose on the guy when he was down. I don’t feel bad at all for the guy, but John really thinks he hurt him. With that done, John walked back to the apartment.

Kinko’s Parking Guys
John needed a special envelope for something he was sending in the mail. He decided to stop at the Kinko’s on campus. There is some quick, illegal parking down an alley in an apartment complex just across from the Kinko’s. John drove down the alley and parked. As he walked down the alley towards the Kinko’s, two guys with mud and water all over their pants walked towards him. John’s not one for general observation and he neglected to notice the two guys or the large puddle next to the guys as he drove down the alley to park.

The first guy (the asshole) began to confront John about the accidental splashing. The second guy (the innocent by-stander) didn’t say much and we should all start feeling bad that he chose the asshole for a friend.

Now, I know John and he would have immediately apologized and given the two guys $20 each if he was given an opportunity. But instead of giving John an opportunity to apologize, the asshole threw a punch at him. John blocked the swing and kicked the guy in the chin, knocking him down. Here’s where poorly choosing your friends gets you a kick in the knee. Innocent by stander friend got a kick to the knee and he went down. Guilt by association. As John watched the second guy fall, the asshole recovered and picked John up and body slammed him. It cracked his head into the pavement and made John angry. John bounced up and gave the guy a round house kick to the head that knocked him out. Sadly, innocent by stander guy decided to stand up and John gave him a punch to the head. Innocent by stander decided to fall back down. John walked back to his car. Envelope forgotten, John drove home.

John is actually embarrassed of these events. He feels bad for the Miami refugee he pummeled and for innocent by stander guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even though he was protecting himself, I know he does not enjoy the beatings as much as I do. John’s critical of himself. I like that.

Of course, I could take him. Little fucker.

Can I have a word with you

My friend Lacey just started a new job in a creative division of Universal Studios. Talk about an awesome job. She started last week and was spending her time trying to fit in while also trying to keep a low profile. A balance between being noticed and being acknowledged. You don’t want to be invisible, but you also don’t want to sit in anyone’s cake.

When I moved over to the Studio division of COSI, I didn’t heed the “stay under the radar” warnings. I had several friends in the Studio so transitioning wasn’t difficult. As a matter of fact, I believe I was a little too comfortable if not cocky about the whole ordeal.

One of those cocky days corresponded with an afternoon creative meeting. This meeting had about eight people attending along with our Divisional Vice President, Joe. During the meeting, ideas were being tossed about and several of them were completely stupid. Sadly, there seemed to be a consensus amongst the group and these really crappy concepts were going to move forward to the next level of development. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I spoke up and started disagreeing with the reigning opinions. I did so calmly and professionally and didn’t mention the phrase, “You are a complete IDIOT.” My arguments had some merit and I defended my position and gave some alternate ideas to replace the crappy ones that everyone liked.

In the end, the crappy ideas were still on the plate, but Joe wanted additional research done with additions of some of my ideas incorporated into theirs. I had stuck my neck out and it seemed to impress Joe. Some of my coworkers were a little pissed, but hey, it’s not my fault their ideas stink.

I must have really impressed Joe because as we were leaving the meeting he said, “Doug, can I have a word with you in my office?” Wow. Joe wants to talk to ME. I knew that he wanted to discuss that he was pleased that I was speaking up and that I was a valuable addition to the team. I think I floated into his office.

Joe shut the door behind me and did not ask me to sit. He did not sit either. He crossed his arms. His lips were pursed. He paused for effect. He spoke. “Doug. Did I hear you say, “Suck my cock” today?”

I thought. I remembered. Oh shit.

Flash back four hours earlier. Erik was in the back hallway with his arms full of trash, heading for the dumpster. I was in the back hallway making blueprint copies. Erik playfully said something to the effect of, “You are new here. Why don’t you open the door.” And I said, “Why don’t you suck my cock?” I can see those words leaving my mouth, drifting through the paper thin wall and into Joe’s office and landing on his desk. Waiting for him to hand them back to me.

Yes, yes I did say suck my cock.

What followed was obviously not the congratulatory speech that I had been expecting. No pats on the back. I don’t remember what he said, but basically he took the “respect of others” angle and quietly ripped into me for 45 seconds.

There’s really no lesson here except for the “Do not say suck my cock” during your first month on the job. I don’t know if that laid the foundation for my next five years with the Studio or if Joe even remembered the event. Since that time, I usually try to hide my crude language under several layers of entendre. At least for the first two months.

Good luck, Lacey.

Lucky Me

"I don’t believe in fate, but I root for luck and wish for karma."
- Noel Bodkins

"I'd rather be lucky than rich." - some poor guy

I have been very lucky my whole life. Good things seem to happen to me or at least I get away with the bad. I read a study once that basically said “lucky” people are just more observant than “unlucky” people. For instance, a lucky person finds a $20 bill on the sidewalk, while an unlucky doesn’t see the $20 or the uneven pavement that they trip over and break their wrist.

The study also mentioned that lucky people have a positive outlook on life. If an unlucky person falls down a flight of stairs and breaks their arm, they think, “I am so freaking unlucky. Why me?” while a lucky person thinks, “Wow, I only broke my arm, I could have been killed.”

I am starting to regret liking the concept of karma because for some of the crap I’ve pulled, the hammer is gonna come down pretty hard one of these days. John and I have always said that when one of us dies and goes to the pearly gates, St. Peter will say, “Could you please step to the side and wait until your friend gets here? We want to do you both at the same time.” Of course, neither one of use believes in pearly gates and more than likely, we’ll die at the same time.

All in all, I can't believe in luck and karma because as soon as I do, the universe is going to check out it's tally sheet and see that I'm due for an audit. Try and be at least 300 yards from me when that happens.

(You should know that I tend to make up quotes and credit them to people from my past. Noel Bodkins was a chair salesman from Cleveland who had a voice like gravel rubbing together.)

Fred’s Sister

Do you have some tidbit of worthless information stuck in your brain that won’t or can’t leave? I do.

In grade school, I had a friend named Fred. Fred had an older sister named Jodi. (We all thought Jodi was hot. We secretly dreamed about losing our virginity to her.)

Fred had a nickname for Jodi. JidaBean.

Every year, Fred would add a new name on to her old nickname. The next year, he added Fat Banana. JidaBean-FatBanana.

Then Bullwinkle Moose. JidaBean-FatBanana-BullwinkleMoose.

He continued this for several years.

By the time we were too old for such things her nickname was: JidaBean-FatBannana-BullWinkleMoose-HowieThorton-CrazyEddie-ShirleyPimple-TheIncredibleBulk-MalinCralin-Pimplesquim-Delbert.

I will never forget that.

And just in case you are wondering, yes, I did lose my virginity to Jodi. Do you know how hard it is to scream “JidaBeanFatBannanaBullWinkleMooseHowieThortonCrazyEddieShirleyPimpleTheIncredibleBulkMalinCralin PimplesquimDelbert” during twenty seconds of awkward sex?

Rochester to Buffalo

My cousin Andy was getting married in Rochester, NY and my whole family was gathering from here and there to attend. I drove up with my parents and sister. My brother was coming in from Toledo with his girlfriend.

The wedding was very nice and it was great to see my extended family. As the reception was winding down, my brother suggested he and I bail and go meet his buddy at a bar. The bar was called The Bug Jar. His buddy’s name was Fatty.

Fatty liked to drink. A lot. And Fatty wasn’t fat. Something about weed and smoking it.

The Fatty story I heard that night before we met him at the bar included the following: drinking, a telephone pole, cops, radiator fluid and a long strand of blonde hair. Fatty was driving home with his girlfriend in the passenger seat. My brother was in the pass-out-enger seat; lying in the back of the car. Fatty was turning right at a light and decided to pass out in the middle of the turn. His car slammed into a telephone pole. Both driver and passenger mashed their faces against the windshield. Steve just rolled onto the floor. The smashing of the face into the windshield woke Fatty up and he threw the car into reverse and completed the drive a few blocks down the road to his house. Once in the driveway, they all piled out of the car and randomly fell into the front yard of Fatty’s home… they were safe. Eight blocks away, a curious police officer saw the broken glass, mangled telephone pole and trail of anti-freeze dripping off into the distance. He called in backup and began to follow the bread crumbs back to the gingerbread house. The officers found the three still in the front yard. The cops gathered IDs and questioned the three. Fatty had a past history of driving while drunk and so his girlfriend took the blame for the accident. The cops didn’t believe it. Our curious officer found a strand of blonde hair stuck in the windshield… on the passenger side. Fatty was fucked. He was taken off to jail. Poor Fatty.

Back in Rochester, we were at The Bug Jar and having a post wedding beer when we heard a horrible noise. Last Call. Fatty wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Fatty had a plan. “Let’s go to Buffalo.” As it turns out, the bars in Buffalo are open until 4:00am. Fatty said that Buffalo was only half an hour away. We could stop at his house and pick up some beers for the road. It was an awesome plan. Fatty liked to drink.

We left the bar and I drove Steve’s car to Fatty’s. Beers and weed were gathered and we hit the road. It was 2:30am.

At 2:45am we passed a sign that read “BUFFALO – 58 MILES.”

Oddly enough, it takes more than 30 minutes to drive 58 miles. My loud questioning of this fact did not faze Fatty. Fatty said, “The college is on the east side of town... we’ll be there soon. I know exactly where it is at.”

At 3:40am, after getting lost and unlost, we parked in front of a bar. We walked in just as the bartender was calling last call. My brother and his girlfriend, who had been drinking the entire trip, slumped into a booth and basically fell asleep. Fatty audibly grabbed the bartender and slurred, “Give me three pitchers.” The bartender said, “We don’t sell pitchers.” “Well give me 16 beers.” What the fuck! The bartender opened 16 cans of beer and Fatty gathered some. I gathered the rest. We went to the booth and Fatty was yelling at my brother and his girlfriend to drink. No way. They were done. I was half way through beer 1 of 16 when Fatty said to me, “Let’s get out of here.” I was very sober and felt as though I had to take care of the guy. I followed him out the door.

Next door they sold pitchers. Fatty ordered two. For some reason, he asked for six cups.

Relocated at a countertop that wrapped a column, Fatty put down the six large plastic cups. He poured the entire contents into the cups and said the following. (I’m making this into a new paragraph to add emphasis.)

“Chug all six of these beers. If you have to puke, puke in the pitcher.”

No way, I said. I had to drive home. No way.

So I started chugging the first beer. I finished it, but there was no way I was going on any further. I did have to drive these drunken fuckers home. All 71 miles.

Fatty called me several versions of the word pussy and then chugged cup number two. And cup number three. He gagged down cup number four. Half way through cup number five he started to puke. He grabbed the empty pitcher and puked in it. It looked like beer, just foamier. In an act of pure alcoholism, he chugged cup number six.

We left the bar ( I left, Fatty staggered) and gathered Steve and his girlfriend. Everyone passed out in the car, except me. I drove. And drove. I didn’t know how to get to Fatty’s house from the highway, only from our hotel. So I went to the hotel first and dropped my brother and girlfriend off. I then drove towards Fatty’s. He wanted breakfast. He puked out the car door. I dropped him off and he asked again if we were getting breakfast. I drove back to the hotel with him lurching in the driveway.

Drive. Park. I got into the room that I was sharing with my brother. It was 7:15am. I lay down in bed and looked up at the ceiling. Afterimages from the lines on the road hummed on the ceiling. I just wanted to sleep.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Steve. Doug. Do you want breakfast? It was Mom. It was 7:18am.

“No Mom.”

Two hours later I was asleep in my parent’s car. My face wedged between the seat and window. I woke up in Lancaster, six hours later.

That was a great wedding. And it’s still not half and hour from Rochester to Buffalo.

Escalator

I had an odd experience the other day.

I am on the road this week for work. My flight on the way to Wilmington transferred in Atlanta. The Atlanta airport has four terminals that are joined by a tram system. You need to take a long escalator down to the tram level. I went down and hopped on the tram to head to my connecting terminal. (I also tried to stand on the tram without holding on to the grab bar. I failed and jammed my finger as I grabbed for it when the tram took off at 125 MPH.)

My stop was a popular terminal and a large group of travelers got off the tram and headed for the escalator. It was immediately apparent that something was not right. People were bunched up at the bottom. Ah, the escalator was not working and people were climbing it like stairs. I, along with the other schmucks, started hoofing up the awkward metal steps.

It was a long trek and I started to get a weird 9/11 feeling. It was creepy. Technology had failed. I was stuck in a social group of others in a similar position. The woman in front of me was struggling in heels. She had asthma or lung cancer or was just lazy, but she was laboring taking one step at a time. In a different situation, I could have carried her like hero or thrown her over the rail like a survivalist.

And then we were at the top. Several people were catching their breath. Others ran off to make up for lost time. I had 60 minutes to kill so I walked. (Actually it was 180 minutes, my flight was delayed.)

Since then on the jobsite, I’ve almost had my fingers crushed, nearly been decapitated by a falling loading dock door and just about run over by a forklift. But as I sit here in the hotel room thinking of such things, the memory of climbing the escalator keeps nudging my brain. It’s fading though.

The Consequences of Truth

I am very fortunate to be married to Miss Sally. She is beautiful and mostly tolerant of my antics. We make a good team because one makes up where the other lacks. One sphere of relationships where I lack and Sally excels is in the area of knowing when not to speak the Truth.

For me, speaking the Truth seems self apparent. Why wouldn’t you tell someone what they need to hear? (Red Flag – need to hear in my opinion.) If someone’s tag is sticking out the back of their shirt, tell them. If someone is being an ass, tell them. If someone is about to make a really crappy life decision, tell them. If you’ve got a glob of mustard on your face, I’ll be the first to tell you. I think most people don’t say anything because they do not want to embarrass the guy with the mayo on his forehead. That is mayo, right?

(SIDE NOTE: Back a while ago, Greg and Doob traveled from Lancaster to Columbus to visit a newly built mall. Before they went a-malling, they had lunch at the Spaghetti Warehouse. Hours later, as they walked through the mall, Doob turned to Greg and said, “If I had spaghetti sauce on my face, would you tell me?” Greg said, “Yes. Yes I would.” Doob said, “You’ve got spaghetti sauce on your face.” I have found this phrase a great way to start the usually embarrassing “something on your face” conversation. Try it. Just not three hours later.)

Miss Sally and I, as a team, have a policy that goes against my Truth motto. Summed up it states, “Standing up for your friends requires you to forget the Truth.” In some situations, we tend not tell our friends how we really feel. It’s deceivingly simple: when a friend takes a stance, we side with them and support their decisions based on that stance. Under most circumstances, we stick with our friends whether or not we actually believe in what brilliance/nonsense they are spouting off. Luckily, we run with a group of friends who aren’t joining the KKK or debating the merits of polygamy. We usually aren’t put in a position to defend really dumb decisions.

By now you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t a true friend always be truthful?” Well, YES and NO. Let’s start with the NO.

NO (A true friend isn’t always truthful)
Our friend Lynne is very smart and spiritual. An odd combination because you would think that someone as smart as she is would not believe in fate or signs from a higher power. She’s had more than her fair share of shit dumped on her, but she seems to always come out shining. Maybe it is a good combination.

Lynne has a dog named Thea. Thea started to have problems with her back leg. Several hundreds of dollars later, Thea was diagnosed with bone cancer. Surgery and treatments, that were not guaranteed to work, would cost THOUSANDS of dollars. THOUSANDS!! I have a theory about pets. I do not pay for any procedure that costs more than the euthanization of the animal. That’s not entirely true, but if a cat needs $500 worth of surgery… there are plenty of healthy cats at the shelter that could use a good home.

Lynne, or should I say dirt poor Lynne, was bound and determined to get the treatments for Thea. There were a number of friends, including me, that were against this. Several friends were adamant about saving Lynne the heartache and from wasting THOUSANDS of dollars. Several friends shared the Truth with Lynne. Miss Sally said, “No matter how we feel on this, Lynne is determined to save Thea and we should support her.” So we did. It was very hard for me, but as determined as Lynne was, she needed some friends on her side. We gave her our support, secretly knowing that even if she could scrape together the money, Thea would probably relapse and die anyways.

Through a combination of luck and what others would call fate, Lynne’s mom called her with some interesting news. Due to several accounting errors, the IRS actually owed her mother THOUSANDS of dollars. The money was Lynne’s if she needed it. (Lynne’s mother was not aware of the surgery Thea needed. This was completely random. Oh wait, sorry… fate.) Turns out mom, Lynne could use the money. Lynne had just started working nights and weekends to make the needed cash and the money from her mom would pay for the initial surgery.

Thea had the surgery. Thea went through the treatments. Thea had a second surgery. Thea went through more treatments. That was five years ago. Thea, still alive and still very active, lives with Lynne in Copenhagen. (There’s another story in itself.)

Honesty isn’t always the best policy. See how smart we are... oh, right. The other side.

YES (A true friend should always be truthful)
Miss Sally has a very good friend named, for this story, Sarah. Over the years, Sarah had dated several guys and none seemed to be the right one. It was always tough on me because when she broke up, I’d have too as well. Sarah always got Miss Sally and I in the boyfriend divorce. The ex would get to keep the lawn chairs.

Then, Sarah met Mr. Right. As she dreamily described him, he was perfect. Same likes, similar backgrounds, great personality. Over the phone the guy seemed a perfect match… finally.

You can see where this is going.

From our initial contact, we really didn’t like the guy. We went on several outings, camping trips and even a reunion. The guy was an ass. We tried to like him. We tried to see past his scowl and snide remarks. It just wasn’t happening. We developed what you might call a hate for the guy. But, Sarah was in love. She saw something in this guy that we just couldn’t. When she started talking about marriage, we couldn’t have been happier! Really, we are very happy for the two of you. Really.

Other friends said, “That guy is a dick.” We said, “We trust Sarah’s judgment.”
Family said, “I don’t like him.” We said, “You need to know him like Sarah does.”
At home with the doors shut, we waited for Sarah to see the Light. Wedding plans were in full motion. We debated our now tarnished policy.

Luckily, she saw a bit of the Light. The guy was such an ass that it started leeching through Sarah’s love blinders. She started to dig her heels in on the wedding. He turned up the dick. She was feeling a whole lot of doubt about the relationship. As soon as we saw our opening, we shared the Truth with her. We hated the guy. He is bad news. Get out now.

Sarah was amazed. Why didn’t we tell her how we really felt? As good friends, she would have understood our feelings and trusted our judgment. Looking back, I think she is half right. I think we should have told her a lot earlier than we did. There is a big problem with telling someone in love that their perfect person is wrong for them. It tends to push the two closer together when you doubt their judgment. So close that anything you say or do from that point on just bounces off the love nest. It’s an easy way to lose a friend.

We learned our lesson. There is a point where Truth overrides friendship. Or perhaps that friendship is based on the ability to know when Truth needs to rear its ugly mug. A good friend should be supportive, up until a point. It’s finding that point that I leave up to Miss Sally.

I, of course, am always available to give you the Truth on an individual basis. If you are willing to listen to my version of it. And able to pay the going rate of one Captain and coke every half hour. Buy four hours, get the fifth for free.

Dumb Wish

I wish I were dumb. Not that I’m intelligent by any means. Clever, sure. But I’m not very smart. When I say dumb, I’m suggesting that I wish that I could take certain information and knowledge that I have retained and flush it down my brain stem. The reasoning for this starts out with some really great news:

Miss Sally is pregnant. That’s great news.

The not so great news is that this is #2 for us. Greg is #1. During the Age of Greg, much knowledge was gained about where a baby comes from, what hormones it disturbs for nine months, and how insanely purple an umbilical cord is. Other areas explored were the eat, shit, sleep cycles and the learning to not fall down and babble interpretation. All of this information was learned through brute reality and sleep deprivation. It was a tough time, but because I had no idea what was about to happen next, a blessedly dumb time. The Age of Greg is moving on. We are now entering the Age of Two Kids. Also know as the Doug’s Not Going Out For Another Six Years Era.

So to get back to the point, I’m not so dumb anymore. Now I know ahead of time what hormones get riled up. And because nature is such a bitch, they are going to be different ones than before. Now I know that I’m not going to get any sleep. It’s not like I can store up 45 naps to use at a later date. And any of the joy that was shared by the three of us before, now needs shared by four with a three year old who doesn’t share.

Please don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly happy. Miss Sally and I wanted to have two kids and that was always the Plan. The reality is that it is sometimes best to be oblivious to some of the realities of pregnancy and child birth. Now I know ahead of time about Braxton-Hick’s contractions and Sally’s unrelenting discomfort and stirring and that there’s more than just water when the water breaks.

So I wish I were dumb. Only because there is responsibility with knowledge. Now that I am not dumb, I can plan ahead for these possible issues. I can be the one that steps up and keeps Greg occupied while Miss Sally doesn’t sleep, but has to try. The fridge can be stocked with vanilla pudding and then re-stocked with chocolate because all of a sudden the sight of vanilla makes Miss Sally nauseous. The heating pad is staged. There is always filtered water. I’ll park the car as far as possible on the right side of the garage.

I guess in the end, me being dumb only helps me. Me not being dumb helps Miss Sally. And besides lifting heavy things, helping Miss Sally is about all I can do that has any merit.

I love me. But I love Miss Sally just a little bit more. (And believe me, that’s a lot.)

Smokin’

Back when I had the greatest job in the world, I spent eight months at the Museum of Natural History in Denver, Colorado. During that time I made friends with Stephanie, who was a volunteer at the museum. We became good friends and better drinking buddies.

Stephanie had a roommate whom I will refer to as The Witch. Well, she was a self proclaimed witch. She had the books and the hair and wore gothy clothes. I didn’t really think she was a witch. That was until Steph and I walked in on her sitting naked in a ring of candles. It might have been a pentagram, but she knocked some over running to the bathroom. (Oh yeah, that reminds me, she was really pale, too.)

The Witch had an ex-boyfriend. He was a drummer. She should have known better. Unlike other drummers, this guy had a job as an assistant manager at a grocery store. Also unlike other drummers, this guy had a car which he left unlocked while he was working as an assistant manager at a grocery store.

One night, The Witch wanted to get some revenge on the ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure who brought the smoke bombs or where they came from, but needless to say, they were there in the car with the three of us as we sat parked across the street from the grocery store. The Witch thought it would be funny if we tossed a smoke bomb in his car and then watched his reaction as he opened up the door.

Steph and I hunkered down in her car as The Witch made her way though the increasingly protective darkness. Like a total dude, the drummer ex had backed into his parking spot. Like a total ass, he parked right up next to the store in one of the better spots. The Witch made it to the car and wisely checked to see if the passenger side backdoor was unlocked. It was. She lit a smoke bomb. In one fluid motion she threw it into the car and slammed the door. Not-so-stealthily she ran back to the car and flopped in the backseat. We quietly laughed hysterically.

We peeked out the windows and waited to see roiling smoke through the windows of his car. We waited for the great gouts of smoke to erupt. We waited. Nothing. Debate ranged between whether the smoke bomb had not gone off or if one was not enough. The solution to both possibilities was to throw two additional smoke bombs into the car.

This time, The Witch walked right up to the car. We could see her silhouette with the store’s double entry doors lit on the other side of the car. She lit the two smoke bombs. She opened the door.

A great murky fog squeezed out from the top, bottom and side of the door. The first smoke bomb had gone off. Whether it was the slight tint to the windows or if we had not been paying enough attention while laughing, we missed that the car had filled with smoke.

With witch-like determination, she tossed the two other smoke bombs in the car, slammed the door and ran back. The first smoke bomb now had two new friends to hang out and smoke with.

I want to remember that we laughed even harder, but I think we were all stunned. If one smoke bomb created that much smoke… shit.

We waited for drummer ex to leave the store. Twenty minutes later, lights started to go off in the building and people started to come out the front doors. As an added bonus, the drummer ex was a kind enough assistant manager to ensure that all the workers got to leave at the same time, so there were five additional witnesses. The bastard made us wait an extra few minutes as he chit chatted with his five buddies. Probably about his stinking band. He then opened his car door.

As expected, smoke belched from the car. Unexpectedly, it just kept coming out. Even in the dark, you could see the smoke oozing out. The other dudes ran over to the car. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude! Dude!” They opened all the doors. The co-workers insisted that his car was on fire. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude!”

We drove off before they started looking for witnesses.

Later, after The Witch got back together with the drummer (duh,) we found out some other details. Drummer though that the smokage had been committed by an ex-worker. (We were safe.) The smoke bombs burnt a hole in his carpet, but did not start a fire. (We were not felons.) The car never lost the sulfur smell of the smoke. (We were avenged.)

Steph is now married and a semi-professional photographer. The Witch is into scrapbooking. I’m still trying to figure out where those smoke bombs came from.

Yield

I love yield signs.

The concept is simple: YIELD = merge with traffic, but make sure you give the right of way to oncoming traffic. In some situations, you might have to completely stop, but that would show everyone behind you how much of a pansy you are.

The yield sign has a different meaning depending on which side of the sign my ego is accelerating from.

Say for instance, I am the one with the yield sign. As I approach the sign, I accelerate to match the flow of traffic I'm about to intrude upon. There’s nothing as gratifying as passing someone on the inside of the merge lane. As I accelerate, I expect that if there is a car that is beside me, they will continue on their way and that I will slow down, slightly, to allow them in front of me. I will then slide in behind them like a good little boy. If there is a car right behind the first car, I expect them to understand that I am yielding, but to keep the flow of traffic going, they should maintain their speed to allow me to sneak in. If they do not allow me in, then the next few seconds are a bit hairy. Usually, as the merge lane ends, there are scraps of trash, tires, bits of steel and (if you live in Jersey) mattresses on the side of the road. As you drive over these items, they kick up, like a James Bond car secret weapon, and rain down upon the car behind/beside you. It causes them to change lanes or slow down so that you can merge. You win! You’ve got three flat tires, but damnit you won!

Now let’s say I’m the oncoming traffic and some idiot is trying to merge in MY lane. First off to the mergers, accelerate. Yield sign is red like a stop sign, but that does not mean slow down, so you should use the merge as a launching pad. If you are going as fast as the traffic you are merging with, you’ll have more MPH to negotiate with. As I approach the people merging, I classify them into two categories; Jerks and Grandmas. Jerks are OK. They speed up and cut you off and sometimes kick up a mattress off the side of the road. I can live with that. If I see a spoiler, neon or hear bass from ¼ mile away, I know that with a few hand gesture transactions, we’ll all make it through the yield OK. Grandmas will kill you. You don’t have to have silver hair to be a Grandma either. It’s the hesitating. The stopping. The talking on the cell phone and looking over the shoulder. It’s best to change lanes or just drive into the concrete barrier and be done with it. Grandmas are why everyone is late to work or dead.

Basically, what it boils down to is that yield signs are for everyone else. If I am merging with you, you should be kind enough to let me in. If you are merging with me, follow the law, slow down and get behind me. I would hate to see what would happen in an alternate universe where I would have to merge into traffic with myself.

Conversation

Me to Friend: Are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: You can tell me.
Friend: I’m not hooking up with whatshername.
Me: But if you were hooking up with her, you would tell me that you weren’t, right?
Friend: Probably
Me: So, are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: That’s all I needed to know.

Flickr Words

That was fun... try it yourself HERE

Thanks, Dorn

How was it?

“Not much happened. The girls weren’t that hot. We just drank a lot. It was fun, but not crazy.”

And the award goes to....

Stu did not win a Grammy last night.

He was up for:
FIELD 24 - PACKAGE
Category 86 - Best Recording Package

In 2003, Stu had a residency at the Coleman Center in Alabama. He wrote and composed some music and had a number of local choirs and individuals sing the lyrics. It’s only a 24 minute album. It's called The Clouds. To me it’s Southern-folk-alternative-gospel. Shows you what I know about music.

It was nominated because of the packaging. A handmade, 7” x 7” folded, rigid composite with a die punched aluminum applique with cotton inset and handwritten liner notes on the interior. (Or a square piece of cardboard with a cotton ball glued on as Shorty called it.)

The packaging was pretty neat. There was no way he was going to win. He was up against Ani DiFranco and Aimee Mann (winner.) Stu originally pressed about 200 CDs and made 200 of the covers for the center, family and the locals. His album was picked up by Annova Records and he was asked to create 300 more… all by hand. Art becomes Labor.

Stu didn’t win. But he didn’t need to. He lives in the moment of the creation and moves on. Sounds like a goofy artistic cliché. He’s all about the journey. I’m all about the destination. Somehow, we seem to get along pretty good. He created the album. All I had to do was buy it.

Next album up for Stu: Shrimp Attack See you at the 49^th annual Grammys.

Gun Range

On Thursday, Shorty and I went to a local shooting range. The day before, Shorty not only suggested we should go, he looked up pricing on the internet and he even called to make sure we could get in. Thursday comes around and he’s left his guns at home. He was not committed into going. I was committed. I suckered him into my car with Sirius radio and the West coast replay of Howard Stern. We drove to his place and got the guns. He left the ammo in the apartment and tossed the guns in the trunk. I was automatically assuming that we would get pulled over and I’d have to blurt out that there were guns in the trunk and then the inevitable cop with his foot on the back of your neck as you are eating asphalt. Oddly enough, on the way to the range, we passed by four of Columbus’ finest.

We drove to the range and parked. The place looked as it should; old building in need of paint although it had one last summer. Hand written signs about where not to park and that the proprietor had guns inside. Four cars were parked outside at 12:30pm on a Thursday. I guess you could call that busy. Shorty grabbed his guns and we walked inside. I let him go first.

The inside was very basic. You could say that it was decorated with a wallpaper of guns and gun related accessories. I especially remember the smell. A mix of cigarette smoke (banned nine months prior, but really, whose gonna tell a guy with a sidearm to put out his cigarette?) and what I found out later was gunpowder. It was a very distinct smell that started my heart racing.

Short started talking with one of the gentlemen behind the counter. (Most males behind counters are “guys” and “dudes”. The men behind this counter were gentlemen and sirs.) The two gentlemen looked like they were brothers; same stature, same glasses, same white beard, same white hair. The only difference was that one had less white hair than the other. Shorty wanted an expert to check out a revolver he inherited from his grandfather. He pulled out the lump of metal and unwrapped the red cloth around it. It had a black handle and black everything else. It also had a gun lock on it. The less white hair gentleman said, “Get that thing off of there.”

Shorty had left the trigger lock key at home. He said sir a few times and sorry a few more. He was able to ask him a question and the gentleman was able to open the cylinder and answer it. He did comment that the gun was very nice and in very good condition. Shorty beamed.

The second gun was pulled out in its case. The gentleman behind the counter had Shorty open the box so he could take a look at it. It looked like a BB gun I had as a kid. The gentleman nodded and we were handed eye protection and ear protection. Shorty purchased 100 rounds and a few targets.

“You’ll be in #8 down at the end”
“You got it.” Walk off boldly.
“#8! Go through the other door.”
“Yes, sir!” Skitter skitter skitter.

I don’t want to make this place out to be a hole in the wall, all though there were several thousand. This was definitely not a brushed stainless steel / marble with teak trim. The carpet was stained with copper and black residue. There were empty casings everywhere. The booth walls were marred and scored with dings. It is what it is. We set all our goods down on a bench next to #8.

There were two other guys shooting down in the #5 booth. They were finishing up and from the piles of shells around them, they had been there a while. As the one guy put away a gun, the other grabbed a broom and industrial dust pan and made a few compulsory sweeps along the floor, picking up about 20% of the casings surrounding their booth. Oh well, I clean the same way at home.

Shorty opened the 9mm gun case and pulled out two empty clips. He showed me how to load the clips with 10 bullets. The clips hadn’t been used much, so it was tough getting the last four bullets in. I couldn’t see doing that in the middle of a gun fight.

“Reload!”
“It hurts my fingers, Captain.”

Shorty attached the target and sent it flying forward out 25’.

We inspected the gun. Shorty showed me how to load the clip. Keep it pointed forward. Keep your finger off the trigger. Keep it pointed forward. Release the metal thingy. CLICK. Aim. Pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. Go ahead.

BAM.

I have never fired a hand gun. Now, I’ve played hundreds of video games with guns. I think I’m pretty good. This was no comparison. The gun felt foreign in my hand. The weight and the kick were body jarring. The sound was expected, but even muffled it shocked me. It seemed like there were 15 variables to align and meld to get the bullet to hit the target. As soon as you pulled the trigger, all 15 were scattered and you’d have to start over. Grip the gun. Not to tight. Hold it steady. Line up the sights. Relax. Not too much. Hold the gun straight. Keep it level. Bend your knees. Squeeze, don’t pull the trigger. Prepare for the recoil. Keep it aimed.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

My adrenaline was pumping. I was physically shaking. What a rush.

I squeezed the trigger again and I was out. It’s a very odd feeling when you squeeze and expect a shot. Kinda like when you are walking down stairs and are expecting one more, but hit solid floor instead. I swear I only fired four shots.

Eject the clip. Put the gun down. Shake. I’m such a pussy.

We brought the target forward. I hit all ten times. Five in the white, four in the black and one just barely in the red. The shots were all over the place. Shorty tried to be congratulatory. “Well, you at least zoned in on the center.” I didn’t have any idea which shot hit where and when. But hey, one in the middle. Mostly.

Well, to sum up, I’m hooked. We ended up buying 50 more rounds, firing off a total of 75 apiece. My aiming seemed to get worse as I gained confidence. Still, it was exciting, fun and over time I felt more comfortable with holding the gun. I’m hooked.

Shorty packed up the guns and threw way the empty bullet boxes as well as most of the used targets. We kept two. (I hung one on the wall at work. That kind of freaks co-workers out.) As he was putting away the guns, I grabbed the broom and industrial sized dustpan and started cleaning up some of the shell casings on the ground. When you shoot off a 9mm gun, the empty casings go flying in a most random fashion. I’d love to isolate the ting of them bouncing off the walls and floor, but you can’t hear it though the ear ringing BAM of the gun. I swept and discarded and swept.

As I swept up, Shorty went back up front to pay for our ½ hour. The gentleman with more white hair looked at our equipment sign out sheet and said, “Well, I see one set of ear protection, but you signed out for two. Unless you’ve got a second head, we might have a problem.” Shorty replied quickly , “Oh, my friend still has his. He’s cleaning up.”

“He’s what?”

They leaned forward to look through the lexan barrier at booth #8. I didn’t see them look at me, but Shorty said the gentleman was slightly amused if not amazed watching me sweep up.

“Well, I’ve got something for him when he comes out.”

I finished up. Finished up in an Augean stables impossible way. I could have been in there twelve hours. I mean shit, there were shell casings in the roof. I walked out and thought I was in trouble.

“What were you doing in there?”
“Um, sweeping up, sir?”
“You didn’t have to do that, son. Here, I like you.”

He handed me a gold token, good for ½ of shooting. “Thanks!”

Per usually, I had to say something wiseassish, “I’m not going to leave a mess in a place where everyone carries a gun.” The gentleman replied, “See, an armed society is a polite society.” We all laughed our manly laugh and left.

We plan on going back next week. This time with the trigger lock key.

The Jan B

I was in Ketchikan, Alaska back in the summer of 1992 to make millions of dollars in the salmon industry. I made about what I would have if I had stayed home in Lancaster and worked at the Baskin Robbins. Of course, then I wouldn't be writing this.

The cannery I worked at was kind enough to provide a barge that had living quarters on it. It was a biggish, whiteish, rustyish hunk of metal with what looked to be mobile homes duct-taped to it. It was, at some point it its life, when someone gave a shit, christened the “Jan B” registered out of San Francisco. For a mere one dollar per hour worked, we got to collapse at the end of the day in something that wasn’t a tent. In the years prior, cannery workers lived out of tents in an open field in what you might consider a small city. It was called, “Tent City.” Problem was that Ketchikan receives about 152” of rain a year and most of that seemed to focus itself over Tent City. The workers had very little access to facilities and it was a complete muddy mess. Two guys I met said that they preferred sleeping in the plant next to the Iron Chink* instead of slogging back to their tents.

(*The Iron Chink was a huge machine that somehow scaled, gutted, beheaded and betailed the salmon in a few spins of a giant metal drum. Hundreds at a time. And yes, it is a derogatory name. I'm not sure if it has another name.)

The Jan B was, with all good intentions, a floating motel. And a motel has got to have a manager. Our manager was a mix of ex-marine, racist, sexist, jerk, power hungry, asshole, suck up, and, oddly, neat freak. His name was Bruce. So of course we called him Barge Bruce. All Barge Bruce wanted was to take the responsibility trusted in him to manage the barge and somehow make it as if he was Mayor and Sheriff of the Jan B. He was known to just pop into rooms unannounced while people were in them, accused of popping into the them when no one was in them and basically running the place like a prisoner of war camp. The memos he would post were hilarious. A simple reminder about taking trash out of the rooms would fill an entire page, have eight to ten exclamation points and a smattering of misspelled words liberally sprinkled in. Barge Bruce sucked balls.

I lived in room #39. Our room had three guys. Of course there was me. Jeremy was an extremely cool guy out of San Francisco. He was like a land locked philosophical, surfer. The other guy was Steve. Steve was fucking crazy. Steve had recently returned to the United States after being detained in Thailand for three months where he had been busted with pot in his possession. It seems that the ship he was working on didn’t care that he hadn’t made it back on board and left port without him. No one on the Thailand side of the bars told anyone he was there. He just ate rice and sat in squalor for three months. Luckily (for him,) another American got busted for something and Steve was able to get word out that he was stuck behind bars. His post-squalor travels brought him to Ketchikan and room #39.

Steve brought with him a sack full of clothes and a case of Hepatitis B. One day Steve felt sick and didn’t look good. It’s just a cold he said. A few days later, his skin turned a sort of greenish yellow. I ate some bad fish last night he said. Then, his eyes turned yellow. Take me to the hospital he said. We didn’t know it was hepatitis. We went to the bookstore and found a medical book and looked it up. Yuck. Sitting in feces for three months can do that to you.

I should mention a side note here that carries into the main part of this recollection. We were slobs. At the end of the work day, I would take off my blue coveralls and toss them in a corner. The next morning, I would put them back on. The clothes I wore underneath the coveralls got thrown in that corner too. The pile would get pretty big and pretty stinky. I knew that I was sweating something fierce while in the cannery because in the morning when I would put on the coveralls, they would still be wet from the day before. I mean damp. And stinky. An odd stinky too. But hell, I was working in canning factory. I thought this all was normal. I mean, what else could it be beside my own sweat. Normal. Until… (I’m pausing to hold back the vomit.)

Until the night when I woke up to find Steve walking over to the corner where my dirty clothes were piled. He stood in the corner and pulled out his dick and PEED ALL OVER MY CLOTHES! He is peeing on my clothes! “Steve! Steve! STEVE!” I could see his face as he turned, still peeing. He was laughing! “Steve!!!” He finished up and went back into his bunk. I got up and stumbled over all the other crap in the room to his bunk. I shook Steve and woke him up. I explained the situation to him, “You peed on my clothes!”

“What are you talking about.”

“You just walked over to the corner and peed on my clothes!”

“No I didn’t”

Steve had been sleep-peeing. And, thinking back, he’d been doing it for about three weeks. He had no idea that he’d been relieving himself at night. I had been going to work wearing Steve’s hepatitis tainted pee. Shit. I got tested when I got home. I’m clean, but really…

So, we were slobs. I left my clothes everywhere (oh yeah, and piled in the corner.) There were beer cans and food containers and newspapers and magazines and books and tapes (tapes were used to store music back in the 80’s and 90’s.) I think Steve liked the room because it reminded him of his home away from home in Thailand.

One day, I was on the line in the cannery when my friend Taylor came up and got my attention. He took me aside and filled me in on a situation. It turns out Barge Bruce was going through the rooms and wandered into #39. I’m sure he had a hard time getting the door to open with the amount of crap piled against it. Barge Bruce was completely pissed. Taylor heard Barge Bruce yell at someone else that he was sick and tired of the trash and was going to get the plant manager over to take a good look at what he had to deal with everyday. Taylor ran over as soon as he heard this. I had Dan and Jim on the line to cover for me and I ran back to the barge. Boy, my coveralls were going to be sweaty tonight!

(Have you ever heard some old codger talk about how they walked to work uphill both ways? Bullshit? Well, we did. The barge had a ramp going to the shore. In the mornings, when the tide was low, you had to walk up an extremely steep incline to get to the shore. At some later part in the day when the tide was high, the ramp would be at a very slight angle up from the shore to the barge. Up hill both ways to work. I can’t wait to get older so I can tell that one every day.)

I ran from the cannery to the barge and up to #39. I shoved non trash under the beds. I put everyone’s clothes into whatever drawer or laundry bag was available. I filled the trash bag and an empty beer case with trash. Put the trash in a closet in the hallway. I even made the beds. If you would have looked under the sheets you would have seen magazines and books and tapes, but it’s the surface look that counts. I did this all in less than five minutes. (Which of course makes me think, why the hell didn’t we just keep it clean?)

As I walked back to the cannery, I passed by Barge Bruce and the plant manager. Barge Bruce was going on about how unbelievably messy this one room was and how these punk kids have no respect. He was so intent that didn’t even notice me. The plant manager and I made the briefest of eye contact. I went back to the line.

About ten minutes later, Barge Bruce and the plant manager walked into the cannery (The plant manager walked, Barge Bruce seemed to vibrate with hatred). Barge Bruce was pissed. Barge Bruce was steaming. Barge Bruce pointed at me and started to, I kid you not, stomp his foot. The plant manager had Barge Bruce go and cool off to the side. I am motioned to speak with the plant manager. He is not happy, but at the same time, he seems to have a slight upturn on his mouth that would hint at a subdued smile. He basically says that he knows that I must have found out about the inspection. He knows I must have cleaned it. If this happens again I am fired. Keep the room clean.

He then slapped me on the shoulder and, out of Barge Bruce’s line of sight, winked at me.

My only guess is that the plant manager had to listen to Barge Bruce complain every day. For once, it was good to see Barge Bruce completely insane with rage and though words were coming out of his mouth, speechless. Barge Bruce mostly avoided me after that. I was waiting for the confrontation, but it never happened. Good old Barge Bruce. I went back to the line.

At the end of the season, my camping and working friend Dan Berman took white tape and changed the name of the barge from the Jan B to the Dan B. Below is a photo of him, standing on the top ramp, arm held out and finger pointed to the sky. It was low tide and he would have had to walk up the ramp to get to the shore.

My boss quit...

My boss quit on Monday. It was a shock only because some thought he was going to get fired. We are now on day four of the rebuilding process and oddly, things are looking up for now.

I used to be a roofer back in college. We had a team of about 8 guys. I was the only kid. As with most construction jobs, the kid got picked on. It was almost a loving kind of abuse, probably because the guys knew I'd go back to school and be out of their lives once summer was over. But there was also one other guy on the team that got abuse... one of their own so to speak. Everyone hated that guy. He was either lazy or stinky or dumb or his wife cheated on him... all merely allegations, but these things were said behind his back, but just loud enough for him to hear. Either this guy would quit after a week or try and stick it out and become my buddy. I think they would seek refuge in the other guy who got picked on.

No man can take that much abuse and they would snap and start a fight or walk off the job. Either way they were gone.

For a few days, all the guys would sit around at lunch and talk about what an asshole the quitter was and how they were happy he was gone. Everyone was happy. But then after those few days were up, you would see everyone looking around for the new guy to start picking on. Sometimes it was easy when a new guy was hired to replace the last. Sometimes no one was immediately hired and the cannibalism set in. One of their own was chosen. The circle is complete.

I guess what I'm thinking is that we've got about a week to blame all the company's issues on the old boss. If things aren't fixed, where will all that hatred and blame go? I don't see us hiring anyone in the near future.

Well, to keep this from ending on a downer, let me tell you this: I went on a smaller job with two other seasoned roofers (Old Goat and Charles.) While we were working, I managed to put "Kick Me" signs fashioned from asphalt can stickers on both their backs. I went to one and pointed out the other's sign. I went to the other and did the same. What followed was a round or two of comical kicking, followed up by some aggressive kicking and then the inevitable old guys shoving back and forth on top a 25' roof. By the time I pointed out the signs on their backs, it was too late. They were pissed at each other and did not see the humor in my little joke.

The truck ride home was pretty quiet. My small talk did not create a truce. I was sure that one or both of the guys were going to quit once we got back to the shop.

The next morning at the shop, while changing into my work clothes, I found out the hard way that both my boots had a dollop roofing asphalt in them. I didn't notice the first one until after I had the second one on. Just enough to make me uncomfortable as hell, but not enough to keep me from working. Both guys said nothing. But I'd like to think they collaborated. Punk kid.