We moved to our new home on Saturday. It was 93 degrees and the heat index was in the hundreds. Fortunately, Kit let us all borrow his extremely damp t-shirt to towel our brow and to suck a few drop of sweet sweet Kit nectar from its cotton folds.
I think I just made myself sick.
Thanks to:
Russ- who brought steaming hot White Castle coffee on a 90 degree day (he was also the first to arrive and the last to leave.)
Kit – for the above mentioned shirt and for taking on the role of load foreman
Carl and Toni – for making the beds and not running away when my dad started telling stories.
Erik- who made fun of all my stuff and hit on my 8 month pregnant wife
Chris- Thanks for not stealing anything
Josh and Sarah – Josh, thanks for trying to keep up with Sarah and not pointing out that my porn collection consists of one very used VHS tape. Sarah, you can have your VHS tape back.
Greg – for showing up in a collard shirt and always volunteering to lift the heavy stuff
Jessica and Dan- What doesn’t destroy a relationship, only makes it stronger
Cheri – Thanks for watching Greg and for helping Miss Sally
Meshelle – For taking 3 laps around 270 before realizing that it doesn’t dead end into Cleveland Ave. It’s the thought that counts! (Sorry I didn’t answer my phone.)
Mom and Dad- “When we moved into the house on Beck’s Knob we only planned on staying for two years… “ Thanks for driving up and the kind words about the new digs.
Thanks friends!
Photo Follow-up
I recently mentioned Swedish Fish and the
JESUS
ISREAL sign.
Shorty and I had a business trip to Dayton this morning. On the way back, we stopped at a REAL gas station (no pecan logs here and 23 varieties of beef jerky.) There we bought Swedish Fish!
I also took a crappy photo of the JESUS ISREAL sign.
It was a productive day.
JESUS
ISREAL sign.
Shorty and I had a business trip to Dayton this morning. On the way back, we stopped at a REAL gas station (no pecan logs here and 23 varieties of beef jerky.) There we bought Swedish Fish!
I also took a crappy photo of the JESUS ISREAL sign.
It was a productive day.
Large Pizza with Swedish Fish and Mentos
The call came at 10:00am on Saturday morning and I was soon to be giddy as a school girl. Erik was able to go to Stu’s with me. We would leave at 3:00pm.
Erik asked if he should bring anything. My mind raced back to a story Kit told about his packing for a dudes’ trip to Chicago. Kit’s wife was on a conference call in the kitchen. Kit came down stairs and said, “I’m all packed and ready to go!” In his right hand he held a tooth brush, in his left, a box of condoms. Her brow furrowed and she glared right through him. She silently, though brusquely, beckoned him over. He stepped forward and she swiped the toothbrush out of his hand. “Now you’re ready.”
So I told Erik to bring a toothbrush and condoms.
I drove to Erik’s and threw my bag in his car (though for the entire 21 hour adventure, I only opened it to pull out my camera and later the TUMS.) He pulled out his bag and said, “I brought a condom like you told me.” Really? “I didn’t want to forget it so here…” He turned his bag over to reveal a condom safety pinned right through the middle to his bag. Nice. The trip was off to a banner start.
As we drove, I phoned Stu to tell him I was on my way. Stu only thought I was driving over. I thought it would be a surprise if we didn’t tell Stu that Erik was coming. Except that I kept saying things like, “ We’ll be there in two hours,” and “Where do we park.”
"Who’s we?" Stu’s no dummy. He said they would be on the roof waiting for we.
Along 70, we stopped to buy beef jerky, the required fare of road trips. It was at a combo BP/Dairy Queen/Stuckey’s. I forgot that Stuckey’s was like a firecracker stand that only sells pecan logs. It seemed the store went out and bought a bunch of crap from 7-11 and Cracker Barrel and then put “Stuckey’s” sticker’s over the manufacturers’ names. We chose two varieties of jerky, sodas and Gatorade, mints and a big old bag of Swedish fish.
I was double giddy at this point because Swedish fish are formed from the nectar of flowers that grow in heaven. Like liquid sex molded into red fishies. As we drove off, I popped one in my mouth and it tasted like sugar turd. These were knock off Ju-Ju fish. Fuckers. Fortunately, this was the worst part of the entire trip. (Unless you are Bob.)
We passed a billboard that said “JESUS IS REAL” except that the JESUS was at the top and IS REAL was at the bottom and those letters were crammed so close together that it looked like it said:
JESUS
ISREAL
I thought it was an interesting misspelled religious dichotomy. Erik thought it was a sign that I should repent.
Wow, we haven’t even made it to Stu’s yet. Oh, here we are.
We parked, grabbed out bags and went up and out on the rooftop deck. Stu and his wife Ann Marie as well as Stu’s sister Sarah and husband Dave were there. Stu also had four of his work buddies over. Everyone was drinking and preparing to head over to the Broad Ripple Street Festival to see Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s. Any band with a name that long can’t be good, so I wasn’t very excited, though Stu said they were really good. Stu almost won a Grammy, so I was willing to give them a listen.
**Sidebar** On the drive back, I was discussing with Erik how I was extremely happy that he came on the trip, but that (no offense to Erik) the trip would have still been fun without him, just different, as you always have a great time with Stu. This led us to two discussions. One: without Erik there, the Mentos and Diet Coke (about to be mentioned) would never have happened. Two: if Stu is a catalyst for fun and exciting stuff to happen, does this mean that every day of his life is fun and exciting to the people around him and thus to him as well? Does Stu always have a great time because he is with Stu?
Somewhere between the roof and the street fair, Erik brought up the Mentos / Diet Coke 2 –liter video that’s been zipping around the internet. Only a few of the people at the party had seen or heard of the fun stuff you can do with those two items. Erik thought it might be interesting if we did some Mentos related hands on activities later.
We headed over to the street fair and ate meat and shrimp and crabcakes while waiting for the concert to start. Anne Marie, Erik and I discussed religion while Erik and I took sideways glances over at the two chicks in old school roller skates and very small skirts. Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s came on a we listened.
They really sounded great. Hold that. For part of the show, they sounded like frozen pea soup. Their music was awesome. Really awesome. The dude running the board was not smart or there were technical difficulties. I don’t know anything about music, but some instruments were too loud at times and some vocals were non existent. I also thought someone let their epileptic/autistic 17 year old on stage with a tambourine, but it turned he was a dude in the band. I downloaded the album as soon as I got home. Take a listen if you get the chance.
We decided to head back to Stu’s to drink beer that wasn’t $4 a cup. On the way, we stopped at Krogers and bought $55 worth of diet coke and Mentos. Instead of buying a bunch of 2-liter bottles, we settled for the 16oz bottles so that we could experiment. We also bought floss and more beer. The floss was to assist with dropping the Mentos in the Coke. The beer was beer.
Back at Stu’s, we gathered a drill, various bits and tape together. Holes were drilled through the Mentos (and kinda through the countertop) and the floss tied them together in a mostly straight bunch. We tried different variations of holes in the caps and tested them outside. It was no Fountains at Bellagio, but we had a lot of interesting results.
The best was when Stu suggested a duel. We taped one 16 bottle to one guy’s head and another bottle to a guy’s back with the help of a back brace. They stood 10 feet apart and we pulled the floss. The head attached bottle worked great.
The back attached bottle shifted positions and basically shot ¾ the bottle into the back of the guy’s head.
Revolutionary War Reenactment Purists would have been disappointed.
While the Mentos thing was dying down, some of Stu’s work buddies began to catch quarters off their elbows. See photos for details.
THE STACK
THE CATCH
We circled up and started going around, starting with one. As the coins increased, more and more dropped out. I lost at 11. The winner caught 13. That was the standing record. Everyone tried to get 15 and we all failed. Our rules were that you had to catch every quarter for it to count. We then went for a second round and this time The Dark Horse (my nickname for the night) finished first with 13 coins. I was challenged to break the record with 15. I stacked them and without a flinch, caught them. Someone suggested I do 16, but I stacked on 20.
And caught them.
Then 25. Caught. The crowd were going wild!
Silence. 30 stacked.
30 CAUGHT! In the moment we were all carrying on like this all meant something. And for the moment, it did. High fives. Cries of disbelief and awe. I think I saw Erik tear up a little.
At the time, it seemed like I couldn’t fail. I was a GOD!
I stacked 35… they were hard to position. They were up. I quickly snapped my arm down and my hand grasped shut.
A defiant quarter tipped off my finger and shot into the darkness. 34 caught, but you had to catch them all.
I tried several times in vain to break that record. I couldn’t even catch 15. Could have been the drink or the ten minutes it took to find enough quarters in the dark. I’m not sure if it is a reflection on the quality of my life, but that was the proudest moment I ever had in my life. Oh wait. My marriage was first, then the catching 30 quarters. Oh. First my marriage, then Greg being born, then the quarters. (Ad nauseam, a la Steve Martin’s A Holiday Wish 1991.)
That done, we went inside and took our blood sugar. Sarah was checking hers and I asked if I could check mine. We borrowed the safety pin used to attach the condom to Erik’s bag and heated it up with a match. It seemed too easy to draw blood. My blood sugar was at 108. Erik ponied up with claims that he could beat mine. He registered 123. Ha! One of us won depending on who you ask.
We then left for the bar, our pockets jingling with quarters, our poked fingers just starting to fight off the infection from the poorly cleaned pin. We went to the Broad Ripple Tavern, which is exactly 57 feet from Stu’s apartment. Stu’s buddy is a manager, but wasn’t working that night. This turned out poorly for Bob. As we stood in line with the other intoxicated cattle, Bob was looked over and told he was too drunk to come in. Bob debated the point with the gentleman at the door. The gentleman at the door countered. Bob riposted. Stu intervened with some clever dialogue concerning why Bob should be let in. A second gentleman came to the door and interjected. Bob redoubled his efforts. The second gentleman brought over an officer of the law to suggest the Bob kindly leave the premises. Bob established his position with the officer. The officer took Bob’s words to heart and told him to leave or he would be arrested. Bob conceded his defeat and walked away. And that was that.
Until five minutes later when Bob tried again to talk his way in the bar and he was promptly handcuffed and taken away. Bob lost the debate.
At the time, we were all in between bars, leaving the one Bob couldn’t get into and going to one with a less stringent Bob’s Drunk Policy. None of us knew he had been arrested. So we kept drinking. Sorry Bob.
We finished up the night and headed back to Stu’s. In transit, we stopped at doorway that was pretending it was a restaurant that sold Gyros. Erik’s meat was cut fresh from the slab. My was dredged from a pot sitting on a burner. Erik’s melted in his mouth. Mine was part gravel and part lava rock. Unsatisfied, I stated that I needed pizza. Stu pointed me towards a general direction. I went to the general direction and did not find pizza. Luckily Stu was still in the parking lot with Erik and he walked me to the pizza joint.
Inside, it was packed with people in the ORDER HERE line. Stu walked right up to the PICK UP area which was much emptier.
“Order for Stephens,” he demanded of the pizza dude.
Pizza dude looked at the monitor. Frowned. Looked at the boxes waiting to go out. No Stephens. “Sorry buddy. No order for Stephens.”
“Impossible. Look again.”
Pizza dude took a casual glance at the monitor. “Sir, there was not an order for Stephens. What pizza did you order?”
“Large. Cheese. Check again, please.”
Pizza dude looked at the boxes. Nothing.
“Sir, there is no pizza for Stephens and there is no large cheese.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave.” Then pizza dude stopped. Looked at a box and said, “How long ago did you order it?”
“About half an hour.”
“This pepperoni has been sitting here for two hours.”
“We’ll take it.”
Pizza dude picked up the box and started to ring us up. Stu added, “Don’t forget the breadsticks.”
Minutes later we gorged on pizza and breadsticks dipped in thick garlic butter. I stayed awake long enough to pass out on the couch. Anne Marie had put a sheet over the couch. I’m sure it protected the couch from me rather than me from the couch.
In the morning, we said out goodbyes and drove back to Columbus. Somehow, neither Erik nor I were hungover.
---- -------
See photos of the night at Flickr
Coin catching web site HERE
Listen to Margot and the Nuclear So and So's on MySpace HERE
Diet Coke and Mentos - Double Squirt on YouTube
Erik asked if he should bring anything. My mind raced back to a story Kit told about his packing for a dudes’ trip to Chicago. Kit’s wife was on a conference call in the kitchen. Kit came down stairs and said, “I’m all packed and ready to go!” In his right hand he held a tooth brush, in his left, a box of condoms. Her brow furrowed and she glared right through him. She silently, though brusquely, beckoned him over. He stepped forward and she swiped the toothbrush out of his hand. “Now you’re ready.”
So I told Erik to bring a toothbrush and condoms.
I drove to Erik’s and threw my bag in his car (though for the entire 21 hour adventure, I only opened it to pull out my camera and later the TUMS.) He pulled out his bag and said, “I brought a condom like you told me.” Really? “I didn’t want to forget it so here…” He turned his bag over to reveal a condom safety pinned right through the middle to his bag. Nice. The trip was off to a banner start.
As we drove, I phoned Stu to tell him I was on my way. Stu only thought I was driving over. I thought it would be a surprise if we didn’t tell Stu that Erik was coming. Except that I kept saying things like, “ We’ll be there in two hours,” and “Where do we park.”
"Who’s we?" Stu’s no dummy. He said they would be on the roof waiting for we.
Along 70, we stopped to buy beef jerky, the required fare of road trips. It was at a combo BP/Dairy Queen/Stuckey’s. I forgot that Stuckey’s was like a firecracker stand that only sells pecan logs. It seemed the store went out and bought a bunch of crap from 7-11 and Cracker Barrel and then put “Stuckey’s” sticker’s over the manufacturers’ names. We chose two varieties of jerky, sodas and Gatorade, mints and a big old bag of Swedish fish.
I was double giddy at this point because Swedish fish are formed from the nectar of flowers that grow in heaven. Like liquid sex molded into red fishies. As we drove off, I popped one in my mouth and it tasted like sugar turd. These were knock off Ju-Ju fish. Fuckers. Fortunately, this was the worst part of the entire trip. (Unless you are Bob.)
We passed a billboard that said “JESUS IS REAL” except that the JESUS was at the top and IS REAL was at the bottom and those letters were crammed so close together that it looked like it said:
JESUS
ISREAL
I thought it was an interesting misspelled religious dichotomy. Erik thought it was a sign that I should repent.
Wow, we haven’t even made it to Stu’s yet. Oh, here we are.
We parked, grabbed out bags and went up and out on the rooftop deck. Stu and his wife Ann Marie as well as Stu’s sister Sarah and husband Dave were there. Stu also had four of his work buddies over. Everyone was drinking and preparing to head over to the Broad Ripple Street Festival to see Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s. Any band with a name that long can’t be good, so I wasn’t very excited, though Stu said they were really good. Stu almost won a Grammy, so I was willing to give them a listen.
**Sidebar** On the drive back, I was discussing with Erik how I was extremely happy that he came on the trip, but that (no offense to Erik) the trip would have still been fun without him, just different, as you always have a great time with Stu. This led us to two discussions. One: without Erik there, the Mentos and Diet Coke (about to be mentioned) would never have happened. Two: if Stu is a catalyst for fun and exciting stuff to happen, does this mean that every day of his life is fun and exciting to the people around him and thus to him as well? Does Stu always have a great time because he is with Stu?
Somewhere between the roof and the street fair, Erik brought up the Mentos / Diet Coke 2 –liter video that’s been zipping around the internet. Only a few of the people at the party had seen or heard of the fun stuff you can do with those two items. Erik thought it might be interesting if we did some Mentos related hands on activities later.
We headed over to the street fair and ate meat and shrimp and crabcakes while waiting for the concert to start. Anne Marie, Erik and I discussed religion while Erik and I took sideways glances over at the two chicks in old school roller skates and very small skirts. Margot & The Nuclear So and So’s came on a we listened.
They really sounded great. Hold that. For part of the show, they sounded like frozen pea soup. Their music was awesome. Really awesome. The dude running the board was not smart or there were technical difficulties. I don’t know anything about music, but some instruments were too loud at times and some vocals were non existent. I also thought someone let their epileptic/autistic 17 year old on stage with a tambourine, but it turned he was a dude in the band. I downloaded the album as soon as I got home. Take a listen if you get the chance.
We decided to head back to Stu’s to drink beer that wasn’t $4 a cup. On the way, we stopped at Krogers and bought $55 worth of diet coke and Mentos. Instead of buying a bunch of 2-liter bottles, we settled for the 16oz bottles so that we could experiment. We also bought floss and more beer. The floss was to assist with dropping the Mentos in the Coke. The beer was beer.
Back at Stu’s, we gathered a drill, various bits and tape together. Holes were drilled through the Mentos (and kinda through the countertop) and the floss tied them together in a mostly straight bunch. We tried different variations of holes in the caps and tested them outside. It was no Fountains at Bellagio, but we had a lot of interesting results.
The best was when Stu suggested a duel. We taped one 16 bottle to one guy’s head and another bottle to a guy’s back with the help of a back brace. They stood 10 feet apart and we pulled the floss. The head attached bottle worked great.
The back attached bottle shifted positions and basically shot ¾ the bottle into the back of the guy’s head.
Revolutionary War Reenactment Purists would have been disappointed.
While the Mentos thing was dying down, some of Stu’s work buddies began to catch quarters off their elbows. See photos for details.
THE STACK
THE CATCH
We circled up and started going around, starting with one. As the coins increased, more and more dropped out. I lost at 11. The winner caught 13. That was the standing record. Everyone tried to get 15 and we all failed. Our rules were that you had to catch every quarter for it to count. We then went for a second round and this time The Dark Horse (my nickname for the night) finished first with 13 coins. I was challenged to break the record with 15. I stacked them and without a flinch, caught them. Someone suggested I do 16, but I stacked on 20.
And caught them.
Then 25. Caught. The crowd were going wild!
Silence. 30 stacked.
30 CAUGHT! In the moment we were all carrying on like this all meant something. And for the moment, it did. High fives. Cries of disbelief and awe. I think I saw Erik tear up a little.
At the time, it seemed like I couldn’t fail. I was a GOD!
I stacked 35… they were hard to position. They were up. I quickly snapped my arm down and my hand grasped shut.
A defiant quarter tipped off my finger and shot into the darkness. 34 caught, but you had to catch them all.
I tried several times in vain to break that record. I couldn’t even catch 15. Could have been the drink or the ten minutes it took to find enough quarters in the dark. I’m not sure if it is a reflection on the quality of my life, but that was the proudest moment I ever had in my life. Oh wait. My marriage was first, then the catching 30 quarters. Oh. First my marriage, then Greg being born, then the quarters. (Ad nauseam, a la Steve Martin’s A Holiday Wish 1991.)
That done, we went inside and took our blood sugar. Sarah was checking hers and I asked if I could check mine. We borrowed the safety pin used to attach the condom to Erik’s bag and heated it up with a match. It seemed too easy to draw blood. My blood sugar was at 108. Erik ponied up with claims that he could beat mine. He registered 123. Ha! One of us won depending on who you ask.
We then left for the bar, our pockets jingling with quarters, our poked fingers just starting to fight off the infection from the poorly cleaned pin. We went to the Broad Ripple Tavern, which is exactly 57 feet from Stu’s apartment. Stu’s buddy is a manager, but wasn’t working that night. This turned out poorly for Bob. As we stood in line with the other intoxicated cattle, Bob was looked over and told he was too drunk to come in. Bob debated the point with the gentleman at the door. The gentleman at the door countered. Bob riposted. Stu intervened with some clever dialogue concerning why Bob should be let in. A second gentleman came to the door and interjected. Bob redoubled his efforts. The second gentleman brought over an officer of the law to suggest the Bob kindly leave the premises. Bob established his position with the officer. The officer took Bob’s words to heart and told him to leave or he would be arrested. Bob conceded his defeat and walked away. And that was that.
Until five minutes later when Bob tried again to talk his way in the bar and he was promptly handcuffed and taken away. Bob lost the debate.
At the time, we were all in between bars, leaving the one Bob couldn’t get into and going to one with a less stringent Bob’s Drunk Policy. None of us knew he had been arrested. So we kept drinking. Sorry Bob.
We finished up the night and headed back to Stu’s. In transit, we stopped at doorway that was pretending it was a restaurant that sold Gyros. Erik’s meat was cut fresh from the slab. My was dredged from a pot sitting on a burner. Erik’s melted in his mouth. Mine was part gravel and part lava rock. Unsatisfied, I stated that I needed pizza. Stu pointed me towards a general direction. I went to the general direction and did not find pizza. Luckily Stu was still in the parking lot with Erik and he walked me to the pizza joint.
Inside, it was packed with people in the ORDER HERE line. Stu walked right up to the PICK UP area which was much emptier.
“Order for Stephens,” he demanded of the pizza dude.
Pizza dude looked at the monitor. Frowned. Looked at the boxes waiting to go out. No Stephens. “Sorry buddy. No order for Stephens.”
“Impossible. Look again.”
Pizza dude took a casual glance at the monitor. “Sir, there was not an order for Stephens. What pizza did you order?”
“Large. Cheese. Check again, please.”
Pizza dude looked at the boxes. Nothing.
“Sir, there is no pizza for Stephens and there is no large cheese.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sir, I am going to have to ask you to leave.” Then pizza dude stopped. Looked at a box and said, “How long ago did you order it?”
“About half an hour.”
“This pepperoni has been sitting here for two hours.”
“We’ll take it.”
Pizza dude picked up the box and started to ring us up. Stu added, “Don’t forget the breadsticks.”
Minutes later we gorged on pizza and breadsticks dipped in thick garlic butter. I stayed awake long enough to pass out on the couch. Anne Marie had put a sheet over the couch. I’m sure it protected the couch from me rather than me from the couch.
In the morning, we said out goodbyes and drove back to Columbus. Somehow, neither Erik nor I were hungover.
---- -------
See photos of the night at Flickr
Coin catching web site HERE
Listen to Margot and the Nuclear So and So's on MySpace HERE
Diet Coke and Mentos - Double Squirt on YouTube
Must read weekend
What a tremendous weekend. I was only able to write about ½ of the story before I collapsed. (Collapsed = ate a cheese stick and fell asleep in front of the TV watching re-runs of The Man Show.)
I will post tonight. Really. Hold your horses.
Until then, check out Margot and the Nuclear So and So's
I will post tonight. Really. Hold your horses.
Until then, check out Margot and the Nuclear So and So's
I’m going to Stu’s
I’m going to make like the Israeli army into Lebanon and invade Indianapolis for a few hours this weekend to see Stu. Erik and I had an ingenious plan for both of us to be able to drive over together, but we have been foiled by my moving homes and a birthday party for some little shit. Looks like I'm going solo. I weep because Erik will never get the chance to see Stu’s bachelor pad. Stu’s bachelor pad (even though he’s married) is right above his work. In the morning, he rolls out of bed, walks down the stairs, and starts churning out the million dollar ideas. This last bit was probably his downfall as the owner is moving the office to an upgraded facility. That’s why when I roll into work, I churn out the thousand peso ideas. Wouldn’t want to jeopardize my 20 minute drive to work. There’s a 500 sq. ft. deck that is perfect for holeyboard and a couch that has all ready been broken in by my drunken farting. Sorry Erik. Have fun eating cake.
Now, I’m not home free either. We have to start packing up our house. Miss Sally has been having Braxton-Hicks contractions and if I’m three hours from home, drunk out of my hat and Sally’s water breaks, I’m (well, SHE’s) fucked. The issue is that if I am away, Miss Sally might stress out which would cause labor issues. I need a plan…
Here’s the plan: On Friday, we sign papers to sell our house. That night, we’ll begin packing for our move the following week. I’ll start to drop hints Friday night that we are running low on tape and boxes. Saturday around noon, I will casually mention that I am running out to buy boxes and tape and moving blankets and beer. Out the door and take 70W for three hours. Every half hour I will call and ask Sally if she needs anything from the store. Repeat 48 times. Sunday morning I will walk in the house and say that I left the boxes and tape and moving blankets and beer at the store. Genius. I’ll have puke on my shirt and my pants on backwards, but it’s still genius.
That’s all that I have to say except that I am sorry Lia! I thought I was going to head to St. James Tavern tonight, but Miss Sally’s womb said no way.
Next week… and I’ll get some material together. Really. I promise. Unless I need to run out for tape. And boxes.
Now, I’m not home free either. We have to start packing up our house. Miss Sally has been having Braxton-Hicks contractions and if I’m three hours from home, drunk out of my hat and Sally’s water breaks, I’m (well, SHE’s) fucked. The issue is that if I am away, Miss Sally might stress out which would cause labor issues. I need a plan…
Here’s the plan: On Friday, we sign papers to sell our house. That night, we’ll begin packing for our move the following week. I’ll start to drop hints Friday night that we are running low on tape and boxes. Saturday around noon, I will casually mention that I am running out to buy boxes and tape and moving blankets and beer. Out the door and take 70W for three hours. Every half hour I will call and ask Sally if she needs anything from the store. Repeat 48 times. Sunday morning I will walk in the house and say that I left the boxes and tape and moving blankets and beer at the store. Genius. I’ll have puke on my shirt and my pants on backwards, but it’s still genius.
That’s all that I have to say except that I am sorry Lia! I thought I was going to head to St. James Tavern tonight, but Miss Sally’s womb said no way.
Next week… and I’ll get some material together. Really. I promise. Unless I need to run out for tape. And boxes.
Shifted may have contents during flight
Allen, Joe and I were heading on business trip to LA. I had pathetic luggage and asked Shorty if I could borrow his suitcase that had wheels. He told me to stop by that afternoon to pick it up.
I popped over and Short and Fee were lounging around watching TV (they were both unemployed at the time and I can only assume they were taking a break from masturbating.) Short said he forgot I was coming over and ran upstairs to get the bag. Twenty seconds later he was back down. I grabbed the bag, said thanks and started out the door. Shorty stopped me quickly and said, “Hey, you may want to check the bag to make sure there’s nothing in it.” I could only imagine the dirty sock and soiled underwear that might have been in the hidden pockets of the bag. I set it down and unzipped it.
The interior was empty and I gave a quick hand pass through the top pocket. My hand rammed something that was metal and gun like. I pulled it out and found out why it was gun shaped. It was a Beretta. A real Beretta.
Jerk.
Further inspection revealed a grenade. OK, a fake grenade, but it was metal and heavy. Not your bottom of the Capt. Crunch box grenade.
Fucker.
I searched every pocket as Shorty laughed. A small baggie with an unknown white powder was the last item found. Not sure if he meant it to be cocaine or anthrax. Knowing Shorty, probably anthrax.
Asshole!
We actually had a good laugh devising the possible scenarios of my passing through airport security. Luckily I know show tunes.
The next day we met at the airport. Allen had three bags and asked me to carry his bag with the scripts. I only had the one bag so it wasn’t a problem. On the plane I threw it in the overhead along with my other bag that was now not filled with guns and anthrax.
Take off. Peanuts. Land.
We had a two hour layover in St. Louis so we went to our gate and found a seat. Joe suggested we go over the scripts. “I’ll get the scripts out of the bag! The non-descript bag that looks like any other bag.”
The contents of the bag had magically changed from papers to medical equipment and prescription drugs. That or I grabbed the wrong bag off the plane. Joe and Allen were a bit unhappy but slightly amused. I went to ticket counter where three airline women were working. I sheepishly told them what happened and they scolded me! “You did what?” “Didn’t you look to see if the bag was yours?” “Don’t you know your own bag?” They called the gate where we landed. “There is a very upset woman looking for her bag. Go to the baggage claim office.” I slithered off.
As I waited at baggage claim, I listened to a pissed off chick from some other flight argue with an attendant about a lost bag. They would not give her any vouchers for her lost luggage because she lived in St. Louis. She was coming home from college and didn’t have any clothes or toiletries at her parents’ home. The airline couldn’t help her and the attendant made her quota of un-happy customers.
I knew immediately that the extremely upset woman striding towards me was the owner of the bag I held. She threw my bag to the ground and ripped her bag from my hand. She sat it down on a chair and opened it up to examine what I had stolen or broken. I tried to apologize, but she didn’t say a word and stomped off when she was satisfied I had not disturbed her possessions.
I took the bag back to our gate. We reviewed the script.
To this day, I couldn’t tell you what that medical equipment was. There was something that looked like a saline drip IV bag with fluid in it and a lot of stainless steel rods with plastic or Teflon bits. There were at least four bottles of medicine.
I am now one of those fools with the big ribbon tied to my bags. Just so I know exactly where my gun, grenade and anthrax are.
I popped over and Short and Fee were lounging around watching TV (they were both unemployed at the time and I can only assume they were taking a break from masturbating.) Short said he forgot I was coming over and ran upstairs to get the bag. Twenty seconds later he was back down. I grabbed the bag, said thanks and started out the door. Shorty stopped me quickly and said, “Hey, you may want to check the bag to make sure there’s nothing in it.” I could only imagine the dirty sock and soiled underwear that might have been in the hidden pockets of the bag. I set it down and unzipped it.
The interior was empty and I gave a quick hand pass through the top pocket. My hand rammed something that was metal and gun like. I pulled it out and found out why it was gun shaped. It was a Beretta. A real Beretta.
Jerk.
Further inspection revealed a grenade. OK, a fake grenade, but it was metal and heavy. Not your bottom of the Capt. Crunch box grenade.
Fucker.
I searched every pocket as Shorty laughed. A small baggie with an unknown white powder was the last item found. Not sure if he meant it to be cocaine or anthrax. Knowing Shorty, probably anthrax.
Asshole!
We actually had a good laugh devising the possible scenarios of my passing through airport security. Luckily I know show tunes.
The next day we met at the airport. Allen had three bags and asked me to carry his bag with the scripts. I only had the one bag so it wasn’t a problem. On the plane I threw it in the overhead along with my other bag that was now not filled with guns and anthrax.
Take off. Peanuts. Land.
We had a two hour layover in St. Louis so we went to our gate and found a seat. Joe suggested we go over the scripts. “I’ll get the scripts out of the bag! The non-descript bag that looks like any other bag.”
The contents of the bag had magically changed from papers to medical equipment and prescription drugs. That or I grabbed the wrong bag off the plane. Joe and Allen were a bit unhappy but slightly amused. I went to ticket counter where three airline women were working. I sheepishly told them what happened and they scolded me! “You did what?” “Didn’t you look to see if the bag was yours?” “Don’t you know your own bag?” They called the gate where we landed. “There is a very upset woman looking for her bag. Go to the baggage claim office.” I slithered off.
As I waited at baggage claim, I listened to a pissed off chick from some other flight argue with an attendant about a lost bag. They would not give her any vouchers for her lost luggage because she lived in St. Louis. She was coming home from college and didn’t have any clothes or toiletries at her parents’ home. The airline couldn’t help her and the attendant made her quota of un-happy customers.
I knew immediately that the extremely upset woman striding towards me was the owner of the bag I held. She threw my bag to the ground and ripped her bag from my hand. She sat it down on a chair and opened it up to examine what I had stolen or broken. I tried to apologize, but she didn’t say a word and stomped off when she was satisfied I had not disturbed her possessions.
I took the bag back to our gate. We reviewed the script.
To this day, I couldn’t tell you what that medical equipment was. There was something that looked like a saline drip IV bag with fluid in it and a lot of stainless steel rods with plastic or Teflon bits. There were at least four bottles of medicine.
I am now one of those fools with the big ribbon tied to my bags. Just so I know exactly where my gun, grenade and anthrax are.
Moving on up
The good news is that our house is in contract. The bad news is that our house is in contract. We need to get out by the end of the month. We have three options:
1. Buy a house and move in by the end of the month.
2. Rent an apartment. Buy a house at our convenience.
3. Move in with Miss Sally’s mom or my mom. Buy a house before we kill mother/in-law.
Option one would be the best we could hope for, but trying to find a home, sign papers, get inspections and have the current occupants move out by the end of the month will be almost impossible. We have a house that we really, really like. I think we will be making an offer tomorrow. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths. Let’s see if handsome Joe can work some magic for us.
Option two is such a pain in the ass. It would require two moves and all the hassle that is buried in with switching utilities, mail and two cats. It is a good option so that we don’t rush into a house that we haven’t researched or can’t afford. It’s a costly option for the reasons I mentioned above, plus we do not know how long we’ll be staying and could have moving out early fees. What a pain. I forget what apartment life is like. I remember liking it 10 years ago with no kids, cats or sobriety.
Option three makes my bowels turn to water. We would not have to worry about apartment woes, but holy crap what a nightmare. My whole routine would be screwed up. It would be a 45 – 60 minute drive to work every day. I wouldn’t be going out in Columbus at all. My masturbation schedule would be completely whacked. And there’s nothing worse than getting nagged in person rather than over the phone. (Just kidding ma!) It’s a cheap option… but at what cost?
To top all this off, Miss Sally is due September 21st. Even if we signed papers tomorrow, we still would be very lucky to be settled in and building a nest by that date. With our luck, Miss Sally will go into labor caused by hauling my computer monitor up the stairs. I’ll be searching through all the moving boxes, opening the linens box for blankets and the boiling water box for boiling water. Months later we’ll find the Midwife box and laugh about how it could have made things so much easier.
Wish us luck.
1. Buy a house and move in by the end of the month.
2. Rent an apartment. Buy a house at our convenience.
3. Move in with Miss Sally’s mom or my mom. Buy a house before we kill mother/in-law.
Option one would be the best we could hope for, but trying to find a home, sign papers, get inspections and have the current occupants move out by the end of the month will be almost impossible. We have a house that we really, really like. I think we will be making an offer tomorrow. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths. Let’s see if handsome Joe can work some magic for us.
Option two is such a pain in the ass. It would require two moves and all the hassle that is buried in with switching utilities, mail and two cats. It is a good option so that we don’t rush into a house that we haven’t researched or can’t afford. It’s a costly option for the reasons I mentioned above, plus we do not know how long we’ll be staying and could have moving out early fees. What a pain. I forget what apartment life is like. I remember liking it 10 years ago with no kids, cats or sobriety.
Option three makes my bowels turn to water. We would not have to worry about apartment woes, but holy crap what a nightmare. My whole routine would be screwed up. It would be a 45 – 60 minute drive to work every day. I wouldn’t be going out in Columbus at all. My masturbation schedule would be completely whacked. And there’s nothing worse than getting nagged in person rather than over the phone. (Just kidding ma!) It’s a cheap option… but at what cost?
To top all this off, Miss Sally is due September 21st. Even if we signed papers tomorrow, we still would be very lucky to be settled in and building a nest by that date. With our luck, Miss Sally will go into labor caused by hauling my computer monitor up the stairs. I’ll be searching through all the moving boxes, opening the linens box for blankets and the boiling water box for boiling water. Months later we’ll find the Midwife box and laugh about how it could have made things so much easier.
Wish us luck.
David Banner doesn't have to feed the Hulk soup
I hope that Miss Sally remembers that we went through a period of don’t ask, don’t tell when we first met. It was very early on in our relationship and we were long distance dating and I’m sure she didn’t have insurance.
Omaha, Nebraska. I won’t beat the town up too much. I arrived there after spending a summer in Boston. No comparison. It was also fall rolling into winter. Not the most gleeful time of year. When I would arrive in a new town, my first goal was to represent my company in the most professional and engaging manner. My 0.5 goal was to find who drank and when and could I buy them a drink. Enter Jane. She worked at the museum as an operations/education type. She was about my age and she had friends that liked to drink. It seemed that many of the people in Omaha were just as depressed as I was about being there. We all drank together. Me and Jane’s friends. And Julie, too. Especially Julie.
I knew that Jane’s friend Julie and I were going to hit it off when we argued the entire first night we met. My take on women is that the more you can aggravate them, the more they like you. (Except Freckled Jen’s friend Tracey. Man, she really hates me.) The second clue was when Julie mooned a group of us as they drove by at the end of the night. The third clue was when we hooked up two nights later.
It was a very casual relationship. We’d go out for drinks and make out back at her place. We’d lie in bed and she’d tell me stories about some guy she dated nicknamed Peanut. He was born several weeks premature and the poor guy was cursed with a small weenier. But she said that when he came, he would shoot either across the room or on to the ceiling depending on the angle and if the fan was on. She was a very fun girl.
The best part about Omaha was leaving to go home and visit Sally. After a month in Omaha, I went home and hung out with Miss Sally for a few days. I really started to like Miss Sally a lot more after that trip home (you should read my journal… I was pathetically in love.) When I went back to Omaha, I told Julie that I still wanted to hang out, but that I was in love with Miss Sally and I couldn’t continue our current relationship. (i.e. I can’t let you suck my dick anymore. Sorry.) She was very understanding. (i.e. Fine. You can’t eat my pussy.) And that was that.
Except for this side note: You will soon be familiar with a Seinfeld episode called “The Alternate Side.” In that episode, amongst other things, Elaine dates an older man named Owen. She was about five seconds from breaking up with Owen when he has a stroke. Because they were still dating, Elaine was obligated to sit with him in his vegetative state, stay by his side and feed him Yankee bean soup. Several weeks after I returned from Ohio with excuses to call off my half-assed relationship with Julie, she had a very traumatic day at work. Julie worked for a company that would collect used American clothing and ship them overseas. The clothes were gathered in huge bundles that weighed over a ton and stacked in a warehouse before shipping. Julie was in the warehouse when a forklift operator on the opposite side of a stack of clothes bundles knocked one over on top of her. This was a ONE TON bundle of cloth that fell from at least 8’ up and she was trapped underneath. The driver, only knowing he had knocked something over, walked to the other side of the stacks to see her unconscious under the ONE TON bundle. The guy then picked up the one ton stack of clothes and moved it off of her. (One of those David Banner wishes he could lift the car off his wife moments.) Paramedics were called and she was taken to the hospital with head injuries. When she got out a few weeks later, she was just not the same. Very functional, just a different personality from the girl I’d met three months prior.
Moral to this story? I’m a shallow son of a bitch because I got to deal with that situation as a guy who was leaving town in a month, rather than as a boyfriend. I’m sure I would have used the “moving on to the next town” excuse to break things off when the time came. I’m just happy I didn’t have to feed her soup.
Damn. I am a complete asshole.
Oh yeah. In that Seinfeld episode, Elaine does break up with Owen while he was still in a vegetative state. Later, she bumps into him on the subway where she learns that he has had an almost full recovery. That’s also when she learns that he was just using her for the sex. Maybe I’m not such an asshole.
Omaha, Nebraska. I won’t beat the town up too much. I arrived there after spending a summer in Boston. No comparison. It was also fall rolling into winter. Not the most gleeful time of year. When I would arrive in a new town, my first goal was to represent my company in the most professional and engaging manner. My 0.5 goal was to find who drank and when and could I buy them a drink. Enter Jane. She worked at the museum as an operations/education type. She was about my age and she had friends that liked to drink. It seemed that many of the people in Omaha were just as depressed as I was about being there. We all drank together. Me and Jane’s friends. And Julie, too. Especially Julie.
I knew that Jane’s friend Julie and I were going to hit it off when we argued the entire first night we met. My take on women is that the more you can aggravate them, the more they like you. (Except Freckled Jen’s friend Tracey. Man, she really hates me.) The second clue was when Julie mooned a group of us as they drove by at the end of the night. The third clue was when we hooked up two nights later.
It was a very casual relationship. We’d go out for drinks and make out back at her place. We’d lie in bed and she’d tell me stories about some guy she dated nicknamed Peanut. He was born several weeks premature and the poor guy was cursed with a small weenier. But she said that when he came, he would shoot either across the room or on to the ceiling depending on the angle and if the fan was on. She was a very fun girl.
The best part about Omaha was leaving to go home and visit Sally. After a month in Omaha, I went home and hung out with Miss Sally for a few days. I really started to like Miss Sally a lot more after that trip home (you should read my journal… I was pathetically in love.) When I went back to Omaha, I told Julie that I still wanted to hang out, but that I was in love with Miss Sally and I couldn’t continue our current relationship. (i.e. I can’t let you suck my dick anymore. Sorry.) She was very understanding. (i.e. Fine. You can’t eat my pussy.) And that was that.
Except for this side note: You will soon be familiar with a Seinfeld episode called “The Alternate Side.” In that episode, amongst other things, Elaine dates an older man named Owen. She was about five seconds from breaking up with Owen when he has a stroke. Because they were still dating, Elaine was obligated to sit with him in his vegetative state, stay by his side and feed him Yankee bean soup. Several weeks after I returned from Ohio with excuses to call off my half-assed relationship with Julie, she had a very traumatic day at work. Julie worked for a company that would collect used American clothing and ship them overseas. The clothes were gathered in huge bundles that weighed over a ton and stacked in a warehouse before shipping. Julie was in the warehouse when a forklift operator on the opposite side of a stack of clothes bundles knocked one over on top of her. This was a ONE TON bundle of cloth that fell from at least 8’ up and she was trapped underneath. The driver, only knowing he had knocked something over, walked to the other side of the stacks to see her unconscious under the ONE TON bundle. The guy then picked up the one ton stack of clothes and moved it off of her. (One of those David Banner wishes he could lift the car off his wife moments.) Paramedics were called and she was taken to the hospital with head injuries. When she got out a few weeks later, she was just not the same. Very functional, just a different personality from the girl I’d met three months prior.
Moral to this story? I’m a shallow son of a bitch because I got to deal with that situation as a guy who was leaving town in a month, rather than as a boyfriend. I’m sure I would have used the “moving on to the next town” excuse to break things off when the time came. I’m just happy I didn’t have to feed her soup.
Damn. I am a complete asshole.
Oh yeah. In that Seinfeld episode, Elaine does break up with Owen while he was still in a vegetative state. Later, she bumps into him on the subway where she learns that he has had an almost full recovery. That’s also when she learns that he was just using her for the sex. Maybe I’m not such an asshole.
ComFest 2006
I would like to think that this year’s ComFest was supposed to be about music, community and the celebration of diversity. The most entertaining part of it for me was what happened after ComFest while people were leaving and how they interacted with a shopping cart and two hula hoops. Please allow me to present my first photo heavy entry.
Miss Sally, Greg and I drove down to ComFest and I sold what was left of my soul for an awesome parking spot. We loaded Greg and the goods into the little red wagon and rolled into the crowds. Greg got his first sight of hippy and his first smell of weed. We spread out a blanket and listened to music for a few hours. It was a good time. Russ, Cheri and Reed joined us and we all shared grapes, juice and squirt guns.
Reed got to see a spiky, blonde haired lesbian throw up. Greg and I threw a Frisbee with a mentally disabled kid.
Um, at a mentally disabled kid.
Around 8:00pm, Miss Sally had to make water and we did not have the 30 minutes to wait in line at the porta potty. Instead we packed up and wagoned over to my friend Meshell’s house to meet up with some friends. They were all surprised to see Miss Sally’s pregnant belly. (Miss Sally is at best 105 pounds with a wet winter jacket on. The baby has decided to grow straight out and so she only looks pregnant from two angles.) While we were there, Shorty taught my kid how to karate chop an inflatable palm tree.
I took Miss Sally and Greg home and returned to Meshell’s around 10:00pm. I noticed a shopping cart.
“Hey, that’s a shopping cart.”
Earlier in the day, the folks at Meshell’s watched stunned as a man with a broken arm, broken leg and numerous head stitches lurched down the brick paved street with a walker. He and his girlfriend were not making much progress. This dude was a wreck. Someone came by with a shopping cart and offered it up to the guy. With a little careful lifting and tucking, the guy was loaded inside. Girlfriend rumbled him down the street and to ComFest. Hours later they returned, poured the guy out of the cart and headed back the way they came. A true American story of heroism, ingenuity and a guy that got the smoke beat out of him by a baseball bat.
The shopping cart remained a focal point for all those who passed. Some would jump in it and scream. Others would team up and push eachother in circles. Some would just push the empty cart. For something that was obviously stolen, people seemed intent on returning it to its unrightful owners. It never was more than five hula hoops away.
“Hey, those are hula hoops.”
Taresa had brought two hula hoops to Meshell's. They were in use from noon until 2:00am. Taresa was either hooping or helping someone else to hoop all night long. She was really good. Here you can see how good I was. That is until you compare it to these other photos. It only took 8 shots to get one photo that made me look good. The only good thing was that Shorty was as bad as me. We had several hoop offs that consisted of us holding beers and cigarettes while dropping the hoops to the ground at our feet. Repeat. We sucked.
Josh had it going on, though.
Throughout the night, people would random walk up to the hoops and try them out. Others were coaxed in by one of the resident barkers. As the night wore on and beer sales finished at ComFest, many were conned into foolishness with the allure of free beer to anyone who could hula for more than x amount of seconds. (I’m no programmer, but the hula timing went like this: if hula person = chick then x = 3, if hula person = dude then x = 50)
We had one woman drop her top while hula hooping.
We had another without a shirt whose naughty bits were covered by post-its (postits?)and red marker. I think x for her equaled what she had stuck in her mouth three hours earlier.
All in all, a beautiful night. From the guy who couldn’t find his buddy’s house (it was just on the left of the CVS) to the 24+ guys who humped the traffic cones to the dude who actually ran down the street at full speed with a hula hoop around his waist and performed for five minutes straight.
Other photos from ComFest 2006 can be found here:ComFest 2006 photos
Miss Sally, Greg and I drove down to ComFest and I sold what was left of my soul for an awesome parking spot. We loaded Greg and the goods into the little red wagon and rolled into the crowds. Greg got his first sight of hippy and his first smell of weed. We spread out a blanket and listened to music for a few hours. It was a good time. Russ, Cheri and Reed joined us and we all shared grapes, juice and squirt guns.
Reed got to see a spiky, blonde haired lesbian throw up. Greg and I threw a Frisbee with a mentally disabled kid.
Um, at a mentally disabled kid.
Around 8:00pm, Miss Sally had to make water and we did not have the 30 minutes to wait in line at the porta potty. Instead we packed up and wagoned over to my friend Meshell’s house to meet up with some friends. They were all surprised to see Miss Sally’s pregnant belly. (Miss Sally is at best 105 pounds with a wet winter jacket on. The baby has decided to grow straight out and so she only looks pregnant from two angles.) While we were there, Shorty taught my kid how to karate chop an inflatable palm tree.
I took Miss Sally and Greg home and returned to Meshell’s around 10:00pm. I noticed a shopping cart.
“Hey, that’s a shopping cart.”
Earlier in the day, the folks at Meshell’s watched stunned as a man with a broken arm, broken leg and numerous head stitches lurched down the brick paved street with a walker. He and his girlfriend were not making much progress. This dude was a wreck. Someone came by with a shopping cart and offered it up to the guy. With a little careful lifting and tucking, the guy was loaded inside. Girlfriend rumbled him down the street and to ComFest. Hours later they returned, poured the guy out of the cart and headed back the way they came. A true American story of heroism, ingenuity and a guy that got the smoke beat out of him by a baseball bat.
The shopping cart remained a focal point for all those who passed. Some would jump in it and scream. Others would team up and push eachother in circles. Some would just push the empty cart. For something that was obviously stolen, people seemed intent on returning it to its unrightful owners. It never was more than five hula hoops away.
“Hey, those are hula hoops.”
Taresa had brought two hula hoops to Meshell's. They were in use from noon until 2:00am. Taresa was either hooping or helping someone else to hoop all night long. She was really good. Here you can see how good I was. That is until you compare it to these other photos. It only took 8 shots to get one photo that made me look good. The only good thing was that Shorty was as bad as me. We had several hoop offs that consisted of us holding beers and cigarettes while dropping the hoops to the ground at our feet. Repeat. We sucked.
Josh had it going on, though.
Throughout the night, people would random walk up to the hoops and try them out. Others were coaxed in by one of the resident barkers. As the night wore on and beer sales finished at ComFest, many were conned into foolishness with the allure of free beer to anyone who could hula for more than x amount of seconds. (I’m no programmer, but the hula timing went like this: if hula person = chick then x = 3, if hula person = dude then x = 50)
We had one woman drop her top while hula hooping.
We had another without a shirt whose naughty bits were covered by post-its (postits?)and red marker. I think x for her equaled what she had stuck in her mouth three hours earlier.
All in all, a beautiful night. From the guy who couldn’t find his buddy’s house (it was just on the left of the CVS) to the 24+ guys who humped the traffic cones to the dude who actually ran down the street at full speed with a hula hoop around his waist and performed for five minutes straight.
Other photos from ComFest 2006 can be found here:
Passing the time
I understand that driving and boredom go hand in hand. Many would say that a good book on CD can help pass the time. Some people (like me) listen to Sirius Satellite radio. This woman, whom we saw driving in Atlanta, was passing her time by reading.
We were driving around 45 - 50 MPH through a construction zone at the time.
At least she's got both hands mostly on the wheel.
We were driving around 45 - 50 MPH through a construction zone at the time.
At least she's got both hands mostly on the wheel.
Three and out
A storm passed through our little corner of Columbus this afternoon and was kind enough to knock out the power to our office. All I have to ask is why didn’t it happen three hours earlier? As we sat in the dark and listened to the server backup battery beep, the question was raised if we should leave and get a drink. The answer was of course yes, but as the resident lush, I needed to wait for someone else to commit. It was 4:30 and everyone was hemmin’ and hawin’ about going home. Fortunately, vice-lush stepped up to the plate and we went to Doubles. Three beers and I went home. I knew that if I had four that I would have five which would give me the courage to call home and ask if it was ok to stay out for a little longer knowing full well that it was bath night and that I am going out tomorrow AND Saturday and so I left.
What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.
What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.
You look like someone famous
Allen and I went to LA. (There’s almost a palindrome in there somewhere.) We were there for work, but we were also there to drink. One place to drink is Trader Vic’s. It is located in the Beverly Hills Hilton. It’s a restaurant too, but we were not there to eat.
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?
It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.
Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.
Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)
On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.
After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”
At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.
Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…
Andy Richter
Fucking great.
Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.
Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?
Pumpkin Guilt
Miss Sally, Greg and I were driving in the car on our way to or from somewhere. Greg said that he wanted to carve a pumpkin. I said that pumpkins only grow when it is cold and it was summer and he’d have to wait.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.
The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.
Sucks To Be You
What do you do when you see someone broken down along the side of the highway? Hood up. Steam pouring out. Talking on the cell phone to the spouse or AAA (or both if your spouse works at AAA.)
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.
I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.
Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.
If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.
I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.
As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.
Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.
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
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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
Shortcut Guy
John was down in
JOHN
This alley looks safe to me.
Give me your wallet.
I’m kicking the knife out of your hand.
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.
Yep. I’m flat on my back.
Now several blows to the face and head.
Yep. I’m severely beaten.
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.
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.
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.)
- 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?
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.
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.
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