Witt and Wisdom

2003-10-06T08:55:00.000-04:00

The End

What else could I write
I don't have the right
What else should I be
All apologies
- Kurt Cobain

Much has happened in the World of Witt.

Took a vacation.

Made my own sushi.

Lost daytime internet access for a week.

Got absolutely blackout drunk at a wine show.

Found out some news about my job.

Wrote some.

Pondered some.

And the result of all of these revelations is that I am officially calling an end to this blog.

Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?

Well, never fear. I would never hurt you like that.

Cuz, ya see, I’ve been doing something else for the past few weeks, too.

Come take a look.

www.wittandwisdom.com

2003-09-22T12:12:00.000-04:00

Hiatus

I'm taking some time away from the blog.

Just thought I should let ya know.

You'll live.

2003-09-17T10:46:00.000-04:00

Human Nature

I don't want to see people hurt or lives ruined. Just to be clear.

But deep down, when I hear that a hurricane has been downgraded from a Category 5, I'm a little sad. There is some little nagging thought within me that wants to see the devastation and power and force of nature. I want to imagine forty foot walls of water and spinning, lunging winds slamming into one another. I want unbridled fury and raw, unstoppable power.

I bet you do too. Just a little.

2003-09-16T11:33:00.000-04:00

Huh?

Um, yeah. I forgot to mention that I'm taking vacation this week. I may write occasionally, but for the most part I am simply vacatifying.

BUT! You deserve answers to your questions. So here goes:

How do I get the cute, nice, married Mormon girl in our office to loosen up? She was a raging partier before the religious brainwashing hit, and everyone can tell that her inner tiger is just in hibernation. I'm not necessarily advocating that she commit infidelity--it would be fine if she just did a topless dance on her desk, or something. - Greg

The easiest way to get someone to loosen up is to model the behavior for her first. Show her that dancing topless on a desk is perfectly acceptable by jumping up there and coating yourself in baby oil while singing "At Last" by Etta James. Then ask her why any accepting religion would keep so many secrets, even from it's own members. Then tell her Steve Young is your favorite quarterback ever. Mormon chicks LOVE that.

Why do men have nipples? - IA

Apparently you don't have any older brothers. God gave men nipples so that their brothers can give them Super-Nuclear Titty Twisters the entire time they are growing up. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Just ask the Mormons.

I am broke. It's pathetic. I want to sell off some old stuff on eBay to make extra dough. My mom has offered me some of her antique jewelry and stuff to sell (because she's not attached to it) to raise money, but I feel bad pawning off these things, since they were special things that her grandparents gave her.

Should I sell the stuff? Where do I draw the line for sentimental value? - Mia

Sentimentality is a strong force, but if you are certain that the items mean nothing to your mom and they actually mean nothing to you (except for the guilt they invoke), then sentimental items can often look a lot like junk upon objective viewing. For what ends are you going to be using this money? Is the money likely to be substantial? Is it going to pay the rent? Can you literally not eat? Is your credit card debt so overwhelming that you feel like you'll never get out from under it? Can the effects of the money you will make overcome the guilt you will feel in never seeing it again?

Personally, I think your long gone relatives would rather see you have a place to live and food to eat than hold on to trinkets. However, try to examine the rest of your finances and make some hard decisions about your spending.

Will I always be this miserable? - pseudonymph

No. You have to live your life as a series of happy, exciting, enriching events that are occasionally interupted by difficult times. My primary philosophy is that we cannot appreciate our happiness without occasional hardship. Try not to dwell on the depressing aspects around you. Absorb the laughter and happiness that you see. Distance yourself from negative influences. Ask yourself every night if you have any regrets. Eliminate them.

Jesus, this just turned into a Chicken Soup For The Clinically Depressed book all of the sudden.

How do I cope with several of my favorite blogs suddenly going offline for good? I know the authors are out there living their lives and just not writing about them, but I still feel the need to send someone a funeral spray. What should I do to cope? How long can I keep their sites bookmarked before I become a truly scary and obsessive person? - Lisa

You mean you read blogs other than mine? Blog whore.

I don't think you have anything to worry about. Odds are, you are already a truly scary and obsessive person, so learn to embrace it! As you are reading blogs from this point forward, lick your computer screen and whisper "My precious". And stop reading blogs other than mine. I don't want to contract blogital warts.

I had a 68 Nova with a 3-speed manual transmission. The shifter knob was solid brushed stainless steel that ... well, was satisfyingly solid to the touch.

Never mind. I'm calling my wife to pick her up early. She'll be able to handle the question of the shifter knob. - Billy

So I've heard.

Will I ever get past my hestoooldtodateme phobia and want to date Cute Southern Transplant? How? He's out of town now so I have until Monday-ish to figure out what to do with him.

...and don't be too brutally honest with me. Try to keep it light and funny--since I usually read at work. We would rather have me burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter as opposed to having uncontrollable eye leakage. - Queen Goddess

I may be a little late for this one. Anyway, prepare thineself for some brutal honesty: Get over yourself. Why do men and women overthink relationships so much? Quit trying to get in the way of your own happiness. Sure, you may get hurt, but that may happen no matter what you do. His age is just your current excuse. If you like him, go get him. It may not be a good idea to see if he'll let you call him "Daddy", however. Insisting on spankings when you've been bad is acceptable, however.

It's a fine line.

Where can I get a $10 cocktail for $3 in San Francisco? - Naaman

Jade
650 Gough St.
San Francisco, CA 94102
415-869-1900

(1) How do I identify the head mafiosi at the San Genarro festival, and (2) how do I convince him that he should let me wet my beak a little? - docks

His name is "Quiet Dom" Cirillo. Ask Frankie about him. Tell him you know me. They'll set you up.

I'm extremely tired of our temp secretary in this office, but I've made the mistake of letting her know about happy hour and now she is there every week, monopolizing conversations and complaining about petty crap. My boss really likes her, though. My question: how do I dispose of the body? - dan

Lye and an old sleeping bag. Again, ask Frankie for details. Tell him you know me. He'll hook you up.

Why didn't my cake rise? I followed the recipe to the letter... - dayment

Try talking dirty to the "cake".

How come, when I'm having sex with my girlfriend, instead of screaming out my name in joy during orgasm she actually recites the first four lines of the Declaration of Independence?

More importantly, however, how do I stop giggling when she says ".. that all Men are created equal and they are endowed by their Creator..." ?

Please help oh wise sage.
Confuzzled When Cu...in Chicago
leo

That is strange, because she sings God Bless America when she climaxes with me. Maybe try having her bite a pillow.

Why do you think you give good advice? :) - KDunk

Sexy people always give good advice.

How much do you think it's appropriate to charge someone to punch me in the face and tell me to get my fucking shit together? - EV

Nothing. I'll do it for free.

*****

Okay people. I'll write sporadically this week. Take care of yourselves. And each other.

2003-09-12T12:06:00.000-04:00

Don't Cost Nothin'

If there is one thing I am willing to share with you (other than my rugged good looks and ribald sense of humor), it is my rock-solid goddamned advice. So, as a semi-regular component of this blog, I shall answer your questions on life, love and '71 Chevy Nova transmissions.

Clearly, your life is a raging shit-fest. You know it. I know it. Don't try to act like you don't need my advice. I mean, look at you. That haircut looks like rabid squirrels attacked your head while you slept. That shirt has stains on it that I don't even want to know about. Your pants are in danger of getting eaten by your ass. You haven't had a decent lay since, um, ever. Your job is about as much fun as a bikini wax with pliers.

Face facts. You. Need. Me.

So email me your questions (CW, below) or leave them in the comments. Be prepared for harshness. You need a good talking to and I'm just the arrogant prick to do it.

Go.

2003-09-11T10:37:00.000-04:00

I was in my office on New York Avenue in downtown Washington D.C.

I didn't know how to feel then and I don't know how to feel now.

Empty is all.

2003-09-10T12:27:00.000-04:00

Kid 'N Play

Thank God someone has finally made it acceptable to start suing children, because I have a whole list of offenses for which I want to be generously compensated.

Crying during movies: $500 first offense, $1,000 for the second; castration of father and "corking" of the mother
Crying at the grocery store or mall: $1,000 first offense, $3,000 for the second; child must sit and watch Barney being beaten to death by SpongeBob
Crying in my presence at any time: Duct tape, $50.
Mockingly repeating what I say: $2,500 first offense, $5,500 second offense; duct taped shut for a week
Wearing baseball hat in any direction other than forward: $5,000 first offense, two weeks in jail for the second; child gets three line drives to the crotch and/or head for every degree from center the hat faces
Disobeying: $5,000, electronic zapper attachment that applies 1,000 volts whenever child attempts to disobey again
Lying: $6,000, zapper and no TV or games for a year

There's more, but I have to go and download the new Metallica cd now.

2003-09-09T12:14:00.000-04:00

PC Load Letter? What the fuck does that mean?!

More interview questions from a fellow blogger today. I do this to prepare myself for my inevitable fame and fortune wherein I will eventually break down to Barbara Walters in a tearful admission of my stint in drug rehab after a crazed, naked, coke-fueled hotel room temper tantrum in which three transvestite hookers sustain concussions. Man, I can't wait to be famous.

Today, the questions come from the lovely s00ka, over at TangerineStarBuggy. She and I have a lot in common, as I was once a sexy Asian girl and she used to be a stupid white farmboy. It's all very Freaky Friday, really.

Anyway, go visit her. Love her. Talk to her. Send her erotic photos of yourself.

Here goes:

1. If you were able to wipe out one disease throughout the world, which would it be? (stupidity doesn't count in this case)
Too bad stupidity is off limits here, because that seems to plague most of the people that I run into on a daily basis.

This is actually a fairly tricky question. Much of the world is overpopulated as it is and like it or not, disease is keeping things somewhat in check. So rather than choose cancer or AIDS, I think I'll go for addicition.

Addiction is a disease that causes a lot of pain in people's lives. I would like to see a cure to addiction to alcohol, drugs, food, smoking and everything else. I think there would extensive, radiating ramifications that would improve life for a great many people.

2. How do you eat your Oreo®?
Only communist pedophile murderers don't dip their Oreos in milk. Also, Nabisco needs to go ahead and give up on the "single" Oreo concept; Double Stuff Oreo technology has made it obsolete.

3. What one flaw, physical or characteristic, do you wish would change?
The obvious answer, of course, is that I would try to tone down my sexiness. But that is an impossible undertaking.

I wish I had a better memory. I've learned a lot of cool shit in my life, but I can only remember about .00003% of it. Slightly more if I'm drunk.

Wait...what was the question again?

4. If Jennifer Garner happened to be one of those completely stupid asshats that send you into an apoplectic fit, would you still covet her?
Why would you try to hurt me like this?

While I'm sure that Jennifer is completely witty, intelligent and charming, I will have to say that I could not covet her if I found her to be a totally vapid twat. I have never been able to stomach a beautiful moron for very long.

But I'd still try to have sex with her.

5. Does your wife know that she married a total pussy?
I'm not a total pussy. But yes, she knows.

She also knows that there are about ten million women out there who pray on a regular basis to find a man who is even half as funny, kind, sexy, smart and humble as me.

2003-09-08T11:08:00.000-04:00

Weekend Wedding

Just got out of a weekend filled with an appreciation of the things that I love most. Football. Family. My wife. Friends. Big screen TV. Not necessarily in that order.

We went to a lovely wedding on Saturday night brimming with tearful vows followed by a reception overflowing with drunken revelry. Nothing mixes quite so fluidly as liquor and love. Everyone had a good time; it's always fun to see your friends decked out in their Sunday best.

Weddings mean different things to different people. For the bride and groom, of course, a wedding is a show of committment to a relationship that they want to hold forever. For the attendees, it is often a reminder of the promise of love or of the love that they currently feel. I am not religious, but I do enjoy much of what a wedding represents. There are very few times in life when one stands in front of family and friends and commits to love and loyalty and trust. There is something very powerful about it. But I've always been a bit of a romantic sap.

And although I sat in an easy chair for the better part of eight hours yesterday watching NFL opening day on my big screen TV with some friends and family, I was just kidding about not knowing which of them I love the most.

Without a doubt, it's her.

Remember that picture next time you call me whipped.

2003-09-05T12:40:00.000-04:00

A Marketing Lovestory

I just noticed that my contact solution states prominently on the bottle in red:
Now With Advanced Dryness Protection!

I cannot express how happy I am to hear that the fine folks at Bausch and Lomb have devised a way to make water wet. I don't know how long their scientists were holed up in a laboratory, but please join me in thanking them for their tireless diligence.

God bless you, fine people, The Nobel Prize is surely yours.

Inspired by this, I have decided to try my hand at writing one of the greatest marketing love stories ever told. Enjoy.

*****

When Frankie gazed blankly at himself in the bathroom mirror, he realized that the eyes staring back at him reflected a lonely but hopeful man. The image was so much clearer since he had started using Windex™ Advanced Cleanser with Soul Searching™ action. It was like he could reach out and touch himself. And so he did.

This dinner with Susan meant so much to him. Too much, perhaps. He had stolen his glances from afar. He had overheard that delicate, lilting voice on her new Nokia™ 9300 Hands-Free Mobile with Stalker Talk™. He had seen the random sunbeam hit her Clairol™ highlighted hair, igniting it in radiant Blonde Pearlescent Passion™.

He only hoped he could contain his nervous energy and allow her to see the man that he could be. There is a fine line between trying too hard and being too casual. He would carefully walk that line tonight, yet confidently, in Steve Madden's™ First-Date Sweep-Her-Away Slip-Ons™. They are neither too hard nor too casual. Perfect for every occasion!®

And yet, even with his positive outlook, the mirror still stared back at him skeptically. It saw his "just-so" tossled hair, held in place with Dep's™ Stud Slick™. It saw his tightly smooth features, cleanly shaven by Gillette's™ Permaglide BabyButt Blades™. It glared at his amazingly whitened smile. He could only hope that Susan would see that this smile was the gateway to his sweet, kind nature. The brilliance of his teeth would announce the happy person he is, according to the fine people at Colgate™. He would remember to write a letter of appreciation for transforming his smile into BlindingWhite™ perfection.

In the mirror's reflection, he saw his Sanyo™ Get-The-Fuck-Up-You-Lazy-Piece-Of-Shit™ alarm clock. The time was 6:35. The time was now. His moment had come. Tonight he would meet his destiny. It was an Old Spice Night®.

He threw on his Geoffrey Beene™ Hide My Man Tits™ Sheer Sucker Silk™ shirt and Docker's™ with Dick Enhancers™ and bolted for the front door.

Wait...calm down. Don't rush. There was no need to hurry. He must show Susan that he was confident and in control. Degree™ Pit-Stain Preventor™ would help him, but he also needed to display an inner calm. He knew that this could not be faked. It must be genuine. Xanax™ with Confidex™ would make everything more real.

Ahhh. Now reality was much clearer. And yet, not.

He hopped into his 2002 Chevy Timberfucker™ SUV and made his way to Susan's apartment complex. The radio played, but he couldn't hear the music. He was focused. Thoughts flew by the vision of his mind and he would selectively pluck the good images for further viewing while shunning the potentially negative scenarios that the evening may take. Thank god for Tony Robbins' Stop Living Like A Dumbass™ video series. Frankie now knew how to make this night (and his life!) work for him.

As he pulled into the City Scape™ Urban Blight Apartments™ For People Who Are Alone And Have Too Many Cats® complex, he punched up Susan's number on the Just An Illusion of Security™ keypad and watched as the gates in front of him lifted, allowing his entrance into the night of romance ahead.

He walked up to Susan's apartment and rang the bell. He could tell that she was just beyond the door, waiting the requisite amount of time, so as to not appear too eager.

The door opened and there she stood.

Amazing.

Frankie was struck dumb. Speechless. He could only look at her; could only breathe her in.

Her slinky Dolce and Gabbana™ Check Out These Cans™ dress and Manolo Blahnik™
You Absolutely Cannot Afford These Heels™ heels made her into a perfectly hewn piece of marble that he couldn't stop admiring.

She laughed.

"You look incredible. Absolute perfection. I mean...amazing. I've never seen...I'm sorry to ramble...should we go?" he asked in his best casual voice.

"No, you can feel free to Ramble On©," she giggled, remembering her new Led Zeppelin DVD that's available at Target™ stores everywhere for the low, low price of $19.98, "it's nice to hear that you like what you see. God knows it took me a while to look like this!"

They laughed. It was a laugh of friends and of lovers. They looked at one another awkwardly, realizing their nervous laughter. Then they laughed more.

As Frankie walked to the passenger door to hold it open for Susan, he saw her eyes spark.

"Oooo, is this the Rock Raper™ or the Timberfucker™?" she asked coyly.

"I went all out and got the Timberfucker™. I felt like I owed it to myself®," Frankie replied.

"That's fantastic," she cooed.

And they were off to the restaurant.

When they arrived at Italiano's™ House Of Overpriced Noodles and Watered Down Sauce®, Frankie ordered Smirnoff™ Vomiting Bum Vodka™ martinis for both of them, in an effort to smooth the transition into small talk.

They talked more than they ate and laughed more than either could've hoped. They were falling in love.

After dinner, Susan excused herself. She said she needed to go freshen up and reapply her Revlon™ Streetwalker Red™ lipstick with Cock Smootheners™.

Frankie took this as a good sign.

After dinner, Frankie and Susan took a lakeside walk. Calm and suave Frankie was gone now. He was in love and he had to tell her.

"Susan, I know that it's too soon, but sometimes I feel things that I can't hold inside. Sometimes I think that if I don't say what I feel right now, the moment and feeling might be gone forever. So here goes..." he breathed.

Susan looked at him, hopeful that he would say what she was dreaming. She felt the feelings too. She couldn't deny what was in front of them. Didn't want to. This was all so beautifully real. Tears pushed the edges of her eyes, but she wasn't concerned because she had applied Max Factor's™ Stop Your Crying You Stupid Bitch™ mascara with Drynow Protection™.

Frankie looked into Susan's eyes and lost himself for a moment in the Bausch and Lomb™ beauty of the new Fakeblue™ technology. He exhaled.

"Susan, I want to be with you forever. I want to be the man you've always wanted. I love you. More than I love the sky at dawn. More than I love the ocean at midnight. More than I love my Sony™ Insanely Gynormous TV™ with ErectionTech® remote. I will love you always," Frankie whispered.

"Take me now!" were the last words Frankie remembered hearing when he woke up the next morning sprawled sideways on Susan's bed. She had left to make them breakfast and he was left to bask in the still warm bed. He looked at the spent Trojan™ Wrap-Up-That-Gnarled-Wang-Cuz-God-Only-Knows-Who-She's-Been-Fucking™ condom with Baby-B-Gone® lubricant and he smiled.

He knew that lust was for but a night, but their love was eternal.

2003-09-04T12:06:00.000-04:00

Full Court Press

I am temporarily revoking my vow at a happier demeanor. I mean, seriously, none of us believed it was gonna last anyway, right?

I would like to send out an open letter to the press. So I will. Cuz it's my blog and I do what I want. (snaps)

Dear The Press -

Please know that I speak for the entire population of the world when I ask you to kindly shut the fuck up. Until further notice, please make a note that we do not want to hear anything more about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez, either in their singular or coupled form. Leave them alone. Leave us alone. Die. Faster.

And also, when any couple (celebrity or otherwise) starts dating, please be clear: NOBODY CARES. Odds are, the celebrities are only dating each other in some sort of transparent attempt to promote some unbelievably shitty movie, tv show or book that cannot stand on its own merits. Anyway, it only serves to remind us that we never got to fuck a celebrity. Nobody likes to be reminded of that.

And also-also, when any couple (celebrity or otherwise) gets divorced, we don't wanna know. Someone cheating on someone else or getting sick of someone else or getting tired of a pretend marriage isn't really noteworthy. It's just sad and pathetic and personal and none of our goddamned business. Next time the brilliant idea to do a story about a celebrity divorce hits you, beat the idea back into your palsied head with your keyboard. Repeat until unconscious.

That is all.

For Now.

2003-09-03T15:34:00.000-04:00

Nunayerbiznes

I'm tired today. Too tired to write. I'll try to work on somethin' purty for the end of the week.

Later.

2003-09-02T12:48:00.000-04:00

The Mind Of A Genius

In a blatant attempt at mutual blog pimpage, Gimmy has asked to interview me. She practically begged, frankly. It was ugly.

Anyway, I had my people call her people and arrange a sitdown interview at the Four Seasons downtown. My only demands were that she provide a pewter tray of M&M's (NO GREEN!) and all questions about J-Lo are off limits.

The interview went well. For some reason, she asked that I do the interview without my pants on. Fortunately, I already had them off. But I digress. Go visit her. She's good people and talented in a number of ways.

Prepare to delve into the mind of greatness; if you feel woozy, look away:

1. If you could be a woman for a day, what would you do?

This one is obvious, of course: Hardcore Lesbian Action.

Doy.

2. Pick five songs that best represent the life you’ve lived thus far.

This is a bit tougher. These are all songs that I like and also just happen to represent my life:
Outshined - Soundgarden There is no better way of saying it. When I was growing up, I always felt outshined. Key lyrics - I just looked in the mirror/Things aren't looking so good/I'm looking California/And feeling Minnesota.
Hard To Handle - Black Crowes Love the Black Crowes. This song is summery and free. I could've said these exact words to my wife on the night we met: Action speaks louder than words/And I’m a man of great experience/I know you’ve got another man/But I can love you better than him.
Black - Pearl Jam Certainly a dark song; it encapsulates the pain that every guy feels in his most pathetic and vulnerable moments. I've had my share of those. Key lyrics - I know someday you'll have a beautiful life/I know you'll be a star/In somebody else's sky/But why/Why/Why can't it be/Why can't it be mine.
The Way It Is - Tesla Okay, this is one is odd. The reasons are many and varied. And no, I'm not sharing them with you. Key lyrics - Even though we could never seem to work things out/I still love you just the same/I miss your smile and that sparkle in your eye/You're so beautiful, never change.
Why Georgia - John Mayer Makes happy about where I am. It makes me live in the moment. Key lyrics - Everybody is just a stranger but/That's the danger in going my own way/I guess it's the price I have to pay.

Man, that was really hard.

3. Imagine that starting right now nobody will find you the least bit funny ever again. How will you distinguish yourself?

Well, you've pegged me here. I guess it's pretty obvious that I identify strongly with being funny. It's a huge part of who I am. I love to make people laugh and shoot liquids from their noses.

I suppose I would try to distinguish myself through writing. I like to explore emotions in writing that are too difficult to talk about.

4. Name your favorite comfort foods.

I am on an ice cream kick right now. Can't. Stop. Eating. It. Also, I love good ravioli. And perfectly prepared steak. I love to cook almost as much as I enjoy eating. I make a really good Italian Chili that is an excellent comfort food.

5. Describe a technological innovation you hope will be commonplace in 30 years.

An Instantaneous Personal Human Transporter. I would love to get from Point A to Point B within seconds. Can you imagine a world without airlines, traffic jams or waiting to see loved ones? I would love to experience this in my lifetime.

*****

So that concludes the interview portion of our program. Time now for the eveningwear segment. My tits look great in this gown.

2003-08-28T11:44:00.000-04:00

The Test

Following is a test for all single men. Many of you are not fit to be dating and it's time that someone told you.

If you answer in the affirmative to three or more of the following questions, you fail. If you don't know what it means to "answer in the affirmative", you fail. If you drool on your keyboard while reading this, you fail. If you are surfing for porn at the same time as you take the test, you fail. If you are touching yourself right now, you fail. As previously discussed, the penalty for failure is jumping naked from a speeding bus once a week until cured. Believe me, it's better than you deserve.

You have five minutes to complete the test. You may not understand how the statements are relevant to dating women, but it's not really for you to understand. Just trust me. I am much, much smarter than you. If you were so smart, you'd be getting laid by much prettier people right now.
Please use a #2 pencil.

1. I like a smart girl, but not as smart as me. And she also has to have a tight ass, if you know what I'm sayin'.
2. Dude, women love my long, flowing, blonde hair that I sometimes put in a ponytail.
3. No, seriously, dude.
4. I think the best first dates take place at events that end with the word "Rally" or "Pull".
5. Women melt when I wink and point at them.
6. I think it's only fair to go "Dutch" until I'm sure I'm gonna get laid.
7. All chicks are feminists, so I let them open the door for themselves.
8. Being tan is more important than what kind of shoes I have.
9. When I see a group of girls out at a club, I'm pretty sure they want me to come over and annoy the shit out of them.
10. Pinching or slapping a girl's ass is a good way to start up a conversation.
11. You can never go wrong with a nice sleeveless t-shirt.
12. And also mesh.
13. Women love it when I get their phone number and then go back and high-five my boys while yelling, "SCORE!". It shows them that I'm excited.
14. If I buy a girl a drink, she better put out. What am I, made of money?
15. Bitches in tight, spaghetti-strapped tops are so asking for it, man.
16. White or black, women love it when I talk like I'm from Compton, yo.
17. If some bitch doesn't understand why Metallica rules, then she doesn't understand music, man.
18. I think wearing my baseball cap backwards gets women horny.
19. I stay away from fat chicks, because even though I'm 30 pounds overweight, I carry it well.
20. I've hit on really hot chicks because I've heard that sometimes guys are too intimidated to talk to them. Not me!
21. Most of my clothes can be worn four or five times before I need to wash them.
22. I don't need to learn how to cook - that's woman's work.
23. I think women are okay with it if I tell them that they have awesome tits. Also, if things are going well, I'll sometimes add that I'd like to bury my face in them.
24. When I first start talking to a girl and she acts like she's not really interested, I'm experienced enough to know that it's all part of the sexy conversational tango that will eventually get me laid, so I keep bothering her.
25. Girls find it quite charming when I refer to them as Baby, Sweet Cheeks, Sugar Tits, Mama, Fine Mama, Pretty Mama, Tasty Lips, Hey You, Hey!Yo!, Whad-Up Gurrl or simply DAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYY-UM.
26. There is no finer compliment I can give to a girl than telling her I want to eat breakfast off of her ass.
27. I don't like to use "pick-up lines" (air quotes) with girls. Usually, I just say something like, "Baby, are you wearing chrome jeans? Cuz I swear I can see myself in your pants!"
28. In my initial conversation at a bar, I like to refer to my penis by a first, middle and last name. Possibly with a Jr. at the end. Women think it's cute.
29. Fuck that girl's friends, they don't even know me.
30. The best second date for me is usually an Adam Sandler or Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. As long as it has tits in it or something, ya know.
31. My hobbies include: Hanging out with my boys, playing X-Box, getting laid, sleeping, drinking and backyard wrestling.
32. Why should I clean up my crib when the shit is just gonna get dirty again.
33. All women want is to break a guy down and change him. Ain't no woman gonna change me.
34. I hate homos.
35. Women like to be ignored; it makes me a challenge for them.
36. A woman has to understand that I might cheat on her if something unbelievable comes my way. It's just the nature of man.
37. I'll tell any girl that I love her if it gets me laid.
38. If I find out a girl's mom is fat or ugly, I dump her ass.
39. I want a girl that will shut up when I tell her to shut up.
40. Good girls are a dime a dozen.

Hell, what was I thinking with three affirmatives? If you answered even one of these in a positive fashion, go here.

2003-08-27T12:15:00.000-04:00

Clueless

I swear to Christ, there needs to be some sort of test for single men to see if they are fit to enter the dating pool. It should be administered every four years, like the Olympics, and if you fail to pass, you get thrown from a moving bus, naked. Once a week. Until you snap out of your stupidity.

Julia just described a recent dating excursion, and I've got to say, she should have been allowed to bring a can of mace or stun gun or something. This is what men deserve. I mean, how clueless are some of you handjobs?

On Saturday night, I got to witness some single-guy-genius in action. A gem from an overheard conversation:

Him: "So...you work here long?"
Her (bartender): "Uh, yeah. What can I get ya?"
Him: "You look great. I bet you hear that a lot. You're really sexy."
Her: "Yeah. What do you want?"
Him: "What do ya got?"
Her: "It's a bar. We have al-co-hol."
Him: "What time do you get off?"
Her: "Get out."

Guys, just stop. Staaaahhhhhhhhhhh. P. You are sad. Try to focus and look for subtle clues such as:
- "I hate you."
- "You have a small penis."
- "DieDieDIE!!"
- Vomiting directly on you
- Punching you in the balls and kneeing you in the face

Tomorrow, I am posting the test. If you fail, start checkin' bus schedules.

2003-08-26T12:36:00.000-04:00

Vitiation

Andy Warhol punched me in the brain on Saturday night.

I attended a bachelor party for a friend where I was able to enjoy the sweet, swirling ride of vodka over my tongue and a full display of flesh-toned transgressions. The night began at 7:00 with dirty martinis and tender filets and ended at 4:00 with ice cold water and cheesesteak omelets. Somewhere in between were live nude girls and women in cowboy hats.

My favorite kind of night is when I can feel myself falling down the rabbit hole. The liquor warms me and turns my brain sideways, so that I can see the world in a fresher light. Motion all around and everything blurs.

Mother of God, I do love alcohol.

Here's roughly how the night progressed:

2003-08-25T16:38:00.000-04:00

Truth and Consequences

If you haven't read my three stories yet, you should go and play the little game now. Go on. Let me know which of the three is the truth.

First, I really did have a friend named Chuck in high school. He and I shared the same common bond that every one of the people I can remember in my small group of friends shared: we were shy. Oh, sure, maybe we were occasionally extroverted, but we were shy nonetheless. Shy with girls, in particular. Chuck is extremely genuine and I knew that eventually he'd find a girl who would see him for the great guy that he is. That's why I would've been especially disappointed if I had killed him that night on the gravel road. I swear I thought that road was straight. Although everything happened really fast, I remember distinctly looking over at Chuck right as the car was spinning and he had the look of complete terror on his face. And we were both yelling "fuck" as loud as we could. When the car landed, down in the ditch, I saw that one of the tires had blown and I didn't have anything to fix it. I can't remember how we got the car out of the ditch, but we did and then we drove it very slowly down the gravel road and out onto the main road, keeping the right front blown-out tire on the soft shoulder the whole time to avoid further damage. We drove like that all the way to my friend Larry's house (about 4 miles and 2 hours later) so he would help us change the tire. All cuz we couldn't get dates to the prom. I'm still not a fan of gravel roads.

When my parents saw the spare tire and the weeds wedged in the front bumper and grill, they rightly asked what in the hell happened. It just so happens that this whole true story led to me telling one of the biggest lies I've ever told my parents. I said, "We were driving out on the gravel road and the tire blew! I lost control and went into the ditch. It wasn't my fault! The tires are almost completely bald! We could've been killed!"

My dad had all four tires replaced the next day. And he got a talking-to from my mom.

The second story is complete horseshit. I named the girl Jamie after Jamie Lee Curtis. I named the gravel road Tasker Road after Helen Tasker. Jamie Lee Curtis played Helen Tasker in this movie. I made myself giggle a little bit about that. I'm not sure if I ever had a girl sit with me in the front seat of my old Chevy Nova and I sure as hell never got any over-the-shirt action there. Also, the line "it's too cloudy to see the stars anyway" is just way too good of a line to be real. Ya know, if I do say so myself.

The third story is also unadulterated bull poo-poo. I was sort of a dork in high school, but I had a few really good friends who would never let me drink alone. We did drink that damned fruit-flavored schnaaps though. God, that stuff is hideous.

So, as I'd hoped, the true story got the fewest votes. Which I guess means I'm a really good liar and you should never trust a damn thing I ever say again.

But if you didn't know that, then you don't know me at all.

2003-08-23T12:39:00.000-04:00

It's Never About Truth

Lies save trouble now, but may return in thunder and lightning.
- Mason Cooley

I was tired and lazy and wandering yesterday and simply not in the mood to write. Today I'm still tired and lazy, but I am feeling a bit more the wordsmith. As promised, I am taking part in Obfuscation: The Blog Game, mostly because I like the name, but also because I like the idea.

Of the following three stories, only one is true. Can you figure out which one?

The Drive

I didn't really want to go to the prom my junior year, but looking back, I'm beginning to think that I could've found some better way to spend it than driving down country roads with my friend Chuck. We had fun together, but there is no more dangerous formula than two adolescent boys driving around lamenting their soon to be squandered youth. The conversation, as I recall, alternately revolved around "not giving a shit" and wondering what particular girls might look like in (and out) of their dresses.

High school boys like speed. Our bodies spin on freshly forged cylinders and our minds zip from thought to action with little reasoning of consequence. It is the desire to recapture some of this vibrancy that makes grown men buy highly polished, overpriced, sporty red cars later in life. We all spend four or five awkward, misunderstood years trapped with a power that drives us to an end we cannot mentally meet. And so it was this night.

I turned down a gravel road, leading into a darker part of the country that may provide more shelter from our thoughts.

"The thing that pisses me off, Chuck, is that I think I might have been able to go, if I'd just had the guts to ask someone," I said.

"Yeah, me too. You know there are girls sitting at home tonight that we could've gone with...just to go," he concurred.

"Ah, fuck it. I didn't want to go anyway. I'd just end up going with someone I didn't really like and then stare at Beth all night anyway..." I sighed, accelerating down the long, straight patch of pebbly road.

"Man, you know you have no chance with her. We aren't in her league," Chuck stated with a friendly bluntness.

"That's what I'm saying! I know I can't get a girl like her, but that's what drives me crazy! I can't stop looking and thinking, 'What if', ya know?" I said, turning on the brights of the old Chevy Nova.

"Fuck 'em. I didn't want to get all dressed up and shit anyway. I hate wearing a tie," Chuck said, pushing his feet into the floorboards a little, "man - slow the fuck down. There's no lights on this road."

"This is a straight fucking road; don't worry about it. Live a little, fer chrissakes," I said, peering slightly into the darkness.

"Just slow down, it's a gravel road," Chuck said with faux indifference.

"Teenage boys found dead in mangling car accident," I mocked, in my best newsman's voice, "Gay love affair suspected."

"Fuck off," Chuck said, "...shit, TURN!!"

"SHIT!" I yelled, braking hard and sliding the car to the left.

The gravel was like ice. The car was sliding sideways in sickening-super-slow fast motion. I saw the ditch. The wheel spun away from my hands.

I looked at Chuck.

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!" we screamed in unison, as I felt the car flip and saw the world go upside down.

The car seemed to twist in every direction. A carnival ride out the windows.

Ditch. Stop. Right side up.

Holy shit.

"You ok, Chuck? Did we just flip?" I whispered hoarsely.

"Asshole. That was fucked up," he said, shaken.

"Man, we really shoulda gone to the dance," I said.

"Yeah, no shit."

The Date

I didn't really want to go to the prom my junior year, but looking back, I'm beginning to think that I could've found some better way to spend it than with a girl that I only pretended to like. We had fun together, but there is no more dangerous formula than a horny teenage boy and a naive teenage girl. The conversation, as I recall, alternately revolved around our "fucking parents" and debating what other girls looked like in their dresses.

High school girls like romance. The mind of the adolescent girl sees boys as better than they'll ever be. Their youth glosses over the fact that romance is the exception, rather than the rule. Magazines and television train them to find romance where none exists and hold on with the ferocity of a wolverine. It is the desire to recapture some of this romantic sentiment that makes grown women stay with cruel men and immature boys later in life. We all spend four or five awkward, misunderstood years trapped with a belief that drives us to an end we cannot mentally meet. And so it was this night.

The dance itself was, for me, filled with an awkwardness that I'm certain Jamie could sense. The up-tempo music drove me to the standard air guitar/hop-twitch combo that I was positive made me look awesome. She was incredibly tolerant.

When the slow songs came and the chaperones on the outskirts of the gymnasium looked a bit more intently at the couples, I would slowly and uneasily grab her around the waist and interlock my fingers behind her back. I had no idea what to do with my head, as I was a good ten inches taller than she was. Also, I was sweating like fat hooker in a sauna from my jump-dancing. The only gentlemanly thing to do seemed to be to bend down and put my head on her shoulder. This made for an ugly silhouette. Jamie didn't see to mind. When I looked down into her eyes at the end of the last dance, I saw that she liked me far more than I liked her. The funny thing is, when I saw that, it made me like her more.

We left the dance, hand in hand, like lovers. My hand was sweaty and she had to reach up slightly to compensate for the height difference, but she was smiling every time I looked at her. Thinking about it now, I am convinced she was making plans for our wedding.

I opened the passenger door of my old Chevy Nova, with its newly Armor-All'd vinyl interior and led her with my hand into her seat. I ran around to the driver's side, trying to get clear in my mind how to put sexual thoughts into action. I waivered momentarily in reflection of how this girl really liked me a lot and how I wasn't especially attracted to her and how I didn't want to eventually hurt her feelings...but these were fleeting moralistic thoughts and I was able to ignore them with the help of raging, brain-hazing hormones.

"So..." I queried, "where to next?"

"Well, Jenny is having an after-dance party in her parent's basement and they promised to leave us alone. Her parents are so cool," she said.

"That sounds good. Can we just go driving around first, though?" I asked, as I reached over and took her hand.

"Sure. That'd be nice," she said, in what she imagined was her coy tone.

At this point, I had no plan. I just wanted to have some time to figure out how I could possibly kiss her and maybe feel her breasts.

"Let's take Tasker Road over. It's dark out there and we can see the stars," I said.

Jesus Christ. See the stars?!?

"That sounds really nice. Isn't that a gravel road, though? Do you want to get your car all dirty? It's so clean and new," she baby-talked, running her other hand along the plastic dash.

"Nah, I don't mind. It'll clean up," I said, plotting my next move.

I made the turn and drove a mile down Tasker and then began to slow the car as I shut off the headlights. I pulled over to the side, near the ditch. I sat there for a minute, letting my eyes adjust.

"I hope aliens don't come and take us away. I can just see the headlines, 'Young teens abducted after prom'," I mocked, in my best newsman's voice, "Anal probing suspected."

"You're so silly. I love that you make me laugh," she said.

"I had fun tonight," I said as I leaned over, hardly aware of what my body was doing. "I liked being with you."

I kissed her at a sideways angle. A dry, strange kiss. I saw that she belatedly forgot to close her eyes, as she imagined she should, and then I realized that I forgot to close mine and I pressed them tightly shut to compensate.

I reached one hand over to turn her head toward me and reached the other hand over to...

Shit. I couldn't turn far enough because the lapbelt was locked.

I backed away momentarily.

She smiled at me.

"That was nice," she whispered, "thanks."

I unbuckled my lapbelt, but somewhere in the time between, the moment must have gotten lost, because as I leaned in for another kiss, she backed up slightly. I persevered. I pressed against her lips and brought my hand up to her left breast.

"Please...don't," she whispered, gently.

I pressed a little with my lips. Her lips were flat in return. I took my hand away.

"Maybe you should just take me home," she muttered, "it's too cloudy to see the stars anyway."

The Dork

I didn't really want to go to the prom my junior year, but looking back, I'm beginning to think that I could've found some better way to spend it than being drunk and alone in an elementary school parking lot. My subconscious and I had fun together, but there is no more dangerous formula than a lonely teenage boy and a fifth of fruit-flavored schnaaps. My conversation, as I recall, alternately revolved around what a "pathetic fuck" I was and debating if I'd ever get my hand up a girl's dress.

High school dorks like drama. The mind of the dork imagines revenge and the belief that someday, everything will be made right. Logic sees only the unjust actions of the world around and the superficiality that seems to be neverending. The cruelty of others and the absolute indifference of the world incites one to bitterness and cynicism. It is the desire to recapture some of this anger and empowerment that makes grown men beat their wives and demean their co-workers later in life. We all spend four or five awkward, misunderstood years trapped with a belief that drives us to an end we cannot mentally meet. And so it was this night.

I drank and drank. I tuned the old Chevy Nova to radio stations that would play music to which I should never have been listening. Sad songs meant to push me further. I cried to myself the pathetic whines that adolescents sometimes do when the world crashes down daily. I was angry and defeated. Angry at myself and angry that others couldn't see that I was a good person. God, it hurts to think of it even now.

There was no country road. There was no fantastic crash or shy, sweet girl. It was me and a sticky-sick bottle of liquor and my thoughts about how I wouldn't escape the teenage years without hating the world. It was me sitting there wishing I had a friend to help console me or a girl with whom I could spend crazy, awkward moments.

Sometimes reality isn't full of grand moments, just little hard ones that make you the person you are later in life.

Or maybe I'm lying.

2003-08-21T17:52:00.000-04:00

The New Commandments

1. Thou Shalt Stop Doing Stupid, Crazy Shit In My Name
2. Thou Shalt Sit The Fuck Down and Shut The Fuck Up

Call it the new "streamlined" gospel.

Praise unto me.

2003-08-20T16:17:00.000-04:00

Turgid

I think it's important to note that even though there are annoying distractions going on in our world (such as war and bombings and terrorism), there are still trained and skilled professionals that are deeply concerned about your penis. Well, unless you're a woman. Then I'm not sure if anyone is really worried about your penis.

According to this article, the scientific community is preparing newer, faster and longer-lasting methods to keep you harder than calculus. In the future, through the evolution of modern medicine, men will just walk around with a raging hard-on 24 hours a day. So, not much different than the present, really.

The thing that cracks me up about this story is the names under which these new drugs are being marketed. God bless marketing people for taking six-figure salaries and coming up with names like "Levitra".

An excerpt from the staff (HA!) meeting on naming:

Marketing Idiot #1: Ladies and gentlemen, we are tasked today with coming up with a name for our client's incredible new drug.
Marketing Idiot #2: Uhhh...whatzit do?
Marketing Idiot #3: I like ham. (drool)
MI#1: This new drug is for the male downstairs region. Our client is looking to "raise expectations" (air quotes) for men, if you know what I mean.
MI#2: Um, no. I don't.
MI#3: (drool).
MI#1: Don't make me spell it out people. I'm talking about enhancing the dangle-down. Making the noodle naughty. Putting the jack back in the rabbit.
MI#2: I like pasgetti.
MI#3: BUNNIES!!
MI#1: Jesus Christ, I'm talking about giving guys boners here.
MI#2: Ooohhhhhhh.
MI#3: Not bunnies?
MI#1: Now, we need a name that says "power" and "strength" and "erect!" (extreme air quotes).
MI#2: How about "Erect - The Pill for Erections"
MI#1: I like that. It's a good start.
MI#3: How about "Boner - The Pill For When You Can't Get It Up"
MI#1: Subtle. I like that.
MI#2: I like: "Cocky - For A Big Cock"
MI#1: That's genius. But I'm looking for something that conveys more of a "magical" feel.
MI#2: Maybe, "David Cockerfield's Wangtastic Hard-On Pill"?
MI#1: Just now, I fell in love with you.
MI#3: Magicians scare me.
MI#1: Trevor makes a good point. Magicians are scary. What else is magical?
MI#2: "Hairy Putter and The Rock-Hard Bone"?
MI#1: I love that like my grandmother, but it sounds too much like a porno movie. What else? Come on people, it's close to 3:00 here - I've got a 3:30 tee time...
MI#3: I like tea.
MI#2: I always like it when magicians pull stuff out of hats. How about "Abracockdabra - For When You Need to Pull a Huge Dick Out of Thin Air!"
MI#1: I like how you worked "pull" and "dick" into the tag there...
MI#3: I like the floaty ladies. Magic guys make people float. Up in the air. Floaty!
MI#1: I see where you're going...and we're working...we're working...what's like floating...?
MI#2: Isn't it called "leveltration"?
MI#1: Well, technically, it's called "levitation". Let's run with that...
MI#3: "Levitration" is too long for me to remember...how about just "Levitra"?
MI#1: Well again, technically, it's "levitation", not "leviTRAtion". But I'm really tired and it's late. Levitra it is. Here's a bonus check Trevor. I guess you could call it a "boner check".
MI#3: I don't get it.

2003-08-19T11:51:00.000-04:00

You Don't Own Me

There appears to exist a belief that I am "whipped". I'm not sure how these filthy lies get started, though I suspect it may be because I write about how I'm a gigantic pussy all the time.

But that's strictly for comedic purposes only.

Rest assured, I am all man.

220 pounds of unbridled sexy majesty. And sometimes, when I'm in the mood, bridled.

I've seen whipped, my friends, and it is not me. For example, I heard the tale of a woman last week on the radio. This woman stated that she demands that her man respect her. To that end, she forces him to turn his head when beautiful women are on television. You. Have. Got. To. Be. Shitting. Me.

Lest you think this woman is some isolated whack-job, no more than two minutes later another woman called in to say that she makes her man do the same thing. Don't these two sound like an absolute treat to be around? These men are praying death will take them quickly and soon.

By whose definition of beautiful does the man go by? Does the wife hold up a green card for safe and a red card for danger?! Fun life.

I am convinced that this is the exact kind of woman whose husband is deeply involved in S&M during his lunchhour with Mistress Veronica Von Kidneypunch. Later, after the bitter divorce (wherein it is revealed that she enjoys using a strap-on during lovemaking), she will wonder aloud to friends, "Why? Why did he cheat? What did I ever do?"

Now, I am not condoning cheating in any way. What I am condoning is that when your spouse tells you to turn your head from beautiful women, you calmly look at her and say, "You are out of your fucking mind. Here's how the rest of this marriage is gonna go: I will look but not touch and you will not make ridiculous, asinine comments like that. Also, you will make me sandwiches with lots of bacon without being prompted and I will give you ear popping oral sex. Whoever cheats gives all money and possessions to the other person and goes to live under a railroad bridge. So let it be written, so let it be done."

Just. That. Easy.

2003-08-18T10:38:00.000-04:00

Loner

My wife was up in Canada this past weekend for work. God only knows what kinds of exotic Canadian diseases she's come back with. I'm hoping for monkey pox, of course. Or something monkey related. Monkey strep throat, maybe.

In her absence, I thought it best to honor her with a weekend of hookers, gin and a Donkey Show at the house of Witt. Ahhh, who am I kidding? It was another weekend of computer games and crying into a pillow. I'm lucky to have stayed clear of my own filth.

But, again, I've jumped the tracks here already. My point is that on Saturday night, I attended a birthday party/housewarming for some friends of mine downtown. They have a beautiful house and it was quite a good time, but I attended it solo. Cuz my wife was out of town. Jesus, try to keep up here, people.

While my wife and I have the kind of marriage where we do many things independently (movies, exercise, masturbation), we rarely attend parties separately. It was an odd sensation to be at a function alone while groups of couples mingled around me. There was no reserve chute. No backup plan. No ripcord. Introductions were awkward: "Hi, I'm CW, and this is my...um...penis."

It was all wrong.

See, the best part about parties for a married couple (or even dating couples) is to sit back occasionally and make fun of the other attendees. What good is a party if you can't bolt to a quiet corner and place bets on how long each of the couples is going to last? How much fun can one have without telling the partner how much better her ass looks than everyone else? How many laughs can I have if I can't lean over every now and then and whisper, "Skank", as some overly-dolled harlot walks past?

I still had fun and made pleasant conversation, but everyone eventually retreats to his or her cohort and I was left looking at family photos for the 20th time.

Next time, I need to find an escort service that specializes in my particular situation.

Escort Agency: Hello, this is Mistress Edna's Gock Cobblers, how may we service you?
Me: Um...yeah...I've never done this before. I need a date for a party this evening. But just a date. I only want to talk.
Escort Agency: Uh huh, sure you do sweetie. Our ladies specialize in talking. What color of hair, nationality and bra size would you like to "talk" to?
Me: Whatever, she just has to have a good sense of humor.
Escort Agency: So, like...a C-cup sense of humor?
Me: Lady, I'm serious. I'm married. I just want to have someone to take to a party.
Escort Agency: Hmmm, married eh? Yeah, we never get married guys, so you must be telling the truth. If you are going to a party, you should look into Gock Cobblers special "Group Rate".
Me: It's not like that, I swear. How much for just talking for three hours tonight?
Escort Agency: Let's see...three hours...just talking...you want hand release with that?
Me: Well, sure.
Escort Agency: I figured. That's $500. She'll be there at 8:00.
Me: Super.

My wife is out of town again this coming weekend. I've gotta run this by her.

2003-08-15T17:04:00.000-04:00

The Study Of Relaycast Dominion Transmutation In Our Ecosystem

Many of you are saying, "My heavens, CW certainly has taken a long time to post something today. He most assuredly has some weighty issues of global import which must be addressed before he can pander to our needs."

Right you are, dear reader. There are matters that may be beyond the reach of your meager brainstem that need great care, thought and experimentation. I am the man for these tasks. For you, and for the good of humanity itself, I have devoted the better part of this day to the analysis of the unknown and unseen: Atmospheric based communication controlled through electromagnetic current (probably).

I speak, of course, of the test flight of my brother's $10 remote controlled helicopter inside his living room and the inaugural journey of my $10 remote 4X4 Hummer into the Georgian outback. God bless Closeout Warehouse Center of Georgia and GOD BLESS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!

You want pictures? Oh, I got pictures.

2003-08-14T12:46:00.000-04:00

I Got A Bag You Can Check, RIGHT HERE!!

The trip home a couple of weeks ago brought with it yet another joyous experience at the airport. I flew from Atlanta to Moline, Illinois, because it was the cheapest option that was anywhere close to Iowa. Now, you’d think that there wouldn’t be more than a few people a year that would want to travel to the greater Moline metroplex, but the plane was full of adorable little doe-eyed travelers. My brother and I were standing in the gate area picking out who was going home to Iowa and who was just visiting – Iowa, Iowa, Atlanta, Iowa, Atlanta, Iowa, Iowa, Iowa. It’s quite obvious really. People in Atlanta don’t wear full beards and flannel shirts in the middle of summer. Especially the women.

So we boarded the plane and wedged ourselves into the seats, listening to instructions on what to do in case of a water landing. What? Are we taking a little-known westerly route over the Pacific between Atlanta and Illinois? Seems inconvenient, but I’m not a major airline, so what do I know? I chose to stay quiet, lest they think me a terrorist.

Turns out that I didn’t need to immediately worry about traveling over a major body of water anyway. The major body of water was coming to us. We were 27th in line for takeoff and nobody was in a real big hurry. To hear the tower tell it, there was some sort of flash-monsoon heading directly to the Atlanta airport. Storm of the Century. Hail the size of poodles. In the distance, I saw a man building an Ark.

So we sat. Our Captain was very helpful with the updates, telling us that nothing whatsoever had changed and we were waiting for the storm to hit.

Ah. Yes, let’s not get the fuck out of here before the poodles come. Let’s wait and enjoy the show.

We were all very careful to not move from our seats, because the plane could move AT ANY MOMENT!! WAIT FOR IT!! The excitement in the cabin was palpable. Plane sitting should be a ride at Disney.

Then the Captain came on again and said that the storm was moving more slowly than expected, so he was just gonna go ahead and power down for a while. We were free to move about the cabin until further notice.

Sweet joyful liberty!! Finally, I can run free in the aisle!! Go horseback riding!! Swim in the Olympic sized pool!! Use a hydrangea scented douche!!

Or I can sit and stew. And seethe. And berate God.

After two hours on the tarmac, I hear the engines power up. The Captain comes on over the intercom with his cheeriest voice and proclaims that we are ret’ta’go. I look out the window. No poodles. No rain. I’ve seen porno movies that were wetter than our runway.

I made a mental note to kill an innocent hooker later.

2003-08-13T12:40:00.000-04:00

Wired

My ninety year-old grandma is the matriarch of a family of five kids, 15 or so grandkids and 20-plus great grandkids. She walks around with a souped up, three-wheeled, all-terrain, burgundy walker that sports some sweet-ass six inch rims in the back and hand brakes for laying down the rubber. She will mow your lazy ass down if you aren’t careful.

She is also a computer nerd.

I mean, by your definition maybe she’s not, but if you ask her, she is.

A few years ago, we gave my grandma one of my old laptops to putter around with, because she has always been interested in the technology of them and she especially enjoys playing solitaire on my parent’s computer when she’s at their house. She’s a pretty independent person, so the opportunity to figure something out on her own is invigorating.

We thought that she might be able to use the laptop to write notes to family and maybe play an occasional game of solitaire when she is bored. Also, because she enjoys cards so much, we installed one of those Hoyle-type card games where she can play against artificial computer opponents.

Um, yeah. Big mistake.

We are lucky to hold grandma’s attention for more than five minutes anymore. Not because she is frail or senile or experiencing Alzheimer’s. Grandma is now addicted to computer cards games. In the games that she plays, there are anywhere from two to six computerized opponents. She is convinced that they are all real. Oh, go ahead and try to explain to her that it’s “just a computer game”. I dare ya. She will have you believing otherwise by the end of the conversation.

The funny thing is, she holds grudges against some of the players in the game. I believe she’s not on speaking terms with two of them. The players talk after almost every card is dealt and grandma simply doesn’t care for some of their attitudes. Each computerized player has a vocabulary of about five or so phrases apiece, so they are basically saying the same things over and over and over. But if you ask grandma, it’s the way they say it. Also, she cannot comprehend how they can make a decision and play their cards so fast. There is clearly some sort of plot going on against her.

Until my trip home a couple of weeks ago, I thought this was all just a nice little diversion for my grandma. But she sat me down and told me differently.

“Honey, I used to sit here night after night watching TV and I’d look up and fifteen minutes had passed and I’d think to myself ‘Oh, dear God, it’s only been fifteen minutes, what am I going to do for the rest of the night?’ and I’d be so bored. Now, when I’m playing on my computer, I’ll look up at the clock and it’s nearly midnight and I think to myself, ‘Oooo, I can sneak one more game in’. It’s been a Godsend. Thank you so much for teaching me about computers.”

How great is that?! My grandma is a gamer!

So I decided to watch her play with her new computerized friends for a while and I’m tellin’ ya, little twelve year-old Susie does appear to have it in for my grandma. Sitting there with her sweet, innocent blonde hair, tied into pigtails with that obnoxious pink bow. I don’t care for her. Not one bit. NOBODY IS BUYING YOUR LITTLE ACT, SUSIE!!

My grandma handily kicked her ass.

2003-08-12T10:47:00.000-04:00

None Of The Above

I had an interesting conversation while taking a walk with my dad when I was home a couple of weeks ago. It went something like this:

Me: So you’ve lost about 50 pounds, then?
Dad: Yeah, just eating right and walking everyday.
Me: I’m really proud of you. I was worried about your health at Christmas.
Dad: The doctor pretty much told me to lose weight in no uncertain terms.
Me: How’s your health otherwise?
Dad: I feel good, except for…ya know, down there.
Me: Um, what?
Dad: Well, I had that hernia surgery, remember, and I’ve been sore down there ever since. It hurts more now than it ever did with the hernia.
Me: What’s the doctor saying?
Dad: I went in and he can’t figure out what’s wrong. It all looks perfect.
Me: (Suppressing giggle)
Dad: I mean, there shouldn’t be anything wrong. He doesn’t know what to do.
Me: That’s real encouraging. What’s he gonna do about it?
Dad: Well, he said I have three options…
Me: Yeah?
Dad: Number one, wait six more months and see if it feels better.
Me: Uhhh huuuuuh…
Dad: Number two, he says he can send me to see this specialist lady that can work to deaden the nerve endings to take away the pain.
Me: Okay…
Dad: Number three, he told me he could just go ahead and take the testicle.
Me: Take it where?
Dad: Yeah, I wasn’t too happy with that option either (dad executes one of his perfect mock double takes), “What was that last one, doc?”
Me: What kind of quack is this guy?
Dad: He’s a good guy; he did the surgery in the first place.
Me: And it sounds like he may have botched that.
Dad: Good point.
Me: You need to get a second opinion. I gotta tell ya dad, I’m not a fan of option one OR option three. I mean, I’m not even a doctor and I could tell you to do nothing. For free. And I’m not following the logic of alleviating pain by cutting off a nut. Jesus, what the hell? The only reasonable option is the second one, wherein he’s telling you to go to a doctor who knows what the hell she’s talking about!!
Dad: Maybe I should go see her…
Me: Ya know what? I don’t like that option either, come to think of it. Basically, you are telling me that you are going to pay a woman to deaden the nerves in that area. I don't want any doctor using the word "deaden" when discussing that area. It just ain’t right. If anything, you should see if she can intensify the nerve endings down there, for God’s sake.
Dad: Now that’s a very good idea.
Me: Maybe she can make it so you have an orgasm when you sneeze or something.
Dad: I’ve got a lot to think about now.
Me:You’re damn right you do.

See, it’s all about helping family. You people can learn a lot from me.

2003-08-10T17:07:00.000-04:00

Alive

Time to get back into the swing of things.

I've finally finished my submission for the 26 Things Project. It was a lot of fun. However, I must give the standard disclaimer that I am by no means a photographer in any possible interpretation of the word. Well, maybe one interpretation: I take photographs.

So I guess I am a photographer in pretty much the only sense of the word.

Huh.

Wow. So then, in a way, you should be considering this a privilege. You are getting the chance to view the cutting edge pieces of an up and coming artiste. I envy you with every fiber of my blubbery torso. Embrace this honor, dear reader. You are one of the chosen few.

Ah, who am I kidding, this whole project was just a way to try to use the ol' digital camera for something other than gay porn.

Did I say gay porn? I meant "flower pictures".

Anyway, I thought it would be kinda nice if I gave you a little information on each of my 26 Things so that you have some context. Also, I know that quite a few of my readers are mouth-breathing, slack-jawed, genitally inferior dimbulbs, so I figure detailed explanation is always welcome. Of course, by now, you've drooled on your keyboard and electrocuted yourself. My God, you are a mess.

Onward to the narration:

Animal - I know a lot of my gay, female and gay female readership can't get enough freakin' cat pictures, so I took a picture of my puma-esque unholy ninja-cat, Moe. He is looking innocent, but if you turn your back, he will kill you and leave only tattered shreds of your clothing as evidence.

Authority - This is one of my favorites. The suspicious black woman in the background was just a happy little accident. Blind justice is the best kind of justice. Just ask OJ.

Colour - Um, it's like...ya know...a car and a fire extinguisher.

Communication - It occasionally sickens me to see wiry tower after wiry tower rise from the formerly treelined hills of Atlanta.

Construction - A bulldozer taking a break from tearing up more of Atlanta's natural beauty. Look at me, I'm all Eco-Militant and shit.

Empty - Turner Field after a Braves game. The place was downright spooky.

Food - Looking down into a canister of angelhair pasta. No, I am not interested in what you think it really looks like.

Footwear - The shoes that my wife is using for her marathon training. These are still warm after a 17 mile run.

Home - I'm disappointed that I didn't come up with something better for "Home". This is just an artsy side picture of our house. Not even that artsy, really.

Light - This is looking back and up into the balconies of a new theatre in my hometown in Iowa.

Little Things - Not terribly original here - just some painfully bright flowers from the front of our house.

Love - My sweet grandma on her 90th birthday.

Money - Oooo, look at me! I'm all avante garde with my wacky lighting and foreign currency. You may not touch my beret.

Monument - This is the reflection of a sculpture on my college campus. It also happens to be where I proposed to my wife.

New - Somebody's new toy with some bling-bling rims, yo. The guy driving it thought he was bigger than Jesus.

Numbers - Baseball is a game of numbers.

Scape - This is what greeted me when I arrived in Iowa a couple of weeks ago. I made my brother hold the wheel while I snapped the picture.

Signage - A road in my hometown. That's corn there, for you city folk. Remember how I once said that when I was growing up there was corn for as far as I could see in all directions? DID YOU THINK I WAS KIDDING!!??

Sound - My dad's big ol' floppy ear. It can easily detect the sound of lies.

Sunset - In Iowa.

Symmetry - Just got lucky with this one.

Time - The campanile on campus in my hometown. It lets you know that you are way too late and hungover for class.

Transport - And you people wonder why I rant so frequently about traffic and moronic drivers? This picture is taken during a normal commute day for me.

Water - What don't you get about this one, dumbass? Move on.

Weather - Rainy days and Mondays and genital herpes always get me down.

You - I am a giant among men.

Exciting, yes? Try to catch your breath for a moment. Okay? You good now? Good.

2003-08-04T11:28:00.000-04:00

Keith

Certain memories fly into my mind and make me suddenly smile when I am driving alone, thoughts shifting with pinball randomness.

When I was nineteen and able to run faster than the world could spin, I found myself with group of friends that could hunt down fun and make it their own. Anytime, anywhere. We knew how to manufacture a life-altering good time from an old sock and a wad of bubble-gum. Sometimes, just a look or gesture from one of these guys would double me over with laughter. We all have friends like this; they're friends that make you realize that there's no better place in the world to be at that moment than with them.

*****

In Iowa, any trip becomes an adventure, because it takes you away from the stagnation in which you are currently wallowing. I remember one of the first road trips in which I ever participated, my friends Keith and Mike decided to head down to Des Moines.

The two hour drive to begin our journey was inconsequential. I imagine we were preparing ourselves, mentally and physically.

Keith is older than Mike and I by a few years (married college student, in fact) and he had family in the Des Moines area that were out of town, so we had full run of their house.

I've always considered myself to be quite an extroverted person, but when hanging out with these two, I am downright humbled. Mike's nickname is Animal (after the Muppet's drummer) and he has a knack for being the first man starting and the last man standing. Keith is simply a drinkin', smokin', laughin' machine who will do whatever pops into his mind at any given moment, if it will make someone happy. They are both instigators of mayhem. Mike's casualness and Keith's infectious laugh offset most trouble that comes their way. Such was the case that night.

*****

Keith decided that it would be best if we began the evening at a nearby hotel bar because it had colorful locals, interesting out-of-towners and a big ol' dancefloor. We knew to trust Keith - he wouldn't lead us astray of a good time. When we arrived, however, we were a tad underwhelmed. The DJ's selection of music was questionable and the crowd was sparse. In fact, the only patrons were a group of WWII veterans and their wives that were having a reunion for their Air Force unit.

I looked over at Keith.

"Man, this place is lame. Let's get out of here," I stated over the bad eighties background music.

"Are you kidding me," Keith questioned, "we have the run of the place, we can pick the music, it's $2 drinks and you know that WWII veterans know how to party."

"Oh yeah," Mike concurred, "we're gonna have fun tonight."

Old sock. Wad of bubble gum.

We sat in one of the big leatherette booths off of the dance floor and drank and people watched for a good two hours. The music wasn't particularly loud, in deferrence to the veterans who were obviously talking the awkward talk of men who haven't seen each other in too long.

Suitably warm with alcohol now, Keith says, "Let's go see what those guys are up to."

I look around at the still empty bar.

"Who? Those guys?" I ask, throwing my thumb toward the vets.

"Hell yes!" Keith says, as if I'm the crazy one.

So we walked over to the group and sat right down next to them. And they told us about how the group gets smaller every time they get together and how it's always good to see each other, no matter how much time has passed. They were a little depressed, though. The reunion had become more of a reminder of how much older they are and how much less time they have.

We wanted to change their mood.

Mike jumped up and ran over to the DJ booth. I could tell from across the room that he'd just made best friends with the DJ in about thirty seconds, as was his unique skill. He ran back to us.

"Let's dance!" he said as he grabbed one of the ladies and pulled her to the dance floor.

Keith let out a whoop and within seconds, the whole group was out on the floor, men jigging around and women being spun about by Keith and Mike and I.

To Ice, Ice, Baby.

Everyone was laughing. We were caught in a bubble where none of this behavior seemed the least bit unusual. Rollin' in our five-point-oh.

Afterward we all sat and talked for awhile and then Keith, Mike and I danced by ourselves on the empty dancefloor while the vets beamed at us from their booth. They would applaud whenever we finished.

As we were out on the dancefloor near the end of the night, Keith leaned over to me and said, "See? I told you this would be fun! That's gonna be us someday, getting together at a hotel bar, a bunch of old farts remembering the good old days! Wouldn't you want to have fun?"

"Yeah," I said, "you're right. This was awesome. Who'da thought I'd party like it's 1941 tonight? If you would've told me that I'd have this much fun with a bunch of WWII veterans, I'd have told you that you were crazy."

"Well, I am crazy," Keith said.

The DJ said it was time to wrap things up. Mike ran over and instructed him on the final song.

*****

When I was nineteen and the evening wound away in the bar of a little Iowa hotel, my friends and I formed a kickline across the dance floor with a dozen WWII veterans and their wives as Sinatra sang.

I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps
To find I'm king of the hill, top of the heap
These little town blues
Are melting away

*****

Early last week I got a call.

My friend Keith is sick.

He developed a cough in May.

Surgery in June.

But it doesn't matter.

The cancer is all over.

Doctors say there is no hope. He may not make it until the end of the year.

I am planning on going to see him this afternoon.

But.

I get another call.

This past Saturday night, a man who knew how to grab every moment from life...had to let go. He was 38.

I want so badly to sit with my friend Keith in a little hotel bar and have a drink and talk about old times.

2003-08-01T09:53:00.000-04:00

Home

Everything here is smaller and time is measured differently. People smile at me and laugh with me and understand me. My gramma looks into my eyes and tells me that she loves me so much as she holds my face in her soft, worn hands. Nobody told her I was coming.

I am home today.

"You are brilliant and subtle if you come from Iowa and really strange and you live as you live and you are always very well taken care of if you come from Iowa."
Gertrude Stein

2003-07-31T11:28:00.000-04:00

Life Sentence

So I leave for the sunny plains of Eye-oh-way today. I'm going home for my Gramma's 90th birthday.

I got to thinking about how bizarre it would be if I have, in fact, only lived one-third of my life so far. I mean, I think I've done quite a bit with my life, but there is so much more that I could still do.

Like what, you ask? Well, how convenient that you've asked, or this post would've been a whole hell of a lot shorter.

In the next 60 years, I will:

Skydive. Because I need to see what it feels like to shit my pants at 15,000 feet.

Wander Through Europe. Preferably drunk and on the back of Penelope Cruz. Or with Penelope Cruz, drunk on her back. Tomaytoe, toemahtoe.

Become Richer Than God. And not in that bullshit "rich in spirit" way, either. I'm talking about having enough cash to have people move my fingers for me as I type.

Super Bowl Sex.. Me, Halftime, Jennifer Garner. Don't make me draw a picture. Although, to be honest, I already have drawn several pictures.

Get My Novel Published. And also, if there is time, write my novel.

Add Three Inches. Cuz there's a special cream for that now, I hear.

Have Ripped Abs. Or, at the very least, pull an ab muscle.

Invent Mental Exploder Device. This contraption would allow me to erase certain drivers and their cars from the history of existence. It would be a very painful process for them, but would feel much like an orgasm to me.

Man, there are like a million other things I am going to do, but if I don't pack soon, I will be going to Iowa naked. And frankly, no one needs that.

And also, in the comments, don't wish my Gramma a happy birthday, because to tell ya the truth, she's never liked any of you.

2003-07-30T13:07:00.000-04:00

Growing Up

I know that most of you come here for a laugh and I promise to get back to that soon, but there is a barge of shit floating around in my head right now. I’m going home to Iowa this weekend and I’ve had a lot memories come back at once. I thought it was time to share some of them…

I lived in a storybook neighborhood in an idyllic Midwestern town, where people made it a point to wave and ask how things were going. Neighbors were best friends, and families were extended up and down the quiet streets.

My neighborhood was a blueprint for small town perfection. Five families in the immediate vicinity of my house were linked forever from the moment we moved to the neighborhood when I was around five.

I remember my excitement on the first day in the brand new house, as I saw kids my age playing in each direction that I looked. To the North was Matt, who is a year older than me and his brother, Mark who is my brother’s age. To the northeast, was Stephanie, a year younger than me and her sister, Robin, a year her junior. To my East was Ryan, a year younger than me and his brother Chris, three years younger. To my south were the twins, Jodie and Janae, a year older than me.

Having a group of kids so close in age to call upon at any time was like having your own theme park. We would all spend our free time together, playing with Matchbox cars or playing Superheroes or roller skating or whatever our imaginations could come up with under the summer sunshine. There was an open field between my house and Jodie and Janae’s house that was ground zero for laughter. We would do our best to wear out the grass in that field with football games or tag or volleyball. There were snowforts to beget snowball fights and hoses to beget water balloon fights. Squirt guns and dirt bikes. Laughter and friendship.

In what has to be a twist of luck, all of our parents got along too. We had a neighborhood picnic every summer and we’d roast a pig on a spit in the field while fierce volleyball games were waged and kids ran and screamed all around. We would vacation together. We talked about futures together.

We all grew up in that neighborhood, all the way through high school, together. We always remained close and always had each other’s back. I may not have lasted in high school, if not for the watchful eye of Matt or Jodie and Janae. I always felt safe. I was in Ryan’s wedding. I was Jodie’s usher on her wedding day. I can’t think of a day that I spent with my neighbors that wasn’t fun and funny. We were a family. Their parents were my parents. It was perfect.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

After all of the kids were in college, things became clearer. A haze of idealism drifted out of our little neighborhood. People began to see things that were always there, but had gone unnoticed.

To my north, an empty house. Parents moved away.

To my east, yelling and bitterness.

To my south, verbal abuse. Physical abuse. Hatred.

Everything was broken.

And more. East’s parents divorce. South’s parents divorce. There is cheating in both relationships. Hiding, sneaking and lying.

They were cheating with each other – Mr. from the east and Mrs. from the south. Hiding, sneaking and lying.

Mr. East and Mrs. South got married seven or eight years ago and moved away from the formerly perfect world, leaving ashes. I never spoke to them again, though they were truly like a second father and a second mother to me. I made it a point not to invite them to my wedding, because they represented everything I despise in a relationship. Hiding, sneaking and lying.

I can never forgive them for what they’ve ruined in me and my friends. Nothing is ever quite right when I talk to Ryan and Chris or Jodie and Janae, if I even talk to them at all. We are all changed by the events that were out of our control. We all have the same dull void in our stomachs and our memories, I think. It’s as if that storybook world of childhood never actually existed and I am filled with resentment. My fantastic childhood was a fraud. A play put on for my amusement. I feel sick.

But there is a bit more.

Earlier this year, Mr. East, second husband to Mrs. South and father to Ryan and Chris, died a painful and far too early cancerous death. I didn’t attend the funeral. I sent flowers, but still haven’t called or written to Ryan, one of my very best friends, since.

Right now, I am fighting back tears. I remember how Mr. East used to drive us around in his old, mint condition Mustang. How he used to play basketball with us and throw footballs to us from a block away. How he was a father to me sometimes. How he is responsible for raising two of the greatest guys I will ever meet.

I just can’t seem to forgive. He hurt my friends and changed them forever.

But when I go home to Iowa this weekend, I am going to try to talk to Ryan and tell him that his dad meant a lot to me. I’m going to tell Ryan that he means a lot to me.

I hope we can remember our childhood again.

2003-07-29T12:50:00.000-04:00

Free

I’ve had this thought lately about which I’ve wanted to write, but I can’t get the words to feel right. Not even a thought, really. Maybe an emotion. I’m just going to start writing and we’ll see what happens.

I remember when I was six and I tried to learn to ride a bike without the rattle-taunting of my training wheels. My parents thought it was a brilliant idea to learn to ride by starting on the cushy fescue of the front lawn. I thought the concept moronic. The ground was bumpy and uneven and there was no chance to get momentum. I couldn’t get my rhythm and I would inevitably fall to the unforgiving soil. After a long Saturday of letdowns, I resigned myself to an equilibrium deficient lifestyle.

And then, as the sun crept down over the top of my house, my neighbor Stephanie rode by on her shiny little starter bike, ribbons streaming from the handlebar ends. My younger neighbor, Stephanie. My younger neighbor girl, Stephanie.

No, this would not stand.

I hopped on my tiny red bicycle that looked like a WWI relic and told my dad that we were gonna hit the streets. He dutifully followed behind as I painted my own Rockwellian portrait of dad chasing son, one hand on my seat for balance. And as so often happens in this rite of passage, I looked back briefly to see that my dad was a block away, laughing at my success, as I yelled, “How do I turn?!?”

I got up at 5:30 the next morning and took my bike from the garage to practice and practice again in our out-of-the-way little street. I was turning my feet feverishly, as if the pedals were gyroscopes, keeping me upright. Elongated ovals, up the street and around and back. On my second turn, I tipped and fell, scraping and rolling. I looked up to protest to my parents, but there was nobody around. I hopped back on and rode again, determined tears in my eyes.

And on the fourth loop, I didn’t stop. I kept going straight up the street, smiling and laughing a little to myself. I had mad thoughts of all the places I could go. What states could I ride to? What were my limits?

I was so free. I could do whatever I wanted. God, it felt so amazing. No limits. Anywhere I wanted to go, I could. The world was bigger and smaller now.

And then I got kinda scared and I went home.

The feeling did hit me one other time. On the first day I got my driver’s license, I took my mom’s ’72 Chevy Nova out for a test spin. I got three blocks from my house and I floored it. I laughed that choking, excited laugh that you feel when you don’t want anyone to know your secret. The car bounced over rolling humps in the road, quickly giving the illusion of flight.

I could go anywhere now. I was wildly free.

Carefree.

There are times, when my mind allows it, that I long for that feeling again, just for the first-love rush of it all. It's a childhood emotion, though. Childish, maybe.

I got some news about an old friend last night. I’m not ready to write about it, but I wish I could give the free feeling to him right now, if only for a moment.

I want to go back home now.

2003-07-28T12:25:00.000-04:00

Opposites Attract

Have I ever mentioned that my wife is a bit of a fitness freak? Well, she is. She teaches five or six different kinds of fitness classes in her free time and works for a fitness company. Also, she’s a runner. She’s been into running since she was very young. She is one of those people that actually enjoys it. When she was in high school, she says she used to get so relaxed that she would literally nap while running. I claim she was drunk.

Anyway, my wife is in the process of training for her third marathon right now. She will be running the Marine Corps Marathon in D.C. in October. She did the MCM last year while I rode along nearby on my bike. Cuz I’m supportive like that. Also, she made me.

So, this past weekend she got up at 7:00 to go on a little training run. That’s a.m. On a weekend. I suspect she may be on the smack.

When she got home, she said, “I ran my 15 miles and I felt so great, I just wanted to keep going and going, ya know?”

A blanker stare has never been stared.

No, I do not know. You are a crazy person.

First of all, 15 miles is not a TRAINING RUN!! It is a CAR TRIP!! Second, I got winded even hearing you tell me the story!! I cannot relate to running that far and wanting to keep going! What I can relate to is running that far and having an EMT hit me with the defibrillator about nine or ten times!! CRAZY PERSON!!

These healthy people must be stopped before they infect the rest of us.

WHO’S WITH ME!?!?

2003-07-25T11:43:00.000-04:00

100 Things

I threw this together kinda quick, so I hope there's no duplicates:

100 (or so) Things About CW

1. I'm sixteen years older than I think I am. That puts me at about 32 years old.
2. I cannot imagine a better marriage than my own.
3. I do not currently have, nor do I ever foresee wanting, children.
4. I don't think marriage is difficult. It's not hard work and it's not a challenge. This is not a popular opinion.
5. I've always been funny.
6. I am a fairly decent writer.
7. The preceding two points are my only discernable skills.
8. I am a fan of material possessions.
9. I am not a good test taker. I always assume the questioner is trying to trick me.
10. I was born and raised in Iowa. There are implications to this. Most good, surprisingly enough.
11. I've lived in Iowa, Georgia, Virginia, Maryland and Georgia again. I don't imagine I'll leave here anytime soon.
12. I like to take calculated risks.
13. I've vacationed in France, England, Spain, Italy and Ireland.
14. I've been to 41 of the 50 states. I just counted. It's more than I thought.
15. Forrest Gump will make me cry pretty much every damned time. When he says, "You died on a Saturday morning...". Yeah, that part.
16. Braveheart has Mel Gibson, disemboweling, a mace to the face and boobies. It is the best movie ever made.
17. Stupid people and inanimate objects cause me more stress and rage than anything else.
18. God and I don't get along because He really believes in me and I really don't believe in Him.
19. I have a U.S. Patent in my name. I also have one pending.
20. When I was 13, I rode a bike across Iowa.
21. I'm not responsible enough for a dog, so I have a cat.
22. I’ve only had two pets (both cats) in my whole life: Maggie, who passed away in 2001 and Moe, who terrorizes us to this day.
23. I intend to name all of my pets after Simpsons characters.
24. I’ve been working since I was 15.
25. I have hazel eyes. When I am drunk and/or horny, they get greener. This has served me well.
26. I am a certified kickboxing aerobics instructor.
27. I couldn’t fight my way out of a Kleenex box.
28. I have an older brother and sister.
29. I lost my virginity at 17 in the back of my Chevy Cavalier to a girl I loved.
30. I got drunk for the first time at sixteen on eight Coors Lights.
31. I am in a fraternity.
32. I enjoy a good game of poker with people that know what they’re doing.
33. I know quite a bit about sports and enjoy talking about it, though I have no actual athletic talent.
34. I enjoy music that can change my mood. Other than that, I have no real musical preferences.
35. I don't know how many women I’ve been with, but it’s more than 75 and less than 100. I think. I am a pig.
36. I love television.
37. I am 25-30 pounds overweight.
38. I take loyalty and trust very seriously.
39. I don’t believe in giving second chances.
40. I’ve been in 12 weddings. I’ve been a best man three times. I hope that says something good about me.
41. I drive a Volkswagen because I totally buy into the ads.
42. When I drink, I prefer vodka.
43. I always wished I could sing or play guitar.
44. I like my facial hair.
45. I’ve been in love four times.
46. My parents have been married for over 40 years. I'm sure this has had a huge effect on every part of my personality.
47. The best line in the history of recorded music is, “I’m looking California, but I’m feeling Minnesota.”
48. I have good hair.
49. I like to be physically clean. It borders on OCD.
50. I am messy in most other ways.
51. I’ve held six professional jobs in the 10 years since college. I change jobs when I get bored.
52. I love everything about football.
53. I think anything can be funny, but only if the timing is right.
54. I get physically angry and violent with video games.
55. I love Italian food and hate Dr. Atkins.
56. The first book that made me want to write was a copy of Catcher In The Rye that I snuck out of the school library.
57. “Big Dumb Sex” by Soundgarden makes me happy every time I listen to it.
58. I worked harder from ages 15 to 25 than I ever have since.
59. I am under the misguided delusion that I will be famous someday.
60. My middle name comes from a grandfather who died before I was born.
61. I haven't had to deal with death very much.
62. Reading makes me tired.
63. I don't drink coffee.
64. I can be somewhat militant in my anti-smoking stance.
65. I've always been better with words than numbers, but in recent years I've found a beauty in math that I never recognized before.
66. I can recite and/or recognize many lines from many movies and tv shows. I am a Simpsons encyclopedia.
67. I've never broken any bones. For I am mighty!
68. I like my tighty-whiteys!
69. I have never been in a car accident. Yeah...I'm an excellent driver...yeah.
70. I think funny thoughts.
71. If there is one phrase that I wish I had the guts to say more often, it would be, "Shut the fuck up!"
72. I believe that certain drivers should be put to death for their actions.
73. I love the sound and feel of rain.
74. It upsets me when children cry for insignificant reasons.
75. I have no trouble understanding homosexuality. I assume that they love their partners in the same way that I love my wife. What's to understand?
76. I sometimes have difficulty relating to other cultures.
77. I've had some friends for 25+ years. Friendship borders on a religion for me.
78. I don't always make a good friend.
79. I will look at a woman's ass no matter what. It's a compulsion.
80. The smell of baking makes me horny.
81. Though I am quite talented at Literary Criticism, I am not particularly well-read.
82. I am envious of talented poets.
83. I believe that a good mattress is the key to a happy life.
84. I enjoy all aspects of technology, though I was never formally trained in any aspect of it.
85. I have a home theater in my basement. It makes me happier than I can explain.
86. I do not know when to stop eating. If it's on my plate, it needs to be eaten.
87. I read Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone, Atlanta Magazine and Maxim on a regular basis.
88. I check Consumer Reports before making any major purchase.
89. Most of the time, I drink to get drunk. I mean, who am I kidding?
90. I believe in spending more money on something of quality one time, rather than spending less on something cheap several times.
91. I love cherry chocolate chip ice cream. And almost every other kind of ice cream. I also like saying cherry chocolate chip.
92. I get cravings for salty snacks. I will kill you where you stand for a bag of Doritos.
93. I am a hugger.
94. I believe that afternoon naps should be law.
95. I would do anything that a friend or family member asked of me.
96. I have the best brother in the history of brothers.
97. I smile to myself a lot. It makes people suspicious.
98. I dream in color.
99. I like to hold my breath under water.
100. I used to deal blackjack at a bar.
101. I am nearly blind without my glasses or contacts.
102. I have two tattoos.
103. I am a happy person.

2003-07-24T11:58:00.000-04:00

The View From Here

I’ve always heard that good writers are particularly adept observers. I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I do strive to see things differently from others. I try to watch people and gauge reactions and sense moods. I am constantly amused by the lives I imagine for those I see around me.

I currently work in a large building with thousands of people. This is a real advantage for me, as I get to watch a fairly healthy cross-section of humanity going about their lives. Elevator glances and lunchroom rumblings allow me project an entire backstory.

Some examples:

“Becky” – Twenty-something girl with straight, blond, shoulder-length hair that she had cut and styled after graduation in order to make herself seem more professional and less of the sorority girl that she still feels like, even though she’d never admit it to anyone. Becky goes home at night and hopes there’s more to being an adult than this. Sometimes she drinks red wine alone, convinced that it will soak in and drive her into adulthood. She gets sad more than she wants and isn’t sure why, but nobody at work will ever know it. She gets tired of acting like someone she isn’t.

“Frank” – Frank laughs a little too much at his own jokes and often doesn’t understand other people’s humor. Frank is a decent guy, but he falls into the corporate wasteland between leader and follower; he is a filler. Frank can get certain tasks done, in his own time. People are appreciative of his efforts, but often talk behind his back. Frank has a wife that he never talks about that loves him very much. He sometimes finds himself thinking about what his life would be like without her and his throat hurts. He can’t wait to see her again.

“Margo” – Margo is in her early forties and has worked hard to eliminate the idea that she may be less competent just because she is a woman. She is smarter than nearly everyone in a given meeting, but she would never say as much, nor would those around her feel intimidated. Margo can manage any situation simply by seeing the correct path through a maze of half-truths and miscommunication. She has a beach house where her mind will drift in off moments. Margo is a lesbian.

“Jim” – Jim is an asshole. He carries himself with unwarranted confidence and imagines himself to be superior in intellect and physical strength to all those around him. Jim will reiterate a point made by someone else at a meeting and truly believe it to be a brilliant, original thought. He had a wife right out of college. She hoped she could change him, but she knew better in her heart. It will be ten years before she trusts a man enough to marry again. Jim likes hobbies that he imagines will get him laid. He can’t sleep at night and is scared. Jim once raped a girl in college, but he doesn’t know it.

“Darla” – Darla can’t see past the travesty of humanity perpetrated by her boss three days ago. She tells everyone about it and nobody cares. It is insignificant. She is insignificant. All things in Darla’s life are out of proportion, including her enormous fake breasts. She will never be happy.

I wonder if people are more or less interesting than I imagine?

Writing experiment time!! Go and observe someone that you don’t know and come and tell me about them. It’s almost like blogger voyeurism, but not quite. Try not to get arrested for stalking, you freaks.

2003-07-23T19:07:00.000-04:00

The Sea Was Angry That Day...

I just got this vacation pic from our friends. Believe me when I tell you that I am even more macho in person. Also, the fish that I caught was 200 pounds, easy. And I didn't even come close to getting seasick and throwing up all over the side of the boat. Three times. All of this is true, as far as you know.

2003-07-23T13:31:00.000-04:00

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BEEEE-BOOOO-BEEEEEEEEP

The blogger you have dialed is busy. Try again later.

2003-07-22T11:44:00.000-04:00

Guy Secrets Exposed #2

Today, yet another look into the cavernous and creepy mind of Man.

Topic: Facial Hair.

Men don’t want you to know it, but facial hair is a very important part of our lives. With some exceptions (coughcoughLeocough), men don’t get the opportunity to wear makeup and dress in slinky, clingy dresses. Most never put on $500 strappy shoes and parade gracefully through a crowd of onlookers. Men are bystanders, not bywalkers.

What we do have, is facial hair. It is our only acceptable accessory.

Women always complain about the outrageous female body image that is being thrust upon them by the media. But what about us? Men are always portrayed as needing to be more rugged, yet sensitive. It seems that nothing conveys this look more quickly than the unshaven man; to wit: the busy daddy or the weary construction worker.

During my most influential years, Don Johnson grew a beard on Miami Vice just so he could constantly shave it down to an appropriate stubble. Judging by his face, it was always five o’clock in Miami. Women went crazy for the look.

There I was, a wee little teen with popping-pitch voice and pre-pubescent pimples, praying nightly that I would wake up with a plausible shag of facial growth, just so I could get the ladies. Little did I know that I was still about seven years from any real stubble. Because God hates me.

And thanks to Tom Selleck, we assume that every woman in the world is in love with facial hair. There is no changing our minds on this. The male mind only registers the following:

- Grow facial hair
- Become P.I.
- Move to Hawaii
- Wear crazy Hawaiian shirt
- Wait for supermodels to blow you in your Ferrari
- Repeat

But it all starts with the facial hair. And that, we can do. If there is one task that men can handle, it is the kind where we accomplish something by doing nothing.

“So you are saying I can get laid more by not cutting my face? Okay, I’ll try that. If you want, I’ll stop brushing my teeth, too.”

If you doubt Man’s inability to control the urge to grow facial hair, I will point you to Exhibit A: Upper left hand corner of this page. What the hell is that thing on my chin?!?! What am I thinking?! I have no idea. I can’t control it though. I cannot, will not and dare say, should not, shave it off. I am powerless.

One of my earliest memories is watching my dad shave every morning. He used to give me one of his razors without the blade and he’d let me lather my face using shaving cream from his very hip hot foam machine. From that point in my young life, I knew what cool was. It is cool to cut yourself every morning. Men do this. Even if some men don’t grow facial hair, there is something primal about needing to remove body parts every morning by shaving. Through evolution, it has taken the place of killing a mammoth every morning.

It has! You don’t know!

Shut up.

2003-07-21T12:35:00.000-04:00

Jealous Much?

My weekend makes yours look like a shipwreck on Testicle Punch Island and you’re wearing speed bag underwear.

What I’m trying to say here is that I had a fantastic weekend. I am also trying to say that you are a pathetic, drunken loser with a weak chin. It makes me feel like a Big Man to degrade you. I have issues.

Anywho…enough about how much you suck; let’s talk about me.

On Friday night, by virtue of having better friends than you, I was able to attend the Braves/Mets game in one of the luxury boxes at Turner Field. Wait…that does not do it justice. I saw the Atlanta Braves kick the crap out of the New York Mets from perhaps the best seats in the entire stadium. We were in the only box seats located directly behind home plate with all of the free beer, pizza, chicken wings, hamburgers and ice cream sundaes that somebody else’s money could buy. And again, it was a lovely ass-kicking of a game. Because (say it with me now) The Mets SUCK.

On Saturday, though we had a miserable time trying to get to the movie theater (stop lights conspired against us), we did end up going seeing Finding Nemo. Given my love of all things animated, I was in a little bit o’ heaven. Later, we ate Chinese and sushi and caught up on TiVo’d programming and happily bloated into the evening. And no, the irony of eating raw fish after seeing Finding Nemo is not lost on me. But the Clown Fish Crunch Roll is just irresistible.

Yesterday, we washed our cars in the beautiful Atlanta sunshine and treated ourselves afterward to some Cotton-Candy Explosion ice cream. Yes, it is as good as you are imagining. It has pop-rocks in it. Oh yes it does.

From there we went to a friend’s birthday celebration, where we heartily imbibed beer, ribs, hot dogs and ice cream cake in varying quantities. Also, we went crazy with the X-Box.

I don’t know who I blew in a previous life, but I have got it made in this one.

2003-07-18T13:04:00.000-04:00

Spotlight

I’ve had weird high school flashbacks lately. These blips on my consciousness are akin to a stranger coming up to me on the street, punching me in the balls and pulling out my nose hair. What I’m sayin’ is, most high school memories are roundly unpleasant and make me tear up a little.

One pleasing thought did come up yesterday that my mind must have accidentally lost in the fold of otherwise pitiful high school memories.

Her name was Shannon.

Shannon wasn’t ever a girl with whom I fell in love. Nor was she the lead in my deluded high school fantasies. She was simply fresh and sweet, like mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Shannon was a year older than I and she was a prototype. She was small and strong, bottle blonde and had high school cheerleader poise. Captain of the cheerleaders, in fact. Her eyes were Bombay Gin on ice. Her hair was a shoulder length with a stereotypically pert, curly bounce.

She had wow appeal.

Looking at her, one knew that she couldn’t possibly live up to the image. Couldn’t possibly be more than pomp and circumstance. You could sense strangers in the hallways of school looking for the flaw as she walked by. She had to be a cruel, malicious bitch. If you looked like she did, you knew that you’d be a cruel, malicious bitch. It came standard, right? She dated the captain of the football team. She worked at a clothing store. She was involved in everything. She was a cliché.

So I observed her, as many did, with distant curiosity. And some lust. Okay, a lot of lust. But she was too good for my teenage fantasies. I didn’t want to sully her. I wasn’t worthy, even in my dreams.

But opportunity does roll around, even for tremulous teenage boys such as myself.

*****

I was looking for a job at age fifteen because my parents believe in hard work and hold little respect for child labor laws. So off I went, as so many before me, to the local mall. In my best pink button-down oxford and wide burgundy knit tie, I made the rounds. Store-by-store, I told managers of my deep passion to be a stock boy. A life-long goal, really. I applied at around twenty retailers.

But there was only one place that I wanted to be everyday after school.

It was where she was.

I had to be near her. Had to know her. Had to see for myself.

So I walked into the hip clothing store and spoke to the manager and tried desperately not to mention that IOnlyWantToWorkHereToLookAtShannon. Somehow, it worked. I was the new stock boy in the Land Of Shannon.

*****

I started the job in the summer before my junior year and her senior year. My second day on the job, introductions were made.

“Nice to meet you,” I managed, hoping for minimal voice crack.

“Good to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand, “you’re a little cutie!”

Though I knew she meant it in the cute-little-brother-that-I-will-never-ever-ever-ever-sleep-with kinda way, I still felt the blushing blood rushing to my face.

I shook her hand.

She smiled at me.

I was ready to kill for her.

*****

Always the earnest company man, I had worked my way up to Sales Associate by the time the school year started. Throughout the summer and into the school year I would see Shannon at work.

To my delight, I found her to be sweet, but not annoyingly so. She just was. Not an act. Not trying too hard. If you knew her long enough, you could sense that she hid the same teen insecurities that so many others couldn’t escape. Her flaws were the flaws of everyone. And that made her even more appealing.

We became fast friends. She laughed at everything I said and we would often look to work the same shifts, closing down the store in the evenings.

In a short time, I forgot that she was a Dream Girl.

She was just Shannon, my beautiful, kind friend.

*****

Homecoming queen nominations were announced.

Shannon was one of ten nominees.

When she came into work that afternoon, she was so excited and happy. She couldn’t believe she was nominated.

She honestly had no idea how fantastic she was.

*****

The night before the homecoming queen was to be announced, I was alone with Shannon in the store. Time to close up for the night.

I walked over and joined her in the re-folding of a scattered pile of shirts.

“So, what do you think about this Homecoming Queen stuff? I bet it’s pretty exciting, huh?” I asked.

“I’m all nervous,” she laughed, “I don’t want to stand up in front of all of those people.”

“Have you got your speech worked out yet?” I inquired.

“Speech? What do you mean?” she said, increasingly nervous.

“When they announce you as the Homecoming Queen, you’ll have to give a little speech,” I said.

She laughed.

“I am not gonna be the homecoming queen. I don’t need to worry about that,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Um…yeah, I think you are. Everyone loves you,” I stated plainly.

“All of the girls on the court are popular, I’m pretty sure I won’t win,” she retorted.

“Yeah, but what if you do,” I asked. “What are you going to say then?”

“I have no idea. I’ll probably just clam right up. What do you think I should say?” she asked.

“Clearly, you need to thank me for all of my support,” I began.

“Well, clearly,” she laughed.

“And then I think you should say you are honored to be with all of the other girls, because everyone always says that…” I continued.

“Right.”

“Then I think you should say how great the school is and talk about how we are going to win the Homecoming game. Everyone will love that!”

“Very good,” she said, “except I’m not gonna be Homecoming Queen.”

“Yes, you are,” I said adamantly. “Jesus, you’re only the most beautiful girl in the school. How could you not win? You’re perfect!”

She looked at me at first with a surprised smile. And then it faded.

Holy shit, I just told her that she’s beautiful; she’s seen right through me.

“I’m not perfect,” was all she said, in such a sad way that I wanted to hold her.

And now, I had a worse thought:

She thinks I only see the outside, like everyone else.

We closed the store.

*****

I’m sitting in the back row on a ramp of pull out wooden gym bleachers with my two friends, my back against the concrete block wall.

In front of me is the entire student body, 700 or so strong, talking and murmuring and generally happy to have a diversion to take them from the classroom.

In front of the mass of people are the ten girls that make up the pretty and the popular of our school. All nervous, all smiling, this rite of high school rolling nearly to a boil.

I look at Shannon from my far-off perch. She is smiling and red-faced and talking to the other girls. She looks out at the crowd and then quickly away.

I continue to study her. I am another of the observers that she must surely despise by now. Always staring. Always looking for the flaw.

I'm nervous for her. I don’t know if I want her to win or lose. I don’t know what will make her happy.

And now all the noise leaves my ears and I see blackness in my peripheral vision and I can look at nothing but her.

The principal begins his comments and the crowd cheers each of the girls in turn and I hear none of it. Can’t stop staring.

The winner is…

Not her?

From her face I can see that she is...sad? No. Shocked?

I can hear now. Hear the shouts now. Everyone is standing and applauding now.

Shannon steps forward.

Everyone yells and claps. For their Queen.

I can't stop smiling.

The rumbling subsides.

The crowd sits and awaits her quiet voice.

She has the microphone and is as crimson as the cape they have thrown over her shoulders.

“I don’t know what to say…”

The crowd cheers again.

I feel my throat tighten. My eyes are burning.

“I really don’t. I guess more than anything, I want to thank…”

Oh. Dear. God.

Don’t do it.

She does.

In front of everyone in the world that I know, I lose my anonymity.

A few heads in front of me turn. My friends on either side of me sit with slackened jaws. Then, in a wave, 700 sets of eyes are on me. Wondering who I am. Wondering why she is thanking me. Wondering what my flaws must be.

“I want to thank him for believing in me more than I believed in me. I had no idea.”

That is her entire speech.

I look down at her and smile as she puts her hand above her eyes and squints to look for me.

She sees me and waves.

And I am somebody.

2003-07-17T11:22:00.000-04:00

Walking Tall

There’s a new sheriff in town. I’m the law ‘round here now.

Hell, more than that, I’m fixin’ to be Judge, Jury and Executioner. I will also settle for “Sexicutioner”. You may address me as Judge See Dub-You, Your Royal Sexiness, or simply God. All are acceptable. Failure to comply will result in a meaty swat to the back of your head. With my Bat O’ Justice.

There are some new laws on the books under my reign. The following will no longer be allowed:

DWO - Driving While Octogenarian. At a certain point, you just don’t have the right to drive anymore. The tests are gonna get a lot more complicated to get a license under my rule. For instance, you will have to know the fucking difference between the fucking gas pedal and the fucking brake pedal. This law may also have some crossover with another of my new laws...

DWS. Those found to be Driving While Stupid will get dragged from their cars (likely SUVs) and be beaten with a 19” 2001 Goodyear Steelbelted Radial. Don’t ask me what qualifies as DWS, I’ll know ya when I see ya (hint: the “I Heart Soccer” bumper sticker ain’t a good start).

Childesity. Parents that allow their kids to get obese will have the kids taken from them and the parents will then be beaten to death with a plate of Popeye’s Extra Spicy Chicken Wings. There is no mentally and physically crueler thing to do to a child than to allow him to overeat and underexercise. It is unconscionable.

80’s Hair. If you have a haircut that anyone remembers Andrew Ridgely or Cyndi Lauper having, you will be shaved from head to toe and throw in a vat of salt water.

Emailicide. If you are found to have completely murdered the English language in any email correspondence, you will be immediately seized and have copy of Merriam-Webster’s 11th Collegiate® Dictionary shoved straight up your ass.

Obviousfuscation. If someone is sitting around and, say, reading a book and you come up to them and ask, “Hey! Whatcha doin?”, you will be gathered up and thrown into the bottom of a Port-O-Potty during a Warp Tour concert.

Eardrumming. If you are playing music on your headphones so loud that I can smell the lead singer’s breath, you will be pulled aside and flogged about your ears and genitals with a Jethro Tull box set until such time as you bleed from the aforementioned areas.

Now, new laws often meet with resistance. Some of you will say, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Well, I’ll tell ya. I’m CW.

I’m the law in these parts.

2003-07-16T12:11:00.000-04:00

Sometimes It’s Easier

Though the shyness weighed on every part of his being, he had bits of stable refuge from the isolation. He knew that the thought of her could stave off the impending panic he often felt. He’d see her occasionally and she would smile and he’d shift his eyes quickly away, but he would hold onto the moment for the rest of the day, telling no one. He saw her acts of kindness and heard her laugh. Sometimes he sensed that she really cared about him, too. He could see that look that he assumed lovers get, knowing glances and shared jokes.

Only.

She didn’t know him. She’d never met him. Never had a sense of the twinge he felt at seeing her. She’d never seen the signs.

She held within herself a longing of her own. Her need was less specific, less directed. She knew only that she yearned to be held when she lay down on her spongy mattress at night. The bed was never warm. It was never a comfort.

The weary commuter line pulled forward with a tug.

They sat two feet from each other, back to back.

He breathed in a nervous, staccato rhythm, shiver-shifting in his own skin. He wanted desperately to turn to her and tell her how sweet and kind and wonderful he found her to be. He felt his body turn to lead at the thought. Nothing would move. He hated himself.

She sat with her hands in her lap, lost in lonely thoughts. She felt depression flow over the back of her tongue and catch in her throat. Tears singed her eyes. She unconsciously reached up to wipe them away with an angry hand. When she pulled the hand away, she looked at the back of it and saw it smeared with inky mascara. She felt pathetic. As she stared at the smudge, her sadness deepened.

From behind her, she heard, “Are you okay?”

She turned and saw a man facing away from her.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“Just wondering if you’re okay. You seem sad.”

“I’m just overwhelmed today, is all,” she said quietly.

“Oh. Okay. I-I’m…sorry. I hope you’re alright,” he stuttered.

She thanked him and fell back into faraway thoughts.

He raged with self-loathing.

And then, he was sad for her.

Sad for them.

2003-07-15T11:10:00.000-04:00

Old School

I was watching a special on MTV this past weekend entitled True Life: I'm a High School Senior. It tracked the journey of several kids from two different schools through much of their final year of high school.

It was painful to watch.

You know how sometimes you hear that old theme song from your high school prom or look at some locked-in-time photographs of younger days and every memory of the time and place tumbles down upon you and swallows your self-esteem whole?

Okay, maybe you don't.

But I do.

Watching the program made me nauseous. There are feelings that one learns to compartmentalize over time. Traumas, sights, sounds, loves. The mind pushes them to a little room, because though these feelings have built your personality, they shouldn't necessarily ever see the light of day again. But when something triggers the latch on the door to that little room, all of the memories and feelings spill onto the floor like sand. You can't pick them up and put them away fast enough.

As the more astute members of the audience may have gathered, I had a somewhat awkward high school experience. I was neither popular nor unpopular. Neither known nor unknown. Not happy or sad. I was just so ordinary. And I knew it. Feeling ordinary is harder to accept than anything else. It has a certain hopelessness to it.

Why did everything seem like it was absolutely important then? Very nearly the day after I graduated, I came to the realization that none of it mattered. I became the person that I knew I could be. Much more outgoing. Happier. Extraordinary.

But then I see these kids going through the whirlwind. Caught up in it. The monumental, seemingly life-altering twists of fate that tear at you and make you wonder if the world is always going to be so unfair. I want to shake them and tell them that NONE OF IT MATTERS!!

But I guess it does matter. I guess we need that little room in our mind. I guess we need to pass through there to get to here.

I need to go throw up.

2003-07-14T12:33:00.000-04:00

Revelation

So it turns out that Stonehenge is a great big ol' hairy vagina. Yeah. Bet that woke ya up a little.

Lest ye doubt the veracity of my assertion, this should clear things up. Ancient calendar, my ass.

How did we get through around 5000 years of humanity looking at this thing and no guy walked by before and said, "Dude, check out the stone crotch!" Men, we have let down humanity. It's all so obvious now.

According to the article, "Stonehenge's inner bluestone circle represents the labia minora and the giant outer sarsen stone circle is the labia majora. The altar stone is the clitoris and the open center is the birth canal." Tell me that the model for this didn't get teased by the other Druish princesses. Also, you didn't need to tell me that the altar stone is the clitoris; one cannot have a successful marriage unless he prays to it regularly.

Does it strike anyone as possible that perhaps this retired Canadian gynecologist may be a bit off his rocker? I mean, the guy has been looking at foofers for around 40 years. I get the feeling that his perspective may have skewed. Imagine his home life:

"Becky, do ya see that wading pool over there? Vagina. See the pillow on the couch? Vagina. Jar of mustard? Vagina."

"Dad, have you taken your medication today?"

"Becky, dear Becky. I don't need medication. I'm perfectly lucid. Besides, the medicine bottle is a vagina."

Next thing you know, scientists will be telling us that other monuments are sexual. Pyramids are just ancient Egyptian titties. Washington Monument? Dong. Great Wall of China? Mondo rubber.

For now though, all we have is the Stonehenge Snatch. God bless the Druids.

2003-07-11T12:23:00.000-04:00

The Addict's Tools

Man, that is such a cool title, I wish I was writing something that could live up to it. But, no.

I have many addictions and vices, but of them, television is my greatest. Unlike many people, I think that TV taught me as much as it corrupted me when I was growing up. And if you think about it, television is one of those things that has the ability to immediately bind people with a common thread, similar to shared love of literature or music.

To feed my addiction, I purchased a Direct TV TiVo a couple of months ago. Though I am adding new shows all of the time, I started to notice that my current listing of consistently recorded shows could give you a bit of insight into my personality. Some of you will like me a little more after reading the list, others will be ashamed and saddened. You can all bite me in equal measure.

And now, the list:

Alias
X-Play
South Park
Futurama
Simpsons
Inside the Actors Studio
West Wing
Survivor
Friends
CSI (Caruso-free edition)
Insomniac with Dave Attell
Good Eats
The King of Queens
Nova
Frontline
24
What Not To Wear
The Amazing Race
Scrubs
Dilbert
Project Greenlight
Curb Your Enthusiasm
The Office
Faking It
Monster House
American Chopper
Beg, Borrow and Deal

If ya have any other suggestions, I'm dyin' for a new fix.

2003-07-10T11:51:00.000-04:00

Snap Out Of It

On reality television and in reality life lately, I have been witnessing the male of our species attempting to fluff feathers in an effort to attract a female. It is, in most cases, unbearably disturbing to watch. Men, I am here today to assist you. Think of me as that old guy from Happy Days that later became the really good old karate master dude. You are my pupil. You may call me Sensei. Or Morpheus. Ooo, yeah, call me Morpheus, I like that a lot better. Also, bow to me a lot.

Although I have a feeling that many of you have the “wax off” part of the training down, I will give you a few tips in some other areas. Just trust me on these, I’m here to help. Remember, sometimes the truth hurts.

First, let’s start with a little honesty. Stand in front of your mirror. Look at yourself. Don’t just do your normal, “Hey, I look pretty good today” as you lick your palm and slick down the few remaining strands of hair that cling to your head like the last passengers on the Titanic. Really look at yourself. Yeah, not real attractive are ya? But that’s ok! We’ve identified the problem and you can be fixed. Here are a few things that may help many of you…

What’s going on there between your eyebrows? If God had intended hair to be there, that’s where your hairline would’ve started. You need to trim up that pelt on a regular basis. Here’s the thing, though: Don’t go crazy! Just a little plucking between the eyebrows is ok, but unless you’re starring in your own one-man show on Broadway called Tales From The Back Door, don’t be “shaping” your eyebrows. The goal here is to remove the illusion that your eyebrows are attacking and eating your forehead, not to make you look like Kelly Ripa.

Now look at your hair. Use a mirror, moron. Ok, there are a couple of things that could be counted as demerits here. First, if you are bald or going bald, ya aren’t fooling anyone with that hat. Women aren’t walking around thinking, “Man, I wish he’d just take that hat off so I could see the long, flowing Gunner Nelson hair underneath.” Dude, they can tell. We all can tell. Hats, toupees, wigs, bonnets, do-rags (ugh), whatever. Don’t do it. “So,” you may be thinking to yourself, “I guess if I can’t wear anything to cover my baldness, I should just take some hair and comb it right over the bald area.” Um, no. Giving the impression that you are trying to trick the world with a comb-over only makes you look like a jackass in about 1,000 different ways. Don’t try to fool a woman. They don’t like to be fooled. Maybe if you would stop getting your hair cut at Dixie Bob’s House Of Cuttin’ and Country Line Dancin’, you could get an honest-to-goodness good-looking ‘do. Go to a female hairstylist. Or a gay hairstylist. An honest one. One that will say to you, “Baby, your hair is a joke.” The point is, you want someone styling your hair that can tell you what is attractive on a man. If possible, make sure there is a large southern black woman in the salon at the same time, because girlfriend will tell you if your head looks like a chimp ass. So, if you are bald or going bald, embrace it. I think it’s a good look, especially if it’s nicely trimmed and styled. And I guarantee you that there are women out there that like bald guys. Trust me.

On the other end of the scale, we have guys attempting abnormally long hair and ponytails. You have to be a certain kind of guy to pull this off and I’ll give you a little tip right here: You are not that kind of guy. Get thee to an honest stylist.

Okay. Your clothes. What the hell are you doing there? Your Dockers are not working. That shirt is a disaster. Women judge just like we do – first impressions can make or break. There can be an amazing transformation in a person just by having the right clothes. It doesn’t matter if you can't afford the expensive stuff. Just get clean, pressed clothes that fit you right. There are people to help you with this. Don’t decide for yourself what looks good on you. You haven’t a clue. If you did, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble finding a woman. Get an honest salesperson, a brutal female friend or (even better) a gay friend to help. If you don’t have a gay friend, then get one. What the hell is wrong with you?

Keep your fingernails trimmed pretty short. I won’t go into the reasons, but women will love you for it. Short. Always.

Now, about your personality. Do you think you can be less of a dickwad on a regular basis? Seriously. Nobody wants to hear that fascinating story about how you got sooo drunk that one time and puked on yourself. You know how you always hear people saying, “Just be yourself”? They aren’t talking about you. You need to be someone else. Try to be some kind of quiet, smiling, listening superhero. You need to be confident in yourself. When I say confident, I don’t mean that you should be constantly thinking about how you could bang any girl in the room if you wanted. Dumbass. Just believe in yourself. Not too much. Easy. Eaaaasy. Okay. Now lose every cheesy line that you’ve ever heard or tried. Just tell a girl how you feel. Be unassuming. Be funny if you are funny. If you aren’t funny, ya need to know that too. Quick test – when you say something “funny”, are you the only one laughing? Are the people around you awkwardly breathing out in a spastic laughing gesture? Are their eyes shifting, as they look for the nearest exit? If so, then stop trying to be funny.

A few final tips:
- Wear a nice but unpretentious watch.
- Women notice shoes. Have fashionable, clean shoes.
- Get that gnarled mess of teeth fixed. And while you’re at it, how about a mint Captain Halitosis? Also, Crest Whitestrips actually work. Look into it if you have teeth like Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
- Maybe hit the gym now and then. Women don’t always like to be with a guy that could be 10 seconds away from a heart attack.
- Smell nice. Not so nice that people can smell you coming from five blocks away.
- Be kind and do little things for a woman. When she isn’t expecting it. Unless you are a stalker.

There really is someone out there for everyone. Put forth a little effort in personal appearance and personality.

And for the love of God, do something about that shag rug growing on your back.

2003-07-09T12:12:00.000-04:00

I'm Ready For My Close-Up

I am not yet rich and famous. Internet, I blame you for this.

Your job from this point forward is to find a way to make me famous. Not infamous, you jackass, FAY-MUSS! Use all of the resources at your disposal (INCLUDING BRIBERY!).

Some of you may say, "CW, you need to work hard and have proven talent to make it big."

WRONG, numbnuts! I give you two words: Ashton Kutcher. He is also from Iowa and can be mildly funny. He has better abs than me, but if you people would hurry up and make me rich and famous, I could hire a personal trainer. So, you see, again this is YOUR FAULT.

Click on the Blogarama link down to the right. Review my site. Explain how I am a sexy teenage girl if you must, but MAKE. ME. FAMOUS. Send pleas to entertainment industry mogul types that Hollywood needs more people like me. Tell publishers that you will quit reading entirely until I am published.

I am fully prepared to start a drinking binge and enter rehab by the end of the year. I will date Colin Farrell . I will get caught on a beach naked with all three of Charlie's Angels. I am willing to do my part!

Now GO!

2003-07-08T11:12:00.000-04:00

Do You Think?

Do you think that it will serve you
To rage and scream and yell?
Do you think that it will calm you
When your voice has gone to hell?
Do you think that you can change things
As the world begins to seethe?
Do you think that anger saves you
After those that loved you leave?

Man, what the hell was that? I just started typing and there it was. Bizarre. I know, I’m basically the worst poet ever. Never been good at it. I’ve always envied those that were. Not to mention that this particular poem seems to be against rage and anger, which is absolutely not my philosophy. I’m all for rage! Love the rage! Also, there seems to be some hint of a religious undertone there, which is nearly laughable. I mean, I just made a joke about Jesus and Mother Teresa going to Vegas yesterday; religious, I am not.

Wait. Do you suppose that God is speaking through my pagan mouth in order to reach the masses? NICE TRY, BUTTMUNCH! WE AIN’T BUYIN’ WHAT YER SELLING OVER HERE!! TAKE THAT SALVATION SHIT SOMEWHERE ELSE!! YOU'LL NEVER GET ME TO SLFDJJLFJFF…sfljfsfsf…

God is great. I am misguided. Never listen to me agaiS>>>

NOT SO FAST THERE GOD!! NOBODY INTERRUPTS THIS BLOG!! YOU THINK YOU’RE SO GREAT JUST BECAUSE YOU ALLEGEDLY CREATED TREES AND THE SUN AND SHIT! WELL, BIG FUCyrocdfyhs…

Also, my son, I created boobies.

…

The man makes a good point. I still don’t believe in him, but I will take back the buttmunch comment. BUT DON’T PUSH YOUR LUCK, MOTHERFueresesesfdf…

Go in peace, my children.

DAMMIT!

2003-07-07T11:55:00.000-04:00

The Rock! It’s Red! Glare.

Did I have a good 4th of July? Well, let’s see…

My wife returned from her niece-watching expedition in the Motherland last Thursday, with her father in tow. She booked a one-way ticket to Iowa with the intention of driving back to Atlanta with him. Which is exactly how it happened. That’s right, she willingly spent nearly twenty hours over two days in a car with her father.

Now, twenty hours alone in a car with anyone can be taxing. Even if Mother Teresa were to road trip it to Vegas with Jesus, you just know that by hour fifteen she’d be plotting where to bury him in the desert so that nobody would find the body. I mean, the whole trip he’d be like, “Hey, did I mention what my dad and I did last weekend? Earthquake. Yeah, what’d you do?”

That shit just gets old after a while.

And now I’ve horribly, horribly digressed.

So. Her father. Turns out their trip went pretty well. In a way, I envy her. As we get older, many of us don’t always get the chance to have good, long conversations with our father, if we are among the fortunate few to still have him in our lives. She was able to talk through some touchy and touching subjects and just be with him. She’ll have that forever.

Her dad is an interesting guy. He is from a very small town in Iowa and he has remained in a small town for most of his years. I’m talking one teeny-tiny town. There are more people working in one department of the building I am in right now than live in his hometown.

There are great benefits and mighty limitations to living the small town life for so long. He is opinionated and stubborn. He is independent and driven. He is focused and predictable. He is stern and kind. I’m not even sure how many of those traits, if any, are bad.

He had his own small printing business from which he retired several years ago. It never made him a rich man, but it did allow him to be his own man. He put a large capital “A” in Type A personality. He survived a heart attack and corresponding quintuple bypass nearly ten years ago, allowing him to live longer than any man in the known history of his family. This means that he went through most of his life fully expecting to die by age 55. And perhaps because of this, he made some interesting choices in life: he is a veteran; he raced cars; he attempted many hobbies, squeezing every bit of knowledge and excitement from them before moving on, never to look back.

He was a smoker and his face is still lined as if it’s permanently pinched into an inhaled pucker. It gives him character and charm and makes you wonder what kinds of sadness he hides behind the blue eyes. He gave up the cigarettes immediately after the heart attack, nearly without a thought. Forty years and it ends. Because that is what needed to be done.

In the ten years since my wife and I moved away from Iowa, he had never come to visit us. Always too busy. Always an excuse. It made my wife sadder than I think she ever let on and only made me angry.

But things change. He has mellowed since his retirement. Type A is now only a Type A-minus at worst. He’s a man that has discovered some of the pleasure of living longer than seemed possible. Different things have taken priority. Which is why, I’m guessing, he called his daughter a couple of months ago and told her he might just like to drive down here with her after she came up for her visit.

He came on his own terms and at his own time, but he did come. Like he said he would.

We had a great weekend together, grilling out and showing him our city and talking. He had a genuinely good time. He was relaxed. Maybe for the first time, he felt like family to me.

My wife is many parts of her father, smart and sometimes stubborn and kind and hard-working. Without him, I wouldn’t have the woman that I love.

So yeah, I had a good 4th of July.

2003-07-03T11:18:00.000-04:00

The Line

A new line has been drawn marking whether or not you are allowed to speak to me. If you spell vacuum v-a-c-u-m-e, please kill yourself.

It's not that I'm incredibly smart, it's that so many people around me are dumber than a box of Q-Tips.

And also, I am incredibly smart.

Jesus, vacume? Are you kidding me?

And then, then if you say to me, "Huh, is that how that's spelled?", do not be surprised if I lunge forward and stab you in the larynx with a highlighter.

You have been warned.

2003-07-02T10:48:00.000-04:00

Stream Of Unconscious

As inspired by one of my favorite bloggers, I've decided to just let the words flow today. I have no idea what any of this means, it's just part of the clutter in my head...

*****

"Isn't love supposed to be easier than this? Why are you constantly testing and pushing and questioning? You shove me away every time you open your mouth and I'm sick of it. And I'm sick of you for putting me through it. And I'm sick of trying so hard. Goddamnit."

"Ah yes, the sad cries of the innocent. Jesus, how I'm getting sick of that routine. Maybe if you hadn't been so eager to give up at every turn. Love shouldn't be hard, but it should be strong. Strong enough to withstand an disagreement or an insult or an angry outburst. But you're a quitter and always will be. You hold onto a grudge more than you hold onto me."

"See? See what you do? It's always about me. My fault. My problem. Why don't you accept some fucking responsiblity, you self-righteous asshole?"

"Do not preach to me about responsibility. You're the one that can't hold a decent job. You're the one that's too stupid to finish anything.”

“I must be stupid, I’ve been with your ugly, pathetic ass for far too long. You know what I think? I think you like to fight, cuz you always come back for more, don’t ya? You’re crazy is what you are and all of our friends know it.”

“One look at you and it’s tough to argue that I’m crazy. Only crazy people stay with someone so obviously beneath them. And they’re my friends not yours. None of them ever liked you. Believe me.”

“You are so fucking shallow, I can’t believe I ever loved you.”

“This is over.”

“No shit.”

2003-07-01T12:16:00.000-04:00

Mt. Serta

Got a new bed recently. Love it. However, can someone please tell me when they started to make beds so thick and high that you need to hire a friggin' Sherpa to get into the thing? Jesus, I got vertigo this morning when I looked down at the floor. All I want a bed for is sleeping and the occasional monkey sex with leather zippered submissive mask. It shouldn't be an Extreme Sport to mount and dismount the goddamned thing, is what I'm sayin'.

Fuckin' mattress mafia.

2003-06-30T12:05:00.000-04:00

Double Fistin’

My wife was out of town over the weekend, so I got to taste the sweet nectar of bachelorhood once again. Ah, the good life.

Problem is, I have no idea how to be a bachelor anymore. I mostly stared at a wall and occasionally touched myself.

Oh wait, I guess I do remember how to be a bachelor.

I have no idea why people stay single. I’d never be sober and I would have vicious hand cramps. I will be all gnarled into a pair of claws by day three from holding a liquor bottle in one hand and my dick in the other. Occasionally, to spice things up, I’ll switch hands. Also, periodically, I’ll cry silently to myself over what a pathetic mess I am. There will be a lot of napping. And eating.

By day four of this bachelor life, I will have dressed the cat up in pumps and a miniskirt. The phone will ring and I’ll yell at it to quit taunting me. I will be God-blessing my own sneezes. And thanking myself.

How you single people keep from playing Russian Roulette, I’ll never know.

2003-06-27T12:04:00.000-04:00

The Road to Paradise

In order to get to the white sand beaches and steaming sunshine of the gulf coast of Florida, I had to drive through Alabama. Sans banjo.

Immediate impression of the first town we drove through in Alabama:
This place is the reason the term Godforsaken was invented. Pray as they might, God wouldn't stop here if he had four flat tires. The biggest business in town that I saw was an elegantly appointed pawn shop. The second biggest business? Another pawn shop. Right across the street. They did have quaint specialty shops however, such as "P-Nut's" and "The Shirt Shack" and "Beer". Boutique businesses, if you will. Also, for some reason, the road through Alabama is the Bonsai Capital of The World. I'm not kidding; The World. There were signs to prove it. The best part about this discovery is that I learned the proper pronunciation of Bonsai is BONE-sigh. That makes me giggle every time I say it. I can't tell you how much I enjoy a good bone sigh.

As we continued ever South, there were some surprises. There are oases of amazing beauty sprinkled about. Old towns with gorgeous genteel mansions. With a pawn shop across the street. And try as you will, there is just no getting past that accent. There are some fantastic southern accents that make me melt. Not so much in Alabama. Someone there could explain the theory of relativity to me and it would come out sounding like they were about to form a lynching party. Every person that you hear speak you fully expect to spit at the end of the sentence.

"Yessir. Ya jus gw-on-down to that there light un ya hang yerself a right (spit - pahTING)."

See, he even worked the word "hang" right into the directions. That ain't right.

*****

If you want the Soundtrack mix and/or the Super-Special Bonus CD, email me if you haven't already done so by clicking on the CW below. Commenting is down at the time of this posting, so I don't know who wanted what from the comments. To get the bonus mix, I need re-cip-ro-cation of some kind. I've had some good suggestions so far. I'll notify the winners by email. Don't forget to include your address.

Have a good weekend.

2003-06-26T12:51:00.000-04:00

Rockin' Like Dokken

In order to provide you thankless hogsmokers a little entertainment value, I actually attempted to take a note here and there during my hiatus to remind me of some of the funnier and, well, noteworthy moments. It seemed like a really good idea at the time. The problem is that sleeping in the sun with SPF 4 Deep Tanning "Oil" also seemed like a good idea. So you can see that my faculties may have been slightly impaired.

I am looking at the notes right now and I see some evidence of a negative effect from the eight beers, four vodka/7's and three shots that I imbibed. From what I have been able to decipher, "Waahddun chakge ro shorke, caz bady I'n a mast" may translate to the Prince lyric, "Wouldn't change a stroke, cuz baby I'm the most." You can't really see it now, but believe me, that shit is funny. I do recall saying something like, "Prince is a goddamned genius. You kids today have no fucking clue. Music today sucks. No innovators. Who is innovative today? NO. BODY. NOW GET ME A FUCKING DRINK!" Seriously, how can you argue with that kind of rock-solid platform? Especially the "get me a fucking drink" part. At one point, one of the twenty-somethings that was hanging out with us said, "What about Dave Mathews?" I just shook my head and felt 80 years old. Whippersnappers.

Next in my notes are the words Get oFF -> 23 pestions in ove nigt stand. I mean, really, this shit is GOLD. Funny like a motherfucker. Not sure why the Prince fixation. Not even really a big fan. I may have been drugged.

To cap the somewhat legible portion of the notes are two lines:

Mothy Crue - Live wire!
Def Lefend - Rocket

So yeah, you can see that it was non-stop laughter and shitty 80's music. You young people are staring at the page right now thinking, "That poor, pathetic fuck. I hope I die before I get like that."

I'm telling you right now, in ten years, you punk-ass bitches are gonna be sitting on a balcony overlooking a beach somewhere saying, "That goddamned R. Kelly was the shit. Today's artists just can't compare."

2003-06-25T15:31:00.000-04:00

Take a Message

Ah, it’s Fat Tuesday. Debauchery, depravity and decadence. And the most delicious “d” of all, drunkenness. Welcome to day two of my weeklong sin purge.

Obviously, today’s post must deal with America’s favorite pastime, drinking. This subject is somewhat difficult for me, because asking me to write about my most drunken experience is like asking me to name my favorite vodka. They are all wonderful, it’s just a matter of degrees.

So, in an effort to narrow the candidates, I have selected for today a story that best fits with my current theme: sin. This joyous life experience follows the trail of three deadly sins: gluttony, vanity and envy.

Let us begin the Tale of the Ring.

It was a characteristic Friday evening in the tranquil college town. The abrasiveness of the coursework was but a mild and far-flung memory in my mind. I was aware that there was work to be done, but the thoughts only existed at the tips of my synapses and they were easily pushed clear by images of fresh-faced co-eds and freshly poured vodka. I was ready to indulge in both.

My energy was focused. It was amazing that though the ritual of it all stayed the same, the enjoyment never waned. Drinking, casual and sophisticated, began early and in earnest. Men discussing the issues of the day in an intellectual forum. Searing subjects, such as, “Have you seen the rack on that chick in my Modern Lit class?” and “Dude, I was totally drunk last night!” These are men of distinction. Revere them.

That night, the sophisticated portion of the drinking ceremony lingered lusciously, as I imbibed greedily of orange juice (healthy!) and vodka. The layperson would call it a screwdriver. And I was about to be totally screwed.

After the third screwdriver it occurred to me that orange juice was merely filler material in my glass, much as bubble wrap will protect your fine china during a cross-country move. I did not need protection from my vodka, however. It was my friend! My confidant! My Lover. Yes. It feels good to say it.

How dare this orange juice have the nerve to come between us! It was all so clear to me now, this jealous game of squeezed fruit and clear liquid nirvana. I would stop the fiend.

My fourth glass was poured with great care. Filled with ice. I lovingly held Lady Vodka with one hand. Glug. Glug. The sweet, swirling liquid danced around the cubes with cheerleader playfulness. Ah, friend. I’ll never leave you. Nearly full now. I grasp the orange juice roughly. With a flair, I dash the top of the vodka with a trifle of the colored fruity flavor. Take that, you stinging bastard! Die in the churning flames of 80 proof passion!

And down it went.

And down, down I went.

The descent was long, into the night. You see, after one has tasted the Fiery Love Goddess, all other Beverages of the Evening are merely whores. Whores to be taken and guzzled and left. And I visited countless whores that evening, stumbling from brothel to whorehouse. They held the names of harlots: Milwaukee’s Best and Jacqueline Coke and Tequila Shooter. I refused none of them.

And the whirlwind whirled. The worldwind wound. Where was I?

Oh. There. Sweet cradler of all. The cool, stained bathroom floor. Mistress of the morning. When Lady Vodka is done with me, you are always here waiting, aren’t you? So sweet. So beautiful. Let me lay my head upon your filthy breast. What’s that, you say? Yes, I seem to have lost all of my clothes, save my little white underwear. They support me, but you embrace me.

What’s this, then? Your partner in compassion, Commander Porcelain? Yes, I know he is quite hard of hearing. Allow me to shout to him now.

BrrrrooowwwwrrrrrrRROOOOOOOWWWRRRRR. brrowowr. BRRRRRRRRROOWWwwrr. rrrr. aaaaaAAARRROOWRRRWW.

I have a long conversation with Commander Porcelain. He is a good listener.

*****

As I wake with an all-tuba orchestra playing in my brain, I learn that my legs have betrayed me and gone off on their own at some point during the evening. Best to stay low anyway, I thought. I don’t want to take sniper fire.

I shout down the hallway…

“Breeaaaaaaad!! I need bread. Please God help me. Bread.”

So innocent.

A compatriot brings me an entire loaf from his room. Hands me a piece. I gobble it, as if it is my first ever. Ugh.

“Stale. And…moldy,” I say. “Dude, what are you trying to do to me?”

I hear only laughter. The naked and legless are often mocked.

“Hey, man. You were pretty gone last night. What happened to your clothes?” the mocker asks.

“Dunno.”

“Well, I can’t look at you anymore. Jesus. The bread thing was funny though, huh?” he giggles.

Die, heathen.

I look down at my body. Slender and firm. All foreign substances have been purged. Evil removed. I know at this moment, this is the best I have ever looked or will ever look again. I am a Calvin Klein underwear model in waiting. Perfection in hot pants. I must tear away from my beautiful self. There is crawling to be done. The bed is calling.

*****

Now. In the bedroom. Phone rings. I retch into the four-foot tall metal trash container next to me. Sweet, blessed, merciful God, what is left? I’m purging smaller unused organs at this point.

“Hah!” says my roommate. “I think you’ve puked every time the phone has rung.”

“Not. Funny.” I manage, “Please. Kill. Me. Now.”

“God, this is too classic”, he laughs. “I have to go downstairs. I’ll be back.”

“Please. Kill.” I utter.

The phone rings. My roommate has gone downstairs to call upstairs to test his theory. He is Pavlov and I am his bitch. I do not miss my cue. I hug the garbage can tightly, as I see the last of the orange juice drip into the can. I can hear it taunting me.

Dr. Pavlov returns.

“Did you do it? Did you puke when the phone rang? Bwwwwwaaaaaahhhhahahahaha!!” He is having fits.

“I. Wish. I. Was. You.” I stammer.

“No no! You wish you were dead,” he laughs again.

Then.

The phone rings.

If I live. I must. Remember to. Kill him.

2003-06-25T11:49:00.000-04:00

Beached

When one is born and raised in a land of thick cornfields and rich, dark dirt, he begins to dream of opposites. Thoughts of a panorama dominated only by sky and water and sand tempt like Satan. Thoughts and dreams change the soul.

The waves I saw growing up only occurred when a smooth, northern gust pushed through the rows of corn, causing them to bend and sway as if moved by some kind of faraway orchestra. That image, corn as far as I could see, is still one of the most lasting in my memory. There is something inescapable in being overwhelmed by an endless horizon of sameness. It is beautiful and sickening at once. It kills dreams.

I would see images of the ocean on TV or in movies, but there was a defensive trigger that made me perceive it to be some other world. It remained hopelessly unattainable to me because it was outside the four walls of my house, the four walls of my town, the fours walls of my squareish little state. I was bordered to the East and West by two strong and vital rivers. However, rivers would only serve to make my mind wander as they wandered. I never pictured them as part of my life; they were temporary residents, making their way to a faraway place. A better place. A destination. Rivers meander, oceans pull.

*****

As I float here, then, sapphire sky above, I can breathe. There are sounds rolling in my ears that exude power and peace. There is a heat around me that braces and embraces. Sand like sugar soaks sun and salt water. I am where the river goes.

I remember the feeling of home. The vastness of never-ending fields. The emotion of growing up feeling confined. The longing of knowing there is more. The twinge of fear in finding out.

I know now that I needed all of that to get here.

2003-06-24T10:43:00.000-04:00

All Up Ons

Yes. It is ready. The Soundtrack of Witt and Wisdom Volume 1 is complete. If you are able to think back far enough, you will remember that I asked for each of your five or so favorite songs. The intent was for me to put together a compilation of songs that are fairly representative of my small but infinitely sexy readership. At some point, I intend to write several short works of fiction that use each song as the base. It’s all very high-concept, feces-on-canvas, artsy-fartsy. I plan to wear a beret while writing and everything.

Anyway, after legally acquiring (coughcough) nearly 250 song submissions over a period of a couple of months, I have come up with a list of 18 songs that will be loved and hated, cherished and reviled, appreciated and ignored. For me, it was a very enlightening experience. I literally found and listened to every single song that everyone suggested. All the way through. I figured I owed ya that much; these are your favorite songs for a reason. After listening to what can only be described as an extremely eclectic mix of songs, I was left with one core thought: Ya’ll a bunch of messed up freaks. Seriously. If I were making a mix called “Songs to Slit Your Wrists By” or “Songs of Monkeys Raping Tambourines” or “Songs of Guys Farting Into A Synthesizer” or “Eighteen Songs About My Hopeless, Go-Nowhere, Shitty, Will-Never-Be-Loved-Ever Existence”, then you would’ve been spot-on. Sadly, I’m not. But hey, who am I to judge?

In fairness, not all of you had bad suggestions. In fact, I think that nearly every list had at least one redeeming song. That made me happy. I heard a lot of stuff that I’ve never heard before, which was also one of my objectives. I’ve “broadened my horizons”. Also, at times, I wanted to “jam a paring knife into my temple.” But why focus on the negative?

So, just so you understand, I had to take a list of about 250 songs and bring it down to something that would fit on a CD. If your song isn’t on here, then you can conclude any of the following:

1. I hate the song.
2. I hate you.
3. I hate that shirt your wearing.
4. There wasn’t room.
5. The song didn’t fit the mix.
6. The song made me want to kill myself.
7. You suck.

For many of you, all of the above apply.

Now, after all that, let me say this: I am not in love with the final mix. But that’s okay. It was never supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be a representative sample. It’s got some cool stuff and some fun stuff and some unusual stuff. Please, at least one time, listen to every song all the way through. If I had to, then you have to.

After much ado, the list:

Go Faster – The Black Crowes
The Way You Make Me Feel – Michael Jackson
Kiss – Tom Jones
Pride And Joy – Stevie Ray Vaughn
32 Flavors – Ani DiFranco
Hurt – Johnny Cash
Sweet Jane – Cowboy Junkies
One – U2
Lithium – Nirvana
Hooker With A Penis – Tool
Sometimes Salvation – Black Crowes
Baby Did A Bad Thing – Chris Isaac
Never Meant – American Football
King Of Pain – The Police
All I Want Is You – U2
Would You Forgive Me - Alanis Morrisette
Champagne From A Paper Cup – Death Cab For Cutie
Smells Like Bootylicious – Freelance Hellraiser

The two songs that I added were Pride and Joy by SRV, because I mentioned that song when I talked about meeting my wife and Sometimes Salvation by The Black Crowes, cuz that song is fucking awesome. If you don’t like it, then I don’t like you. Seriously. No, YOU shut up.

So, if ya want a cut of the disc, just send me an email (click on CW below). The first…I dunno…25 or so people get a copy.

But there’s more.

The kicker? For eleven lucky readers, there is a sweet-ass bonus disc. I have created an amazing mix CD that is sure to impress your friends and make strangers want to have sex with you. And only the good looking strangers, too (it’s very precise in its superpowers). It is a disc that is so fabulous as to be nearly orgasmic. It. Real. Good. This CD will be clad in the all-new, super-secret Witt and Wisdom logo and will be signed by me, making it worth dozens on eBay. Oh, you want it. You need it. You. Must. Have. It.

So here’s the thing: The eleven best requests, as judged by me, will get the bonus disc. What will you do to get it?

2003-06-23T11:47:00.000-04:00

I’m Back. Like Herpes.

I’m refreshed and vibrant again. Carefree and revitalized. I could star in a Summer’s Eve commercial.

Speaking of douches (oh, like we weren’t), I need to address a couple of comments that were made in my absence.

First, to Jason, who said I look like a “douche bag”: I am wondering how someone with such a severe case of Beckelipsy gets off saying I look like a feminine hygiene product. Your hairdo was crafted by the forces of evil on a bozo nightmare and I’m the douche bag? Nuh-uh.

To Leo, who said I look like a Backstreet Boy, I ask: Why are you not out patrolling the California Highways on your hog next to John, Ponch? Or, possibly, why aren’t you out “patrolling” the hog of one of your johns? Both equally valid questions.

To Scott, who suggested that my sunglasses are anything other than fucking awesome, I say: Bitch, you use an iron on your hair. If you feather it just right and perk up your nipples a bit, you could be the next Farrah Fawcett. You. Go. Girl.

I kid these boys, of course. I love reading their blogs. I say that mainly because I don’t want this whole thing to end up all Biggie and T-Pac-y. Although, if I do get gunned down in Vegas after a heavyweight fight in my gynormous black SUV while wearing a white mink hat and drinking Crissy, I would question these three first. Also, please promise me that you’ll make sure to get Brad Pitt, Edward Norton or George Clooney to play me in the movie. That’d be sweet.

To the rest of you, I say: Thanks for your kind comments and for being patient while I was away. Later this week, I will fill you in on some of the details of my hiatus. I can sense your edge-of-seatedness.

Finally, for your troubles, you are to be rewarded. Remember when I said that I would create a Soundtrack of Witt and Wisdom mix CD about three years ago? Yeah. Well, that’s done. It just took me a long time to buy (ahem) all of the songs that everyone suggested. I will post the final list of songs and talk about how you get your own copy soon. In the meantime, try not to pee yourself with excitement.

It’s good to be back.

2003-06-16T18:54:00.000-04:00

I'll Be Back Again Someday

In case you're wondering how the hiatus is going, talk to the hat.

2003-06-10T09:36:00.000-04:00

Love Me When I'm Gone

I'll be on hiatus.

On a beach.

Deal with it.

Spend your time talking about how great I am.

2003-06-09T10:25:00.000-04:00

Buy The Way

Outlet malls are dangerous and should be outlawed.

I decided that I needed to purchase a few new summer shirts, due to the fact that I basically still wear the same three polos from 1996. So, quite innocently, I ventured to an outlet mall just up the road yesterday and had a gander at the seasonal selections. Oh, the colors and textures. The clean, smooth fabrics and fresh-faced, helpful, evenly tanned store clerks. I became slightly intoxicated at the rich cornucopia of fashion bedazzlement. I would walk into a store and run my fingers along the silks and knits, laughing like a schoolgirl. Children danced and sang outside on the promenade. Food smells and couples holding hands surrounded me.

And the prices were so low, they were certifiably insane. Seriously, there were doctors on call.

So, you can see, it’s not my fault that I may have gotten a bit out of control.

However, even I was a tad surprised when I got home and cut the tags off of my shirts.

All eighteen of my shirts.

I need help.

2003-06-06T11:34:00.000-04:00

Sorry to be away. But, because I care, two posts today.

Oh look. I rhyme. Let's all hug.

Ok. A little wit. A little wisdom.

Rocket Man

At what point in your life do you think it's a fantastic idea to buy a crotch rocket motorcycle in neon green and black with the corresponding neon green and black leather head-to-toe outfit? Do you wake up one day and say to yourself, "Man, I just haven't fully expressed my sexual inadequacy in public enough"?

Do you shimmy out of your PJs in the morning and grease your body up and slide yourself into the all leather getup and stand in front of the full-length mirror and think, "Oh. Yes. They have not yet built the woman that can resist my neon fabulousness"?

When you are on the motorcycle, sitting in traffic, in ninety-degree heat, are you thinking, "This leather is surprisingly breathable. My ball sweat is just flowing right down my thighs like a sensual river"?

As you flip the visor on your electric-green accented helmet, are you mouthing, "I see all of you delicious honies in your cars, eyeballing my thick, supple, leather-girded, throbbing, overheated wang. What can I possibly do to make you sweet sluts even more horny? Ah. I know. I'll rev the engine. Oooo..you like that, don't you momma? This is our foreplay; our dirty dance. I am your Patrick Swayze. And now, prepare to have the Time Of Your Life, as I bolt forward and pop a little mini wheelie"?

Do you gain even greater satisfaction when you later go back home and peel yourself out of the outfit and accidently catch a glimpse of your toned body in the full-length mirror and arouse yourself so much by your own appearance that you find it necessary to masturbate in the kitchen chair as Whitesnake plays at full volume in the background? Do you wonder, just a little, as you are fantasizing your way to climax, why you are thinking about other guys in all-leather outfits on their rumbling, pulsating motorcycles and how you'd like to ride along next to them and maybe slap their firm buttocks?

Don't worry, I'm sure it doesn't mean anything.

Live to ride and ride to live, there, Mr. Swayze.

*****

The Two Sides

In the darkness, she heard him breathing. He was a foot away and languid. Her eyes looked over him, slowly. She imagined that if she focused enough, tried hard enough, loved him enough, she could hear his thoughts. Her pulse throbbed in her ears.

Walking the line between her impulses and her needs had made her nauseous and prostrated. If she allowed herself the emotion, she knew that she could love him. Probably did love him. But that line was all she could see - a high, thin, taut rope that reverberated with each step. At the bottom of the pit below was the indescribable misery of seeing her love rejected. Rejected, no matter how strongly she willed it to survive. Rejected, no matter how deeply she still felt it. She never wanted to feel that again. Never. Her mind wouldn't allow it. But she must stop this. Thinking too much. Focus. No, wait - let go. Don't hold on too tight. Just be. Stop thinking. Stop it.

She was angry. She loved this man. The other man was not this man. Why couldn't she make herself believe that? Within her skin she was thrashing about, wild and incensed. Why couldn't she just let it be as it should be? Why couldn't the love just flow over her and calm her? Why couldn't she stop thinking and thinking and wondering and...

He turned over.

She closed her eyes.

The room was silent, but her mind was beating. It was too loud in her head for her to hear his thoughts.

He exhaled deeply.

He loved her more than he would ever tell her. In their five months of being lovers, he'd fallen for her more in every moment. She would look at him sometimes and he thought he'd seen...something. But, lying here now, he began to think that maybe he'd never seen past the veneer. Maybe he was pushing too hard and for that reason he'd never felt her love in return. Maybe she was waiting for something she would never feel. That thought made him wince. He wondered how it was possible that he could love her so much, yet she was unsure. Love is painful, he thought, because it tears at you, making you hope for something that can never be realized. He understood now, in this moment of quiet, that she would never love him.

He opened his eyes and looked right at her.

"I have to go," he said.

She stayed silent. Her mind screamed.

He swung his legs to the edge of the bed and he stood.

Her eyes squeezed together. Tears at the edges.

He gathered his things and walked to the doorway.

Her fists balled.

He opened the door.

"No," she said.

"Please stay."

2003-06-03T12:12:00.000-04:00

Rainy Days and Tuesdays

On this rainy Atlanta day, my mind drifts to morose thoughts. The following things never fail to make me sad:

Fat people in clown pants.
Ugly people with unfortunate haircuts.
Old dogs barking at trees.
Women wearing pants that fit like sausage casings.
Opaque white pants that show a clear outline of the underwear. And one cheek of the underwear is riding high. And the underwear has flowers. And it’s a dude.
Unfunny people laughing too long at their own jokes.
Morbidly obese people in compact cars.
Christina Aguilera.
Stupid people misusing words.
Parents trying to make their kids cooler than they were. And failing miserably.
Guys that don’t get the hint.
Reality dating shows of any kind.
Personal ads.
People that think they’re in on the joke, when, in fact, they are the joke.
Skinny vegans.
Fat vegans.
Vegans.
People that hork up their left lung just before lighting up another cigarette.
Kids cartoons.
Bare midriffs on tubby teenage girls.
Punk rock that isn’t.
Vertical stripes on a horizontal body.
Old people with gas.
Bitter women in their sexual prime.
Silly glasses on a pretty face.
“Honk If You Love Jesus” bumper stickers.
Old people at bus stops.
Fat feet in strappy shoes.
Cute girls talking about bowel movements.
Cats that fall off of things and then wonder what in the hell just happened.
Old, fat lead singers from hair bands.

Ah, so much sadness, so little punching.

Sigh.

2003-06-02T12:04:00.000-04:00

Guy Secrets Exposed #1

I’m starting a new segment here at W&W. It's a peek into the seedy, disgusting underbelly that is Man. Some of you may feel nauseous or need to avert your innocent eyes.

The following is inexplicably true:

When at a urinal or toilet, a guy will take the opportunity to spit 70% of the time. This bizarre behavior increases to at least 85% when other guys are around. There is a not-so-mild thrill of narrowly avoiding ones own genitals with the spittle. Also fun: spitting and then seeing how many guys around you also spit. It's a subtle challenge to manhood.

We have no idea why we do this, but it’s way cool and I’m pretty sure that women would find it hot if they witnessed it.

2003-05-30T14:38:00.000-04:00

Touched For The Very First Time

I watched the premiere episode of The Amazing Race on CBS last night, mostly because I have no life, but also because I think it’s the best reality show on TV. There are no two ways about it, nothing will screw with a relationship more than being forced around the world with someone while each of you must constantly be reading maps or steering through traffic or navigating airport terminals or performing death defying challenges. My wife and I are lucky to get to the airport during light traffic without one of us calling the other a filthy cocksucker. Because we are in love. Ya know.

The show is made up of teams of couples: Fathers and sons, best friends, gay married men, people in long term relationships, co-workers, etc. They are all out to race around the world while performing predefined tasks along the way, including the requisite crazy stunts. It’s all quite insane.

However, all of that was lost on me last night, as I was focused on the description of only one of the teams. This particular couple looked to be in their twenties and have been dating exclusively for twelve years. All very charming. Except for the fact that they are both virgins.

For twelve years.

Because God says so.

Are you ef-you-cee-kay-aye-en-gee kidding me? Dude, throw that skinny broad the meatsicle already! Even God is up in heaven saying, “Jesus Christ, bury the kielbasa, for the love of me!”

Dude actually said on national television that he wasn’t sure if he was ready to commit and that marriage scares him. Yeah, no shit. You haven’t closed the deal in twelve years and marriage scares you? Big shocker there. The captions on the show even identify them at as: Dating 12 Years/Virgins. It’s a damned freak show.

Can you imagine the conversations they must have?

“So…whattaya want to do tonight?”

“Well, I sure don’t want to have sex, I’ll tell ya that! The last thing I want to do is plunge my raging, rock-hard, throbbing penis anywhere near your Brazilian waxed no-no. I’d feel more comfortable giving this whole decision another decade.”

I mean, you have to figure on their wedding night (if it ever happens, God willing) that no level of perfect sex will ever live up to twelve years of holding out. It will only build resentment, in the end.

“Sooo…that sure was swell. Glad we waited. I’m not even thinking about what this would’ve been like had we done it sooner. And I’m definitely not imagining what it must be like with someone else. By the way, at some point is it going to last longer that eight seconds? This isn’t a rodeo, ya know. Also, next time, let’s see if you can actually get it in me rather than just near me.”

People, I am convinced that this is the reason virgins were sacrificed to volcano Gods. They were just too stupid to know what was going on:

Zany Virgin: “Gee, King Donkeycock, why it so warm up on big mountain?”

KDC: “Brenda, you no put out. Volcano God angry. He say tribal prudes need be cleansed in water of purification.”

ZV: “So will me be home for dinner?”

KDC: “Brenda, you one stupid cock-blocker.”

ZV: “Why water all orange?”

KDC: (shove)

ZV: “AaaaaahhhhhHWWWHHHHEEEEEEE!!!”

See? Do we really want to resort to throwing virgins back into volcanoes? I know I don’t. So ladies, how ‘bout ya just go ahead and unclench a little. And men, unfurl that monstrous summer sausage. God would want it that way.

As long as you’re in love and all.

Or horny.

2003-05-29T11:56:00.000-04:00

Mad About Me

I haven't written anything decent in about 2 months now and it's pissin' me off. When am I gonna become famous, so I can get some lackeys to take care of the annoyances in my day, allowing me to devote more time to writing? Seriously, you people are not helping me out at all. To recap, I need you to either:

A) Make me famous
B) Become my lackey

GET GOING ALREADY!!

2003-05-28T12:03:00.000-04:00

To Each His Own. Except For YOU, You Sick Fuck

I'm not sure if I'm more put off by:

A) the fact that someone did a Google search for "I like to fuck my grand mom"
or
B) the fact that MY SITE comes up on that search
or
C) the fact that I can't help wondering if he's talking about his grandmother or just his really great mom
or
D) how does he know

The internet is much less wonderful than previously imagined.

2003-05-27T10:30:00.000-04:00

In Remembrance of My Weekend

I had a most excellent drunken weekend. And, contrary to plan, I didn’t spend all weekend indoors playing video games and watching DVD’s.

Friday night was a night of relaxation and mental prep for the weekend ahead. By which I mean I played the aforementioned video games. Berate my geekdom if you must, but until you have hijacked a car in Vice City, circa 1986, while Yankee Rose plays in the background, you cannot cast stones. It's amazingly pleasing.

Saturday we woke late and decided to spend some time in the fantastic Georgia weather. I washed The Passat in the 80-degree magnificence and she was grateful. There is little as satisfying as seeing your car go from grimy, rain-battered gray haze to bright and polished Colorado Red. It brought a tear. I was careful not to “wax” all over the hood.

Immediately after applying the finishing touches to my precious, I showered and got ready to engage on a Saturday afternoon drunkfest at a friends house. Big party. Much booze, burgers and dogs. Also drunken horseshoes, which only sounds dangerous because it is. For the record, horseshoes is nothing at all like pool; you do not get better the more you have to drink. Or at least I don’t. Probably an inner-ear thing.

As the night wore on, the “core group” moved to the poker table and got down to some serious, hard-core quarter poker. The missus and I tore things up and ended the night doubling our money. Okay, technically it was mostly her doubling our money, but only after I pointed out that she had a straight on a hand that she didn’t notice.

Sunday, we attended the 1:00 Braves game. Though the tickets said that the Braves were playing a Major League Baseball game that day, it turns out that they were playing the New York Mets instead. Of course, the Braves won with a two-run homer in the eighth and Smoltz came in the ninth to humiliate the next three batters. We were fairly sedate for most of the game, but after four 24-ounce beers, I may have shouted a few things about some of the players’ more “feminine” characteristics. And there may have been an offhand comment here or there about someone’s mother. My point is this: The Mets suck.

After we got home, we napped and then began another round of gaming. I made things go BOOM in Vice City. I was proud.

Later in the evening, I jumped onto IM with Julia and ended up staying on til nearly 2:00 a.m. having a conversation about personal ads. Believe me when I tell you, we are fucking hilarious. But, honestly, the material was all right there in the ads; the comedy was basically a slow, underhand pitch. I laughed until I had to wipe away tears. I now have a much greater appreciation of what all you single people are up against. I am stunned at the range and diversity of losers out there. God help you all.

Yesterday, in remembrance of our nation’s fallen heroes, I had a friend over to watch the D-Day invasion episode of Band of Brothers on DVD. It is all so unbelievable and surreal. I found myself getting so wrapped up in the story and the sound and images that I was mentally jolted at the end when they listed which men in the unit got certain medals. My mind snapped; holy shit, people actually did that.

So, to the fighting men of our country, I say:

Thank you for allowing me to play video games, get drunk, play poker, watch baseball, talk to friends until the dark hours of the morning and wallow in DVDs whenever I want. ‘Cuz if this country woulda had to rely on my pathetic ass in WWII, we’d all be speakin’ Germapanese right now.

P.S. – Blogger sucks balls. I couldn’t update my site this weekend because I couldn’t get to my template. Changes are comin’ soon, I promise.

P.P.S. – YAY FOR WAFFLE IRONS!

2003-05-23T10:54:00.000-04:00

In Memorial

It looks to be a beautiful three-day holiday weekend here in Atlanta, Georgia. Birds singin', dogs frolickin', babies shittin' themselves. Good times.

In celebration of the fantastic weather, I believe I will play GTA Vice City and Enter The Matrix in my cave all weekend.

HA! I kid! That would be silly. Of course I will also watch several DVDs.

If sun hits my fair skin at any time, I will scream like an agoraphobic vampire.

I hope your weekend is as fruitful.

Changes are coming to the site by Monday.

2003-05-22T12:28:00.000-04:00

This Room Smells Like Hotel Illness

My recent bout with my bowels has me thinking of other times in my life when I’ve been so sick that it felt like my red and white blood cells were in a Holy War.

There was a particularly dark period in my college career where I felt invincible. More than that, I was invincible. I could drink anything, in any quantity, and I knew I would survive. I could approach any woman, any time I wanted, and I knew she’d agree to sex. I could dangle from rooftops and toy with traffic and I knew that I could not be touched. I was Superman, baby.

In the middle of my sophomore year, I’d already decided that my academic future was, well, academic. Simply put, I’d given up on college being valuable to me as anything more than a Grand Social Experiment. Unlike many people, I do not regret this or wish I’d “tried harder” or “paid more attention” in college. The non-scholastic benefits that I discovered serve me more today than anything I could’ve learned in a class. It is what I needed at the time. My problem was that I didn’t know that my invincibility is temporary. I forgot about Kryptonite.

In December of that year, I had just completed the worst semester of my college life. I believe the GPA was somewhere in the 1.4-ish range. So much in my life felt like it was slipping from my grasp. Yet, I was still invincible. And, clearly, I needed a drink.

I went out with a group of friends to an end of semester party. I remember bits and pieces. There was dancing on a coffee table to Been Caught Stealing. There were doors being pulled off of hinges. There were screaming matches and fistfights. I wasn’t involved, but I remember the tension. Maybe we were all angry that we had nothing against which we could rebel.

At any rate, I couldn’t take the mood. I grabbed my older friend Dave and told him that he and I were gonna go get drunk. He said he was gonna take care of me – the bartender at The Stein was a good friend was his. It was early.

As we pulled ourselves up to the bar, Dave’s bartender friend Steve set us up with two very large, very strong Long Island Iced Teas with a mere nod from Dave. In the next hour, over sparkling conversation involving poontang and blow-jobs, we had each consumed four of the magnificent mixtures.

I looked over at Dave and said, “I gotta go piss.”

He said, “Um…have you stood up yet?”

“What do you mean? Since we got here? No. No, I guess I haven’t. Why?” I asked.

“Well, it’s three-for-one night,” he explained.

“Great,” I said, “so maybe we’ll have a coupla more?”

“No, you don’t understand,” he went on, “each Long Island was a triple.”

“Oh.”

In essence, I had just ingested twelve Long Island Iced Teas.

I stood. The world went sideways.

Oh, this was very, very good.

The night blurs slightly after that. We roamed the rest of the bars on The Hill looking for strikingly sexy and wonderfully willing women. I remember at one point going back to The Stein and calling a bunch of girls that I knew and liked, “a bunch of stuck-up whores”. Quite loudly. I really can turn on the charm at will.

After that little incident, Dave led me outside, saying, “I know a couple of girls in the dorms.”

Ah. Booty call.

It was 2:00 a.m.

I followed Dave to one of the tall towers and we took the elevator to an all-female floor. We both wobbled down the hall, laughing and whispering and shushing. Dave knocked.

“What do you two want,” the blonde asked, slightly less peeved than I thought she’d be.

“We want to come in. Too far to walk home. We’re tired,” Dave reasoned.

It was the most pathetic line I’ve ever heard.

But, of course, it worked.

“Come on in,” she motioned.

Her roommate rolled her eyes and smiled.

Invincible.

*****

After we had each concluded our mutual needs, I passed out.

I woke up a couple of hours later, pleased that I’d had the good fortune of getting the bed with my “date”, while Dave was on the floor with his. At least, I thought Dave was still on the floor. It was very dark in the room and I was very drunk. And I had to pee.

I searched in the darkness for a minute or two for my underwear or some other piece of clothing, but could find none. So, resigned and indifferent, I left the room and I walked down the hall, naked, to go to the bathroom. At four in the morning. On an all-female dorm floor.

I encountered only one girl while I was in the bathroom and she seemed surprisingly unconcerned. I waved and she continued on with her business. Good times. I had brief thoughts about how I might explain this whole situation to campus police:

Me: “Um, yes, officer, I’m with Dave’s friend…down the hall…”

Officer: “Who is Dave?”

Me: “Dude, you don’t know Dave??”

Officer: “Why are you naked in the women’s dorm?”

Me: “The better question is, Why aren’t you?”

Fortunately, I staggered back to the room without incident and promptly passed out again for a couple of hours.

When I awoke again, around 6:00-ish (I’m guessing), I decided that I urgently needed to leave this place. I looked for Dave in the darkness. He was gone.

I gathered all the clothes that I could find and dressed in the hall. I never found my underwear.

One of the things that I have failed to mention is that though it was December in Iowa, many times we didn’t go to the bars with coats, because they were too much of a burden once inside. I faced the ten-block walk home with nothing but my blue jeans and a flannel shirt. I didn’t feel the need to button the shirt. For I was invincible.

Unfortunately, though I didn’t know it yet, I had literally pissed away my invincibility at 4:00 that morning.

It was fifteen degrees outside.

When I got home, I vomited.

Three days later, I found out I had pneumonia.

Nine days later, I’d lost thirty pounds

Thirteen days later, my parents saw my grades.

Fourteen days later, I almost dropped out of college.

This was the sickest I’ve ever been.

In every sense of the word.

2003-05-21T12:45:00.000-04:00

One More Thing I Can Do Without

So, I’ve had food poisoning several times before and in case you are looking to take it up as some sort of “Extreme Sport”, I’d have to advise against it. If my colon were a symphony of the body, the main performance over the last two days would’ve been a glorious concerto in 250 movements. The “Thai Seafood Surprise In Ebola Sauce” has morphed into some sort of evil entity, eager to be released again into the world. I have never before experienced food that seems to have a genuine grudge against my lower intestinal tract. I am curious to know how the colon/Thai food rift began, but I am only hearing my colon’s end of the story. Believe me, he is screaming non-stop about it.

My point is that I’m back at work and, frankly, I do not need any external influences to make me “queasy”. However, when I went to the fountain to get a drink of clear, delicious, safe, life-giving water, I was forced to contemplate something that has bothered me for a while. Perhaps some of you zany engineering types can assist me in understanding this one: Why, when I am getting a drink of water from the fountain outside of a restroom, does the water pressure fall when someone in the restroom flushes? Why, in the name of all that is holy, are those two sets of pipes in any way related? I want to at least have the illusion that there is a single pipe for my water that’s linked from a pure, natural, Colorado spring directly to the water fountain, only to be slowed by some sort of quadruple-filter distillation process. I don’t need to be happily sucking in water, only to hear the whhooooosssssh sound on the other side of the door as the water dips below the reach of my eager lips.

Someone place a call to the Brita people about this; it is completely unacceptable.

2003-05-20T10:56:00.000-04:00

Blowout

Home sick today with food poisoning. I blame the "Thai Seafood Surprise" that I had over the weekend. It feels like my intestines are being yanked and pulled in a manner similar to one of those long balloons that clowns form into poodles and monkeys. I fucking hate clowns for exactly this reason.

There has been a bit of a shake-up in the blog world lately and I need to rejigger all of my links. I'm dropping a couple of sites for various reasons. There are a few of you out there that I know are frequent readers that I have failed to link thus far. Today is your opportunity. Please email me through the link below in order to get into my updated blogroll. It's easy for you and easy for me. Mostly for me.

I hope to be up to full speed tomorrow. Until then, I will be drinking vodka martinis in hopes of killing the bacteria in my system.

2003-05-19T11:21:00.000-04:00

To Sleep; Perchance to Dream

Weekend long. Weekend fun. Am tired.

I began the pre-celebration of my 32nd year on Thursday night by seeing the 10:15 p.m. showing of Matrix Reloaded. I wore my special soil-resistant, chub-allowing khakis. Without going into detail, I will say that I was impressed on a number of levels. My immediate first reaction was that it isn’t as good as the first movie, but now I am rethinking that, because I’ve seen the first one about 20 billion times, so I am far more invested in it. I think that the more I see Reloaded, the more pleased I will become. I am ready for the DVD now, please.

The result of seeing the 10:15 show is that I didn’t get to bed until around 1:30. This is not good. My body needs a good ten hours of sleep to be fully functional. I usually get about seven. Seven hours allow me to be partially functional, while also giving me that angry, vindictive edge that makes me so very huggable. Thursday night, I got six hours of sleep. For the record, six hours of sleep puts me in a bad place. With six hours, I tend to not only hold contempt for humanity in general (as with seven hours of sleep), but I begin to hold intensely fierce grudges against inanimate objects, such as my hair. Or the phone. Or my zipper. Or the lawnmower. It isn’t healthy, to be sure, but if you had my tired eyes, you would be able to see that they are all conspiring against me. It is perfectly rational to slap at my own head in an effort to punish my hair for being unruly. It is not outside the norm to yell at the phone, “Oh, I HEAR you ringing!! I’m COMING, you MOTHERFUCKER!!” There is no shame in standing in your bathroom, both hands locked on the zipper nubbin, screaming, “What is your problem, you sonovabitch?! Zip already!! You’ve got two jobs in life! Up. Down. Don’t make me come down there!!” It is psychologically acceptable to mutter under your breath to a lawnmower, “I’ll push you right down into that ditch and leave you for dead, I swear to God, you boisterous piece of shit. Do not test me.”

So I was in a bit of a mood on Friday.

But I knew that Friday evening, things would get better. And worse.

On Friday night, I took part in The Relay For Life for the American Cancer Society. The relay involves teams from around the area gathering at the Fairgrounds and walking around a course all night, in shifts. I’ve participated in this event before and I always find it to be inspirational. There are so many people there that have fought against their own bodies and have won; it put a nightlong chill down my spine. In the early evening, they light candles all around the track in memory of those that have beaten cancer as well as those that have lost the battle. There are school groups and corporate groups and families. I was able to spend the time with a really great group of friends, one of whom is a survivor himself and one of my best friends. It puts a lot into perspective to spend time with a friend that I may never have met and a son he may never have had and a wife that he may never have known. I was proud to be a part of it.

However. Let’s jump back briefly to the part about how the event is an all night gig. Not that I had to walk all night – far from it. But I did stay up for much of the night, mostly due to the incredible musical stylings of the Shoe Carnival DJ that was about five tents away. If you haven’t had the pleasure of hearing pop music blaring at you at 4:00 in the morning by a shoe store DJ, then you have not lived, my friend. If dreams dreamt at charity fundraisers can come true, then there is DJ that has a microphone permanently wedged in his ass right now.

Thankfully, the DJ did eventually stop. Because the skies opened up like someone needed to be building an Ark. We had a shelter and tents, so we were able to stay out of the direct rain, but there was still an overwhelming damp sensation. For the record, outdoors and I do not get along.

So, after much laying down in my tent with very little actual sleep, I figure I got about three hours of sleep, here and there.

Three hours of sleep is unpleasant.

By the time at we got home, at 10:30, we had a little over six hours until our party. 50+ people would be coming to a house that wasn’t clean, drinking alcohol that hadn’t yet been purchased, eating food that hadn’t yet been prepared. So my wife and I decided we’d better get cracking and get things organized.

We started the preparations by taking a three hour nap.

So. Now we had a little over three hours. Oh, and did I mention the part about how we were gonna finish remodeling our basement for the party? Yeah, that too.

And so, in a whirlwind, we cleaned and bought and prepped and remodeled and showered. We were ready.

It was time to relax and enjoy the evening. It was so much fun; hamburgers, hot dogs, brats, fruit and veggie platters, side dishes of all shapes and sizes, desserts and, of course, an endless supply of sissy drinks. There is nothing more energizing than having a big group of friends into your home, laughing and partying. I met some new friends and even had an old friend fly to see us. It went on for over nine hours.

It was all that I could hope for in a birthday.

It was all I could hope for in a weekend.

I’ll sleep eventually, having already lived some of my dreams.

2003-05-15T14:09:00.000-04:00

Belief

The view back on 32 years has to involve a little personal philosophy. Namely, I think it might be helpful for you to understand my take on religion and faith.

Growing up, my whole family thought I might become a priest. For some reason, I must’ve had that look about me. A “sensitive boy”, I believe was the term that was often used. I was young and they were naïve. It didn’t take long for them to see how drastically wrong they were, however. Now there is more of a consensus that I am hellspawn.

I’ve always found most religions to be comprised of a series of arcane, endless constraints. The thinking being, I suppose, that nature itself is governed by a set of laws and so should we all be. And there may be some truth to that. Certain things are inherently wrong or evil. I will not go into a list of what those things might be, because I am not writing Bible II – God Goes Wild. That said, I think that much of religion is dangerous; it is too often a weapon for justification of intolerable acts.

Many religions are wrapped in the concept that God is love, or that God loves his people or God is kindness and caring. I gotta call bullshit on that. God must be some kind of reflection of our own spirit. If that’s true, then God must feel hate and anger and jealousy and lust and indifference. And if you think that God doesn’t feel those things because either he is able to control those feelings or his love is strong enough to overpower them, don’t you think that God is denying a basic understanding of both self and humanity?

While considering God, one also needs to consider faith. Faith on an individual level can be quite impressive in its ability to comfort and teach. However, that same faith usually translates into crazed fanaticism when taken to a larger scale.

Much of what I believe can be condensed to some fundamentals. Feel free to throw stones:

I believe that faith is a personal issue and that organized religion always degenerates into some form of cult, no matter how well intentioned.

I think that my purpose in the Grand Scheme is to make people happy and to be there for others when they need me. I know that I can make people laugh and I know that I can affect people in a number of ways on a moment-to-moment basis. I know I’m not the only one that can do this, and that gives me hope.

I understand that there has to be hate and pain and tragedy in the world. I know that people die for absolutely senseless reasons. I am aware that death must happen. I see that vile, despicable acts will continue forever. There will never be peace. Conversely, I know that without this pervasive darkness, I wouldn’t be able to truly appreciate the amazing moments that surround me. I wouldn’t appreciate holding onto my wife and telling her that I love her every morning. I wouldn’t appreciate the bittersweet ache that I feel when telling my distant friends how much I miss them. I wouldn’t appreciate listening to my niece giggle on the phone. I wouldn’t appreciate my nephews telling me that they love me. I wouldn’t appreciate laughing with strangers. I wouldn’t appreciate life.

I know that I cannot change someone. I will not try. I also know that, no matter what you think, you can’t change someone either. That’s not to say that people are inflexible, but change is always up to the individual, in the end.

I know that an amazing thing is somewhere nearby, but I may not have seen it or experienced it yet. Being ready for what might be around the corner is exciting and scary. The anticipation is the best part of living.

Let me know if you want in on the ground floor of my Godless religion.

2003-05-14T16:59:00.000-04:00

Living The Life

In my weeklong introspection leading up to my 32nd birthday, I want to share another bit of knowledge that I picked up after college that I have to force myself to remember on a daily basis.

I grew up in a fairly small town in northeast Iowa. For those that are geographically illiterate, Iowa is the state that is bordered by the Mississippi river to the east and the Missouri river to the west. We grow corn, not potatoes. It is smack dab Midwestern, with all that may imply.

Early on in my life, I knew that I wanted to get out. Being between two rivers has a similar psychological effect to being trapped on an island. Perhaps it's just the nature of being a kid, but everything in the world seemed to happen elsewhere. As I recall, I spent an inordinate amount of time longing to be anywhere but where I was.

After high school, however, I chose the safest (and least expensive) route of staying in my hometown and attending the small state university. I never envisioned myself as one to take the safe and comfortable road, but there it was.

And, perhaps because of that, I began to discover something about my home state that I had never taken the time to observe before: It is quietly beautiful.

So, during college, I did my best to soak in the quiet nights and lingering sunsets. I took walks or rollerbladed solitarily through campus. I enjoyed.

But down to my core, almost within my DNA, I had the desire to escape. It’s said that if you love somebody, you should set them free; I felt like I needed to do just that for myself. I wanted to be free of all that my intrinsic and extrinsic borders evoked.

So I left.

After college, I packed up and moved to Atlanta with my girlfriend (now my wife). The whole world seemed to open up for both of us. The best feeling in life is to be scared and happy and curious and homesick and excited and nervous and in love, all at the same time. You want to hand out flyers to people on the street, telling them to shake up their lives a little. Live outside of their comfort zone. I wanted all of my friends and family to know what else was available to them. I told everyone to move to Atlanta. Or move to Chicago. Or Minneapolis. Or Kansas City. Or anywhere. I just didn’t want them to be limited in their experience.

And so, at this point, you may think that the bit of knowledge that I wish to convey from this piece is to “Live Your Life By Taking Risks”. Or “Live Outside The Norm”. Or “Move to The Big City”.

But the lesson that I learned is what came next. After several conversations with friends, I finally understood that not everyone feels the need to escape. Not everyone needs to explore beyond his or her own boundaries. Not everyone wants something new. And it doesn’t make them boring or unadventurous. It is merely this: We need to find our own way in life, because it is in walking the path by the route of our choosing that we define our future and ourselves.

Following someone else’s definition of a dream will never lead to feeling truly content yourself.

I'm happy in my own skin, which is a cool place to be at 31.362.

2003-05-13T10:52:00.000-04:00

Do Or Do Not Do

Five more days until I turn 32.

In my weeklong effort to try to convey the wisdom of my years, I thought it might be a good idea to share the secrets for a healthy and successful love life, as I know them.

I’ve found a good pick-up line to be: “Excuse me, I know this is crazy, but I’ll be mad at myself tomorrow if I don’t at least come over here to tell you that your eyes are probably the most beautiful that I’ve ever seen. You don’t even need to say anything; I just wanted you to know.”

On the other hand, a bad pick-up line is: “You don’t look like a fuckin’ prude like the rest of the bitches here. Ever had your ankles hooked around the headrest of a ’91 Camaro?”

When looking to “close the deal” at the end of the night, a good effort may be: “I’d love to spend the night with you, even if it’s just to wake up next to you in the morning.”

Conversely, one may not be as successful with: “If you ain’t humpin’ my kielbasa in ten minutes, I’m gonna go jerk off.”

When getting out of a difficult relationship, it is appropriate to ease into dating again, with a discussion such as: “It’s tough to be hurt after two years with someone. It’ll be a little while before I can fully trust someone again, but I feel very comfortable with you. I’d love to get to know you better.”

It may be a bad idea to lead with: “I can’t believe I trusted that cunt for two years. All women are whores. You’ll all spread your legs for enough money, won’t you? WON’T YOU!??!”

If your female partner expresses dissatisfaction with the size of your penis, do not berate her; she is simply communicating openly about her sexual needs. Stay calm and arouse her in other ways, saying: “I’m sorry that you feel this way, but I really love you and maybe we can find some other method to satisfy you, through oral sex or fun toys.”

Do not, under any circumstances, resort to the line: “In my defense, fucking you is a little like tossing a Ballpark Frank into the Grand Canyon, you mutt-faced whore. When you screamed in passion I heard a fucking echo for Christ sake.”

If you are feeling amorous and your partner says she isn’t in the mood because it’s “that time of the month”, you should say: “That’s ok, sweetie. Let me know if I can get you anything.”

One should not try the line: “Well, your mouth ain’t bleedin’ is it?”

When you think you’ve finally found the woman with whom you’d like to spend your life, try expressing your emotions thusly: “All I’ve ever dreamed about in a woman is you. You are everything in my world and I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

You may receive a somewhat negative response if you try: “Well, I’m pretty sure I gave you syphilis, so do you want to move your shit into my trailer or what? I swear to Christ, though, if you gain so much as five pounds, you’re out on your ass.”

And finally, I’ve found that whether dating or married, the following line always goes over well: “Jesus, you look great in those jeans.”

However, I’ve also found that whether dating or married, the following line never really works: “This cock ain’t gonna suck itself.”

I hope you are able to learn from my experience.

Go in peace.

2003-05-12T12:44:00.000-04:00

A Look Back

This coming Saturday, May 17th, is my 32nd birthday.

I am going to spend the week reflecting on what those 32 years have taught me. Maybe you can learn something from my foolishness. But I doubt it.

One of the primary lessons that I’ve discovered over time is that there are small moments here and there, sprinkled sparingly as true love, that make me ache.

*****

There are aches that make me hurt forever, like when my dad put his heavy arm around my shoulder when I was nine, as we walked up to the casket at my grandpa’s funeral. It was the first time I’d been to a funeral of someone I really loved and for the entire day I couldn’t sort out my emotions enough to grieve. I stayed to myself in a small parlor of the funeral home. I couldn’t cry. I got angry with myself for my callousness. But late in the day, as my stomach twisted to knotted tears, my dad came up to me and said, “Let’s go say goodbye to your grandpa.” We started down the aisle, my grandpa resting peacefully before us. As soon as my dad’s arm wrapped my shoulder, I began to cry. He squeezed a little, partially for me and partially for him.

As we knelt before my grandpa, I looked over at my dad with his eyes shut in prayer and I realized that I am part of something. I am part of a world where people are not immortal. I am part of the joy and sorrow of all of those around me. I am part of a family that loves each other, especially when the weight seems too heavy to bear alone.

*****

Sometimes there are aches that drive deep into my core, like the hurt of discovering the person I love will never truly love me. The moment of realization pulled the breath out of my lungs, making me lightheaded and nauseous. It felt like the air would never return to completely fill me up again. I was deflated and hollow. When I was younger, I felt this ache. I remember looking at her, wondering why she didn’t see what I felt. Wondering why she didn’t care. Wondering how it was possible for me to feel so much intensity and yet she could feel none.

But the ache passed. Love comes to each of us again, and it is that which fills us up. I learned to look for it; learned to look for the intensity in others that I’d hoped others would see in me.

*****

I have felt the ache of love. It’s a love that makes you wants to shake strangers. The ache radiates within you. The ache makes you want to hold your lover tighter. The ache is the hot breath on your neck, even when she isn’t there.

This ache is always with you.

*****

So, after 32 years, I’ve learned to embrace the ache. Sometimes it’s simple. Sometimes, it’s difficult to see the road back from pain or love or anger or despair.

The only thing of which I am certain is that when I do find my way back, I’m so much happier than when I left.

2003-05-09T15:56:00.000-04:00

Detached

There is no doubt about it, I have fabulous earlobes.

I mean, Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, look over here to the right ---->

Muh. Thur. Fuuh. Huk. That is one hot-ass lobe. Don't try to deny it, you transparent, jealous bitch.

And you know why they're so fine? Because they're detached. It is a proven fact that people with detached lobes are, on average, 78.9% sexier than those with attached lobes (Scientific Journal of American Scientific Facts and Global Scientific Science, August 2002). In the article, Dr. Heinrich Von Guttersnatch concluded that people with attached lobes (or "Lobers") are significantly less sexually competent and have a greater risk of having ugly children. Also, he said, Lobers are hung like squirrels.

So don't even try to argue with science.

Dammit - I am so goddamn hot!

2003-05-08T13:29:00.000-04:00

Meating of The Mind

Last night I reached as close to heaven as may be possible. I dined at Fogo De Chao.

If you’ve never been, I can explain the concept rather quickly. It is an all-you-can-shove-down-your-salivating-gullet meat-fest. Known as a Brazilian Barbeque, Fogo De Chao showcases dozens and dozens of men dressed in Gaucho outfits (think puffy pants tucked into knee-high leather boots with an official looking puffy white shirt). These goofy bastards walk the restaurant with skewered wads of meat and a long, sharp knife. You, as the gluttonous patron, have a round disk in front of you; one side is green, the other red. If you want meat, go green. If your belly button pops from an “inny” to an “outty”, go red. If you have a green disk showing, the gauchos will come to you and ask you if you want a hunk of their meat, so to speak. And they’ve got all kinds of meats on sticks there. I had filet, garlic beef, top sirloin, bottom sirloin, rump steak (well, sure), mini-filet mignon, leg of lamb, lamb chops, roast lamb, chicken, sausage, roast pork, pork tenderloin…again, this isn’t everything that they had, this was everything I had. After about 30 minutes, I went blind in one eye and lost all hearing, but I could still see the meat if I squinted and I maintained the ability to nod my head at the gauchos, so I was able to continue eating. Praise God.

There was just something about the atmosphere and the Gauchos that hypnotized me into eating and eating and eating. I’m pretty sure that I sensed slight contempt from each of the Gauchos that I turned away, as if they were thinking, “Ah. No roast pork, then? You are half a man at best. I will kill you in your sleep tonight.”

Have you ever been given a look of contempt by Gaucho? If not, then you cannot judge me for eating roughly ten pounds of cooked beast. You should’ve seen how happy and proud they were when I said yes to another slice.

I am a humanitarian. A people person. I love to make people happy. And the puffy pants are very intimidating.

The problem is that I’m pretty sure that when my stomach filled up, the meat somehow found its way to one of the chambers of my heart and then to the lower (mostly unused) portions of my lungs. Being an experienced eater, I knew that the key was to eat as much as possible, as fast as I could, so that the stomach had no idea what was coming. For those of you out there that are “amateur” eaters, learn this: To Defeat the Stomach, You Must Trick the Stomach. I’m pretty sure that Sun-Tzu said that.

But there is a price.

Eventually, the stomach catches on.

And the stomach is a vengeful whore.

You see, I reached for heaven last night, but my waxy wings melted. The Gods do not like it when you strive to eat your weight in carcass. So, as I lay in bed last night, I tried to spread my arms and legs as far apart as possible, in some sort of effort to make more room for the meat to digest. But as I was moaning and twisting in pain, I had but one thought:

Where can I get some of those sweet-ass Gaucho pants?

2003-05-07T11:36:00.000-04:00

Hardcore Man On Man Action

So with all of the talk of my gay “leanings”, I thought it was time to write about my first and only homosexual experience. When I say “only”, I am not including that one time I wore that pink Izod polo shirt in Junior High or the time I got to a quarter-chub during Braveheart.

This is different.

This is hard core.

College is an experimental time; drugs, alcohol and acts of death defying adventure are the standard for many young students. And I was no different.

I had a number of good friends in college. We came from different backgrounds, but for many of us, college was our first exposure to unique cultures, beliefs and opinions. The fact that we all held varied beliefs ended up bringing us together in many ways. More so, however, we were bonded by alcohol.

By the time my sophomore year rolled around, I was drinking a lot. I mean, relatively speaking. When you drink with guys that chug an entire fifth of tequila in a night, your little Vodka and Mountain Dew concoctions seem tame. But I could see that all of us were going on more and more “adventures” that were precipitously risky. Climbing five story fire escapes and hanging out from the edge. Playing golf from the peak of three story roofs. Flying downhill into traffic in a shopping cart.

Good, clean fun.

As I started to try to pull myself out of this dive, I recognized more and more disturbing behavior from one of my best friends, M.

After the first two years of college, M was lost and flailing. He was constantly looking for an anchor. He’d tried girls. He’d tried drugs. He’d tried music. He’d tried crazy stunts. He’d tried alcohol.

And now, he was trying them all together.

On this night, I’d lost track of M. We’d gone out to the bars, but I’d left with some girl and he’d found his own conquest.

As I am sitting on our front porch, post-coitus, overlooking the crowds of late night revelers with friends, I hear the shouts from down the street that I immediately recognize as M. He has entered his special mental place. Happy and crazy. It is interesting how crazy looks like a lot of fun when you are drunk, but less so the more sober you are.

He is running up the street, ripping his shirt over his head. His girl-for-the-night is a half a block back. M is in a zone. And heading right for the No Parking sign in front of our house.

He lunges at the sign, throwing his shoulder into it. He begins jerking it back and forth, trying to rip it from the ground. I have no idea why. It doesn’t come free as easily as he hopes, but now he’s committed to the act, so he can’t stop. All of the cars that drive past honk encouragement.

I stand and shout, “M! Knock it off. The cops are gonna drive by and bust your ass. Quit being an dickhead!”

He makes no response, other than to push harder and with more determination.

His “girlfriend” walks up next to him and tells him to stop. He ignores her, so she joins us on the porch.

Finally, with a last, desperate, strained jerk, M pulls the sign free and hoists it above his head, triumphant. He does a little dance. Then he throws down the vanquished sign and runs up to the porch.

From my chair on the porch, I see his wild eyes as he ascends the short set of stairs leading up to us.

I am shaking my head at him.

“Shit, did you see that? Whooo! Fuckin’ sign!” he shouts.

“Um, yeah. Listen man, you need to settle down,” I say calmly.

“What!?” he shouts.

I’ve committed myself.

“M, ya need to take it easy. You’re goin’ nuts. Slow down on the booze a little, for Christ sakes.”

M leans over and kisses me hard on the cheek, his unshaven face scratching me with jagged forcefulness. He likes it rough. I see anger and confusion and what I assume is lust rising in his eyes. He leans back and speaks.

“I love ya man, but fuck off,” he says, three inches from my face.

Oooo. Dirty sex talk. Such a tease.

He jumps over the porch and his girlfriend follows, out into the night.

I’ve been used. I feel cheap.

It was all so naughty and tawdry.

The jerking of the post. The sweaty, straining grinding. The savage kiss.

*****

It’s very cathartic to get these things out into the open.

At the time, I quickly reflected on the experience and I found myself overwhelmed with emotions that I couldn’t explain.

Now that I have the benefit of time, I can express the feelings quite clearly:

Stubbly and disgusting.

Seriously, just gross. How you women ever shimmy out of your panties for our scratchy-faced, drunk asses is forever a mystery to me.

I need a shower.

But no.

This is the kind of dirty that never comes clean.

2003-05-06T15:09:00.000-04:00

Warm Fuzzy

I love useless meetings in which no decisions get made and the person that calls the meeting starts by saying, "So...why are we here?"

Brilliant business skills, handjob. Please allow me to jump over the conference table and choke you with both hands while thumping your face into my knee. Does that "instigate" a "paradigm shift" you monkeyfucking, yellow-toothed, pancake-titted snatchface?

Jesus Christ, if this happens again, someone's gettin' stabbed in the genitals with a salad fork.

2003-05-05T11:11:00.000-04:00

Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?

Looking back on the weekend past, I realize only now the strange mix of experience that populates my existence. To wit:

On Friday night, we went to our friend’s house for a night of poker and drunken debauchery. These particular friends have gone all out on the poker front; they have purchased an eight-person poker table and three leather-bound cases of customized poker chips with their name and logo.

So this all sounds like good, wholesome, drunken, slovenly behavior, yes? Well, it started with the best intentions. Hell, after the initial greetings, the guys even broke off to the other room and began discussing surround sound home theatre systems. Very manly. That conversation led to testing the capability of my friend’s system. As we carefully analyzed the center channel-to-front speaker sound ratio during key Matirx scenes, I was feeling quite virile. Testosterone filled, if you will. We all acted like we knew what we were talking about and we were firm in our conviction that, after gentle tweaking, we had indeed improved the overall sound. Now that the system was at optimal subwoofer-pumping performance, we decided to grab other DVD’s for confirmation of our handy work. The Jurassic Park T-Rex scene is always a dandy selection. Mmmmm…sooo thumpy…

And then, it happened. In reviewing the collection of DVD’s that my friend had amassed, another friend held up Moulin Rouge and asked in a straight-forward manner, “What’d you guys think of this movie?”

“I love that movie,” I piped up immediately.

Brief silence.

I realized that the alcohol had dulled my ability to think before speaking. I look to one friend. Then another. They stare back at me.

Oh, the shame.

“You know what? I really liked it too,” MP said.

“Me too,” ML follows.

I did a quick check for a sarcastic tone. I sensed none.

“Nicole Kidman is hot in that,” ML says, in an effort to redeem manhood for the group.

“Yeah!” the rest of us grunt, simultaneously.

But then it went downhill again, as we replayed our favorite scenes of Ewan McGregor singing “Your Song” to Nicole and the duet love song melody on the elephant.

I fear that we were seconds from jiggling each other’s balls with a feather.

Then, from the other room, this:

“What in the hell are you guys doing out there!?”

Not jiggling each other’s balls. Honest.

We promptly went back to the T-Rex and tried to block the whole sordid affair from memory.

But we never did get around to Poker. I showered when I got home.

On Saturday night, we had a surreal experience, in that we met a fellow blogger. Scott, his beautiful wife Michelle, their fantastic daughter Mia and Michelle’s (also beautiful) sister, Julie, came to our house for dinner and drinks. It was fun and interesting and, again, surreal. It’s very strange to have a conversation with people that you’ve never technically met, yet they have a pretty good idea of who you are. Also, they knew quite a few of my stories. It was like having sitting in a roomful of psychics, because they would nod politely for a few moments before I realized that they already knew this or that little tidbit of information about me. I never really grasped that people read and paid attention to my inane rants until then. But it was a good night and, out of respect, I stuck with less sissified drinks for the entire evening (Red Stripe and Killian’s Irish Red). Also, on a bit of a side note, I suspect their daughter was drugged. No baby is that well behaved. And let me just go on record as saying that I am all for drugging babies.

Then, to top off the weekend, there is only one other important note:

You have not lived until you've watched Jennifer Garner in a girlfight in 16:9 high definition. I almost got blood spatter on me.

Alias is The. Best. Show. Ever.

Note to Jen Garner: Call me - we can rent Moulin Rouge and you can call me your dirty little double agent.

2003-05-02T08:58:00.000-04:00

Retread

The site is acting a bit weird today, so I'm going to repost an earlier story that not many people read. Also, I am lazy. Have a good weekend.

What and noodles?

I’m feeling quite reflective lately. Not in a shiny, cars-can-see-me-at-night kind of way, but in a retrospective kind of way.

On the road to gradual disclosure, it’s always best to start out with yer roots, as my kinfolk would say. I am originally from Iowa. We say kinfolk. We do! Iowa is the home of corn, pork, basic skills tests and…um…did I mention the corn? Oooo! And Gopher from The Love Boat was a Congressman for us for a while. So, if I ever want to meet Charo, I’m golden.

There are certain things that one learns growing up in Iowa that may not be at the top of the curriculum elsewhere. I learned about ancient Indian burial grounds (turns out, they bury Indians there). I learned about the Mississippi River (it’s a big fucking river). I learned about bitterly cold Winters (I knew on Groundhog Day that we were in for an early Spring if my testicles came out). And, I learned about meat. Specifically, I learned to love eating meat.

I am a carnivore. Love the meat. In the same way that vegetarians cannot fathom how fellow humans can eat the flesh of another animal, I am perplexed at how one can resist. I blame this mentality on Iowa. There is a certain mindset that one develops when one’s views are dominated by the site of corn and cows for the majority of one’s formative years. To be exact, one learns to hate both of them. One begins to form assassination plots. One begins to say "one" a lot. If you are driving in Iowa and you do not see corn or cows for a stretch of longer than 5 minutes, there has likely been a nuclear attack. Pull over and seek shelter.

And the cows and corn are only half of the story. Iowa is the pig growing capitol of the universe. I grew up in a state where saying, “Iowa is the pig growing capitol of the universe” is something in which we could take pride. And the Gopher thing, unfortunately. I mean Isaac, I can understand being proud of; the man could mix a drink like a muthafucka. But Gopher??! Damn it, off topic again…ok, back to meat.

So, pigs and cows and corn, oh my! I know that I am easing awfully slowly to my point here, but psychological breakthroughs are not something you just toss out there like a Frisbee. But there is a breakthrough coming. Oh yes.

When I was growing up, we were neither poor nor wealthy. We were mid-middle class. The Brady's envied us. However, both of my parents grew up in Iowa in large Catholic families (redundant) and neither had a pony growing up, if ya catch my meaning. The, shall we say, “frugal” frame of mind was never far from my parents’ thoughts. The Mississippi could flood and take everything from us at a moments notice, was apparently the thinking. We were roughly 150 miles from the Mighty Miss. But you never know.

Given this parsimonious attitude, my mother was quite creative about food. For example, it wasn’t until high school that I realized that Spam was more of a joke than an actual staple in everyone’s diet. I was regularly consuming Spam, lettuce and tomato sandwiches for dinner (bacon is for Bill Gates and the fucking Queen, apparently). I still remember hearing the ads on the radio – “Spam is all natural! It’s just pork shoulder and ham!” First, I am immediately suspicious of anything that tells me that it’s “just” anything. Visit Iraq! It’s just zealots and land mines! Second issue with that statement: pork shoulder!? Is that supposed to make me hungry?! Oh, well, as long as it’s the shoulder! I don’t want to be eating pig cock here! Jesus. But, the thing is, I ate Spam often. And I liked it.

There are limits, however. My mom made a dish quite frequently that I loved. Begged for it, on occasion. Asked for it as my birthday meal.

And here…rounding the corner…if you look carefully…yep, there it is …my psychological car wreck. It is this: The meal that my mom was, on so many occasions, eager to whip up, was the cleverly named, “Tongue and Noodles.” Now, I know that I can be dim at times, but I honestly never had given a thought to the name. I guess I assumed it was Italian or something. We were so European! I’m sure that at that tender age I also never thought that my own mother would feed me an actual tongue. Didn’t really enter my mind. Then, one night as the delicious egg noodles were cooking, eager to be laced with about two sticks of real butter, I saw my mom handling the…uncooked…tongue (insert sound effect of the small corner of my psyche shattering into bits).

“What’s that, mom?” I asked with a sparkling, childlike lilt.

“This is the tongue. For dinner.” she said, obviously suppressing her mad-scientist-like cackle.

“Ohhhh, right. Hey, what kind of meat is that anyway? It’s always so tender and stuff.” God, I was just adorable, wasn’t I?

“Well, it’s,” my mom started, then realized I had never put two and two together before, “…it’s cow tongue.”

Silence. A dog barks in the distance.

"What!!?" she said. "You like it! It's a delicacy in some places!"

Hmm. Yes. Well, mother. Thank you for these eight years of life. I am just going to go upstairs and vomit my stomach through my nose now. Good day to you.

Of course, I realize now that the woman is insane. Whenever she would serve anything that looked like it had just been freshly sneezed, her retort was always the same: "It's a delicacy in some places!!" Where exactly, mom? I want latitude and longitude.

Needless to say, I haven’t had tongue and noodles since. But it was good. And if it were Italian, I’d probably still eat it, strictly as a status thing. But it ain’t Italian. It’s a tongue.

So, when I hear vegetarians or vegans or any other nutjobs rambling on about not eating anything with a face, I say this: I have tasted food that tasted me back. And there is no coming back from that, people.

That is why I love meat. I have sampled the cow from stem to stern and I liked it all. Corn, however, can go straight to hell.

2003-05-01T11:25:00.000-04:00

Hello? It’s For You…

I’m getting pretty goddamn sick of these TV ads for all of the shit that cell phones can do now. Get over yourselves. It’s a phone. The following features are required:

Buttons to dial.
Place where noise goes in.
Place where noise comes out.
Done.

But no. Now phones are Portable Media Stations.

“Look, Becky!! I took a pixilated picture of my vulva and I’m gonna send it to Jimmy so that he knows how much I wuuuv him!”

“Hey Tiffany! Text message me the results of your herpes test! I can hardly wait!”

“Amber!! Guess what? I got the new ring tone!! Now everybody can know what an annoying twat I am, cuz 50 Cent plays every time someone calls! What? I know! I am such a cockgobbler!”

“Holy fucktarts Biff! You need to get this new phone with Voice Activated Dialing! All I have to do is shout the name of my ex-girlfriend into the phone about 50 times and eventually it recognizes my voice and dials for me!! What? Yeah, it would be easier to just dial the number myself, but I can’t count past six!”

“Trevor, check this shit out! I just got the new hands-free device! Doesn’t it make me look like a pretentious fuck who actually has people to talk to!? The best part is, I can now use my free hand to give you a reach around!”

How about applying some of this technology to more important parts of our daily lives? I, for one, am looking for a customizable ring tone to play from my penis during climax. Primarily, I want the start of You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi, which begins:

Shot through the heart
And you’re to blame
Darlin’ you give love
A bad name.

That’d fucking rock. Hard.

I’d download tons of Cocktones* to my “hard drive” in a hurry if this technology was available.

C’mon Nokia. Get with the fuckin’ program.

*I’m totally trademarking this, so don’t even think about stealing my fucking idea.

2003-04-30T11:41:00.000-04:00

Family Ties

When I was about eleven or twelve years old, my mom decided to assemble the thousands of photos of our family memories into four massive albums. There were so many hazy recollections that crystallized upon seeing a single photo, that it was nearly overwhelming. I loved looking through the piles, because, generally, family photos capture happiness. I had a very rich, fun and amusing upbringing, with a sister that is seven years my senior and a brother that is a year younger than her. So, for those of you out there that are social scientists, yes, I was a “happy accident”. But I never felt like it. Well, almost never.

As my mom was organizing and filing the immense collection of pictures, I remember looking through some of the old, grainy color photos, trying to resurrect the moments in my mind.

There…was the picture of me, wadded up in a mammoth old tractor tire, as my sister and brother rolled me around.

There…was the photo of the three of us all dressed up, performing a newscast skit for my parents in our family room.

There…were the snapshots of every first day school for all three of us, from kindergarten forward.

There…was…

“Hey mom, what’s this a picture of?” I inquired.

I handed her an aged, pixilated black and white photo with the edges trimmed to wavy ridges. In the picture, I could make out a much younger version of my mom and dad. They appeared to be grilling something on an old barbeque at the top of a fairly steep hill, near a quaint little house with a porch. The picture was taken from the bottom of the hill, looking up. At the left edge of the photo, I could make out a body of water, sunlight glinting into the frame. On the hill between the photographer and my parents was a singular blob that slightly resembled a young child. Except…the blob was attached to something. There was a long string affixed to the blob that led partially uphill.

My mom took the photograph from me and looked lovingly at the image.

“It’s funny that you pulled this one out,” she chuckled, “it’s one of my favorites. This is up at the lake one summer, years ago. We rented that house for the week and we had such a good time, fishing and cooking out. That’s you when you were a baby, there on the hill…”

“Really?” I said, looking at the picture again. “What’s this cord that’s attached to me?”

“Oh, that’s the reason we took the picture. It was so funny. See, that was a really steep hill and it dropped off at the bottom, right into the lake. The first time we sat you down, you tumbled a little and started to roll down the hill. We were worried that you’d fall into the lake, so we…”

She looked up at me, just then realizing that she was about to accidentally expose some twisted, locked childhood memory.

“So…honey…we chained you down to a stake,” she continued carefully, “so that you could play on the hill and not roll down into the lake. For your own protection.”

Strangely, the sickness of their act of bondage was not what I had chosen to initially spotlight. I had another issue. See, I had kind of been focusing on the part where they were grilling out at the top of the hill.

“You chained me to a steak!??!” I uttered. “What good did that do? Was I that light that a steak could hold me in place?!”

“Well, sure, honey,” my mom said, relieved that I hadn’t pressed the part about the chain of my oppressors, “you were just a baby. And the stake was in the ground pretty securely.”

“The steak was in the ground?! How did you get a steak to stick into the ground?!” I said, incredulous.

“Well, the ground was soft there near the lake, sweetie. It wasn’t that difficult,” she stated.

Bud Abbott - meet Lou Costello.

“I cannot believe you just left me there, chained to a steak,” I said, horrified. “Even though I was a baby, I bet I still could’ve rolled down that hill. If I got momentum, there’s no way a steak could’ve held me in place.”

“That’s not true,” she coddled. “The stake was firmly in place. And you lived through it, so quit whining about it. As I recall, you had a very good time playing on that hill.”

“I can’t believe you tied me to a steak,” was all I could manage.

So much for a trauma-free childhood.

Regardless of the miscommunication between my mom and I, please do not let the point of this story get lost: My insane parents thought nothing of leaving their young, impressionable child alone and exposed to the elements, chained to a stake!

Or, possibly, a steak.

2003-04-29T10:36:00.000-04:00

Shaken, Not Stirred

I finally got to experience something last night that I’ve wanted to do since I was a young, fresh-faced lad roaming the plains of Iowa. No, not that naked trapeze thing with the Olsen twins and a midget.

I was in an earthquake.

It was way cool.

At around 5:00 in the morning, I hear a noise that I assume is the cat madly attacking the blinds again for no reason. The noise gets louder. Goddamn cat. Wait. That’s not the cat. The whole bed is shaking. Is there a storm? I don’t hear any rain. Is it just windy? Man, that is a mother wind. Now, the whole house is shaking. What the fuck?!

I sit up in bed.

“What in the hell is that,” I say to my wife.

“I dunno…is it a storm?” she responds.

“I dunno. Why is the bed shaking?” I ask.

“What in the hell…”she says.

And then it stops.

I go to the window.

“It definitely wasn’t the wind. Everything is perfectly still,” I report.

“Do you think something blew up in the attic or the basement or somewhere?” she speculates.

“Um. No.” I say as I make my way out of the bedroom and down the hall, looking for I-don’t-know-what.

“Check the door on the other bedroom. I heard it rattling the most,” she says, pointing down the hall to the only closed door.

“So…your contention is that this door is possessed? Is that what I’m hearing?” I say.

“Fuck. You. Just open the door,” she retorts.

I walk to the door and put my hand on the knob, checking for heat, as I was taught to do in case of fire. I have no idea why. It was cool to the touch. Thank God.
I swing the door wide and stand back, so as to avoid the impending swing of the madman’s hatchet that is no doubt about to follow. Again, nothing.

I peer inside.

“Yeah. All clear,” I report sarcastically.

“Are you going to go check the basement?” she asks.

“Um…that’s like all the way downstairs. I’m not really in the mood; I’m sure it was nothing,” I state heroically. Then, “You don’t suppose it was an earthquake?”

“I dunno,” she says, “I’m going back to bed.”

“Well, that was just freaky. What in the hell was that?” I ask for the final time.

After we get up an hour or so later, we hear on the radio that there was a 4.9 trembler (that’s the term used by those of us that have experienced The Rolling Monster) that was centered in Alabama somewhere. Seriously, does anything good ever come from Alabama?

“Cool,” I say to my wife, “we cheated death.”

“Whatever,” she states with obvious concern.

Yeah. So I’m lucky to be alive.

I’m considering setting up a PayPal account so that you all can send cash donations for my personal disaster relief. Mostly, I have a lot of that hidden emotional trauma that you hear so much about. I have a feeling that it’s gonna be very expensive to treat. So send donations today.

$50 or higher is preferred.

2003-04-28T10:55:00.000-04:00

The Happy Place

This morning on the way into work, sitting in traffic once again, I was determined to maintain my good mood. In the past, I’ve found that the best way to preserve a positive outlook is to retreat into a happy place in my mind, blocking out all external stress.

So I filled out a withdrawal slip from my memory bank and delved into my childhood for a calming influence. One beautiful thought leapt immediately to the forefront.

The tranquil place that filled my psyche was a lake that my dad and I used to visit quite frequently when I was a child. When I was young, I didn’t get a lot of free time alone with my dad. Our moments together, fishing patiently for bass, were magnificent. We would talk or stay quiet, but we were together and that’s all that mattered. There was one fishing hole in particular that we visited all the time that always had about a dozen ducks floating by, watching us with cool indifference. It was so serene.

One of the best parts of fishing was that my dad would let me back the truck and boat trailer up to put the boat in the water. It would take me many, many tries to get the boat in the water and I always became impatient. My dad would help me and guide me, though, and I’d get it done eventually.

Sometimes, on the blazing hot days, my dad would pull out a handful of small, perfectly weatherworn rocks from his pocket. He told me the story about how the early Indians would search high and low for just these kinds of rocks. When the temperature reached extreme points, the Indians believed that putting a few of these cool rocks in your mouth would actually lower the body temperature within minutes. My dad must’ve told me this story a dozen times, and every time we’d both take a few rocks and pop ‘em into our mouth and wait for the desired reaction. And every time, one of us would break down and start laughing and spit out the rocks, causing the other to do the same.

I also remember this one time that we were trolling along, each fishing with two lines, and I had completely forgotten about my secondary line, because I had caught a few fish with my primary pole. After about an hour or so, my dad asked if I was ever going to check my other line. I was embarrassed that it had slipped my mind; it was a breach of fishing etiquette. As I began to turn the reel over and over and over, I was amazed at how far the line had been let out in the last hour. The weight on the line was heavy, but I assumed it was from the various twigs and muck that had collected on the hook over such a long period of time. As I got to the end of the line, I realized that I had, at some point, hooked the biggest catfish I’ve ever caught. My dad started to laugh. He said I must’ve inherited the luck gene from my mom, who was notorious for good fortune. In recounting the story later, we spoke only of the size of the fish and not the method of catching it.

Good times.

Happy place.

I retell these memories by way of explanation. You see, I feel bad about an incident I had while sitting in the aforementioned traffic. I fear that the reaction to my memories may have been misinterpreted by the unfortunate soul that cut me off by crossing a solid line in ten mph traffic. Though having her nearly hit me was a very upsetting event for me, I attempted to jump immediately to my happy place in order to regain my composure.

Because the great anger that I was experiencing seemed to be clouding my ability to see the Happy Place, I thought it best to try to reinforce the peaceful visions.

So, in an effort to force the Happy Place to the top of mind, I decide to shout my memories to myself as loud as I can.

“DUCK ‘N BASS HOLE!!”

Nope. That isn’t working. I’d better focus more and try again.

“TRUCK!! LEARN TO DRIVE!!! TRUCKTRUCKTRUCK!! LEARN TO DRIVE YOU MOTHER LUCKING ROCK SUCKER!!”

Ah.

There.

That’s much better. I’m back to the Happy Place.

Oh, drats. I now see your horrified look staring back at me in your rearview mirror, you poor, innocent young woman. I believe that you may have misunderstood my ritual as aggression. I deeply apologize.

And you know how it looks like I am flipping you off with both hands? That is merely a Zen relaxation technique called the “Dance of the Angry Monkey”. It, too, calms me.

I am sorry if there was any confusion.

Also, I hope you die.

2003-04-25T10:58:00.000-04:00

Moody Blues

There is a quote in Say Anything... where Lloyd Dobler asks his sister in exasperation, "How hard is it to decide to be in a good mood, and then just be in a good mood?"

It's always been my belief that Lloyd (or Cameron Crowe) was right on point there. I think that people tend to wallow a bit too much in their own self-pity. Long ago, I adopted Lloyd's statement as a personal philosophy.

This week, I've been guilty of a little wallowing. And it pisses me off, frankly. My posts this week have pretty much been for shit and I owe you slugs better, by God!

The truth of the matter is that regardless of how bad work gets, I have an amazing wife, unbelievably caring friends, there-for-me-no-matter-what family and a fridge full of sissy-drinks.

So now, today, at this moment, I've decided to be in a good mood.

This involves me taking off my pants, so you may want to avert your eyes.

2003-04-24T11:15:00.000-04:00

Geezer

My body has been rebelling lately, protesting the passage of time. I am not pleased.

Now, I’m not an old man or anything, but I have noticed a few signs of aging. Laugh if you want, but believe me when I say to you that you cannot run from the clock. It is looming.

I have compiled for you a partial list of my body mutinies. Be afraid.

· After a haircut, I look down at the fresh hair clippings and then up to the hairdresser and then to the mirror and then back to the clippings. Where in the hell did that much gray hair come from? What in the hell has this butcher done to me? Did she drug me, color my hair gray, cut it, recolor it and then revive me to see the aftermath? Yes, that must be it. You devious bitch.
· When I hoist my fat ass to a sitting position at the edge of the bed every morning, I ready myself for the inevitable. As I push up to stand, I hear a fireworks display of cracking and popping that rivals the Fourth of July on the Mall in D.C. I picture it as the abrupt screaming of my joints and tendons, telling me to sit the fuck back down. When the show has ended, I always let out a little moan of satisfaction. I’m guessing that I will spend about five glorious hours a day with this ritual when I’m 65.
· After the joint and tendon fireworks display, there is around ten to fifteen minutes of farting. Oh, I’m charming. Why is it that as the body gets older, it produces more gas? I have to stay overweight just to keep from floating away, for Christ’s sake.
· There is no flowery way to say this: I have a wiry, eight inch long hair sticking out of my nipple area. It’s quite peculiar. I have very little chest hair, and it is primarily concentrated down the middle of my chest, between the ol’ jugs. I like to refer to it as The Tuft. It’s the cutest damn thing you ever saw. But then there is this gaggle of rebellious hairs that has gathered around each nipple, obviously looking to stage a coup. The long one is their leader. I would pull it, but I have the feeling that if I did, it would be like a magician pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. It would just keep coming and coming…
· Not only can you no longer bounce a quarter off of my ass, but if you try, it’ll swallow the quarter up and spit back a dime.
· Every now and then, I hold my hand out in front of me to see if I have the shakes. Sometimes, I do. I’m sure I don’t need to see a doctor, though.
· My muscle spasms are no longer related to the twinge of a vigorous, satisfying workout. No, now the spasms seem to be more of a last, desperate surrender. Sometimes I punch them to put them out of their misery.
· In college, I used to get Party Scars. These were mysterious bumps and bruises that one would encounter after a particularly wild night. I get scars and bruises that are unexplained now, too. But I get them while napping.
· I cup my hand around my ear to hear people at parties. Pretty soon, I’m gonna just say fuck it and get one of those big cornucopia looking thingies.
· Penis still works. Sometimes just not after 10:00.

Of course, some of you old coots can barely remember having experienced some of the items on my list. Your feeble little mind is nearly gone now, yes? That’s just sad. Oop, you have a little spittle on your chin there. Aren’t you just adorable?

Jesus, I hope I don’t end up like you.

2003-04-23T10:35:00.000-04:00

Hello Dumbass!

Though I’ve spoken of it before, I fear that the formerly rock-solid ability to suffer fools gladly has now completely dissolved from my personality.

I have always taken great pains to develop my brown-sugary sweet distain for people in private. Outwardly, I had a real knack for giving my undivided attention, no matter the Yokelisms that spouted from moronic mouths.

I was in retail for around six years in high school and college. I was known for my congeniality and kindness in dealing with the general public. I won all sorts of Employee of the Month awards, based upon letter after letter of praise. Customer Service was second nature. I was a walking, talking ad for the perfect employee.

At some point though, and I’m not sure when, the switch was flipped. The patience waned. The contempt built.

And here I sit, wondering whether or not I can handle my job anymore, based on my inability to tolerate stupidity. Reason tells me that idiots are everywhere; there is no escape. There is no job that will allow me to hide from their never-ending, pointless stories or inexplicable hairdos. There is no safe haven from the faraway, blank, uncomprehending expressions in the eyes. There is no refuge from statements including “supposably” and the unbearable second-grade level emails. There is no shelter for the drivers that appear to be legally blind. There is no sanctuary from the 18 items in the 10-items-or-less checkout.

So, I propose that it’s time for those of us that know the difference between “there”, “they’re” and “their” to rise up! Let us overpower our dimwitted oppressors! Let us break free of these shackles!

I hereby authorize you all to flick anyone on the forehead that says or does anything moronic from this point forward, in perpetuity. If you get flicked more than five times in a day, you must go stand in a corner, away from people and sharp objects. Just hum quietly to yourself. Try not to drool. If you get flicked more than 50 times in a week, you are not allowed to leave your house without a Sponsor.

Good luck to you.

2003-04-22T16:54:00.000-04:00

Kill. Me.

I'm having a really tough time finding a reason to like humanity today.

Except for boobies, I can't think of a single redeeming quality.

2003-04-21T11:53:00.000-04:00

The Waiting Game

Not dead yet. Which is nice.

Had a weird thing happen yesterday, however, that reminded me Death is likely toying with me. I HEAR YOUR RATTLING GIGGLE, YOU SMOKEY BASTARD!!

I was mowing my lawn for the first time this season and due to my unbearable allergies, I chose to wear a Michael Jackson-esque mask. The package for the mask said it would filter out sawdust, metal fibers, hard-boiled egg farts, pollen, asbestos and any chance at arousing a female. I looked like a mental patient, basically. Not to mention, I am not in top physical condition, so trying to push a lawnmower uphill while sucking oxygen through a glorified sweat sock caused me to have several mild heart attacks. The kids pointing and laughing at me from the street did not help matters. I told them that I killed the Easter bunny. They stopped teasing.

My point is this: After mowing for over half an hour, I couldn’t take it anymore. I finally took the mask off in order to breathe in some unfiltered air.

And so I inhaled deeply the fresh spring air.

And then I exhaled.

Upon exhalation, I noticed an interesting phenomenon. I could see my breath. I looked around, doing a quick visual check to see if it had snowed in the last .002 seconds. It had not. It was about 75 degrees. I breathed out again. It looked like I had just taken a thirty second hit off of some primo Panamanian doobage (I imagine).

I walked to the front of the house where my wife was cleaning the garage.

“Hey, check this shit out,” I say, giving her a demonstration of my new talent.

“Hmmm. That’s not good,” she replies, with substantial indifference.

“Gee, ya think!!?” I respond.

Jesus, she knows that Death is stalking me. How ‘bout a little freaking compassion??! I mean, that little bastard in The Sixth Sense saw his breath right before he saw dead people!!

This cannot be a good sign, is all I’m saying.

2003-04-18T11:56:00.000-04:00

Grimly Reaping

So, death is stalking me. Which sucks.

I’m not sure how exactly I got on the Reaper’s shit-list, but He appears to have it in for me. When I woke up yesterday, I cursed my sinuses for yet another night of fitful sleep brought on by the ever-present Atlanta pollen. I may have said something to the effect of, “Damn you to hell, you motherfucking snot factory!!”

So I guess it could be argued that I brought this all on myself.

On the way to work, I engaged in my normal routine of slow driving and loud cursing. One can look upon it as a gentle ballet set to an orchestra that is punctuated by the baton of my middle finger. Quite lovely.

On yesterday’s drive, an idiot that changed lanes for no conceivable reason cut me off. The traffic was nearly stopped and there was nowhere for anyone to go. Yet, this jaggoff feels the need to jut his shiny all-black Jeep Liberty in front of me right now. Now, one cannot have the woodwind section overpowering the percussionists, so I dutifully raised my baton whilst simultaneously bringing up my horn section.

In time, I managed to work my way alongside of the offender in order to give my customary “Thanks for Being An Asshole” glare. I was rebuked, however, by his deeply tinted windows. I now suspect that within this vehicle, rode Death. I thought he’d be more of a Mercedes guy. So be proud, people - Death buys American!

As the day progressed, I found that little circumstances were going against me:

People around me seemed stupider than normal.

Elevators refused to stop for me.

I gained five pounds.

Truly, I thought nothing of it. It seemed to be just another day in my miserable existence.

Until the drive home.

It had rained for most of the afternoon and I had gotten a late start on my drive home. I was looking forward to avoiding most of the rush-hour traffic. This was a foolish thought, obviously, due to the rain. It seems that the rain in Atlanta mixes with a combination of pollen and the fried food stench that permeates the air and creates a toxic concoction that renders drivers absolutely fucking brainless. So, again, it was slow going.

After taking some back roads and winding through a neighborhood or two, I found myself on a free and clear road. Very few cars around. I was one mile from home.

*****

As I am about to round a mild curve in the road ahead, I notice that the car a couple of hundred feet in front of me is starting to veer slightly to the right of the road. I immediately see why. There is an eighty-gajillion ton Mack cement truck coming from the other direction and it is inching a tad into our lane.

Oh, wait now.

Not inching now.

As the car in front of me lurches even further to the right and around the front of the truck, I notice with some mild angst that the truck is, in fact, completely out of control, brakes locked, skidding at a forty-five degree angle in my lane, toward me.

I am somewhat vexed.

I shoot a look into my rearview mirror to see if anyone behind me is about to plow through my back seat. In the distance, I catch a glimpse of some kind of black SUV.

Looking straight ahead now, I stomp the brakes and begin to swerve to my right, making a quick calculation as to what point I will actually drive my car over the edge of the embankment and allow the Mack to lay gingerly upon me.

The Mack is still in full-brake-slide. I am in Anti-Lock butt-clench.

His headlights are creeping a few feet from my windshield. I look up at the driver. He has the odd look of placid annoyance, somewhat secure in the fact that he will be on the “win” side of the impending fender-bender. If I could peel my hands off of the steering wheel, I would get out my finger baton.

I jerk the wheel a little more to the right. We are both sliding now.

And then, we stop.

Two feet from each other, we sit there.

I don’t know what to do, exactly. My feet and hands are completely ignoring advice.

Get. Up. Trinity.

I turn the wheel a little more to the right and accelerate around the behemoth. The two cars that were ahead of me that had narrowly avoided the Mack earlier are still pulled over to the side of the road, no doubt calling loved ones.

I feel like pulling over next to them, yanking them from their cars and shaking them:

“WE HAVE CHEATED DEATH TODAY, FELLOW MOTORIST!! REJOICE AND DRINK DEEP THE NECTAR OF LIFE!!”

Part of me also feels like just hopping out of my car and raising my hands up in a Rocky pose while screaming:

“That’s right Death!! I just took you and bent you over the guardrail of life!! WHO’S YO’ DAAAAAADDDY!?!?!”

Instead, however, I merely adjust my poopy underwear.

I look in my rearview again. The black SUV is nowhere in sight.

*****

I was a bit filled with adrenaline for the rest of the evening. After the thrill of defeating Old Man Death had settled, however, I crashed harder than a heroin addict at a Mormon convention. Sleep was a welcome ally now.

But.

At around 2:00 in the morning, the phone rings. I am instantly awake. 2:00 a.m. phone calls always mean that Death is calling.

And so it was.

As I breathe deeply, preparing for the worst of news, I pick up the receiver.

I hear the shrill screams of a thousand voices of Death. They screech at me with long, painful shrieks of warning and terror. My eyes grow wide.

I place the receiver back upon its cradle.

Now, it is possible that the phone call was not, in fact, the shrill screams of a thousand voices of Death. It may have been the tone from a fax machine. They are surprisingly similar in both frequency and pitch.

And even if it was a fax tone, I’m pretty sure that it was a fax from Death. Because you just know that Death doesn’t contact you by email or the U.S. Postal Service. Fax is definitely the preferred method of communication of Black Wraiths.

As I sat in bed wondering what the fax from Death would have said, I imagined that He would be very to-the-point. To wit:

Dear CW (or current resident) -

I am so totally gonna kill you. Watch out, motherfucker.

~~Love~~
Suck it –
Death

P.S. Seriously.

So, I figure I’ve got like two or three days left, tops.

Which sucks.

2003-04-17T11:58:00.000-04:00

The Number You Have Reached Is Busy...

I'll try to write more later, but for now I'm a little busy.

Coupla quick questions though:

- How much more homosexual-leaning am I if I like Justin Timberlake? What about if I made out with his Rolling Stone picture?
- What was the person looking for that came to my site via a Google search for "Penis In Shoes"? Were they looking for a penis long enough to "tuck"? Or, even better, were they looking for a penis that had its own little pair of booties? And also, where can I find a pair of those booties?

2003-04-16T12:17:00.000-04:00

The Wiz Kid

I was recently reminded of an event in my life that the folds of my brain had chosen to compartmentalize and file under the heading of “Repress”. I tell this story merely as a cautionary tale to the youngsters out there that may be tempted by the sweet nectar of the Vodka tree. Drink not of its delicious fruit, ye carefree young innocents! Vodka is the demon bitch that will love you and cradle you when you are faithful to her and her alone; but should you attempt a sordid ménage-a-trois by introducing that filthy whore Madam Beer to your partnership, Lady Vodka will lash out at you with vicious and unexpected horror.

My tale is gruesome. Be warned.

Years and years ago, in the grimly animated Age of Grunge, I was a college boy with idyllic dreams and a World-Be-Damned outlook. Heady times. I had a close group of friends that enjoyed frequent journeys into intoxication together. Endless laughter accompanied, along with discussions of the improbable but never impossible future that lay in front of us like a virgin prostitute. We counted on little except one another and the promise of another drink.

Most nights would blur together in the formulaic pattern of Boast, Drink, Boast, Drink, Ogle, Drink, Prattle, Drink, Deeply-Discuss-The-Nature-Of-Man-And-Our-Place-In-The-Universe, Drink, Pass Out. It was a consistently superlative plan and to veer from it often resulted in some negative backlash.

Imagine my shock when I was diligent in The Plan and it turned on me. Lady Vodka is vengeful. She cares not of plans.

I was well into my comfort zone on the evening in question. I had executed The Plan to perfection, starting the evening with declarations of my sexual prowess while simultaneously belittling the inferior genitalia of my brethren. I poured thick, luscious, lusty Vodka from her oversized jug into my plastic chalice, letting her slowly interweave with the fizzy 7-Up and hunks of ice. As she crackled the ice and wound her way through her carbonated lover, I cackled like a barmy scientist. The whirlwind spiral had begun. The Plan took us next to myriad taverns, so that we could inform others of the tales of our engorgement and conquest. There was awe. In an effort to entice and woo the women in the area, we stared slack-jawed at their chests and spoke under our breath of the obvious longing that they could barely contain. Their yearning was masked with a thin veil of disgust. Clever, the female.

After a time, we departed en masse from the taverns, romance be damned. It was late and the women were, apparently, far too tired to endure our virility. So, it was back to our magical abode, where reality was always best viewed through the distorted bottom of a shot glass. Lady Vodka had been with me throughout the evening, steadfast in her conquest of my senses. We all stayed up to talk about what might have been. More enthusiastically, we talked of what would never be for those in the group with withered, tiny, flaccid, useless penises. Shaming was a glorious by-product of The Plan.

We were all hanging out in my twelve-by-twelve room as the evening began to wane into the latter stages of The Plan. One by one, they left to stagger to their own rooms within the house: Buzz, Skeeter, Fanto, Corm, Butterfield, Krull. Most managed to get a shirt halfway off and pants wadded inexorably at the ankles before the pull of the bed became an overwhelming force of nature. Another Plan, for them, completed.

The only one left remaining in my room was Animal. He was primarily known for his ability to drink more than any other while still being able to be the Last Man Standing at any event. Also, he played the drums. Like the Muppet. Except crazier. He cracked two beers and handed one to me.

“No. No, I’m done. I’ve had Vodka all night. I’m not switchin’ now. I just know it’ll come back to get me,” I slurred.

“Dude, liquor to beer, never fear!” he reasoned.

I could not argue with his air-tight logic.

Lady Vodka, of course, hates logic.

I grabbed the beer and drank half in a single tip of the can. I was lying on the couch and Animal was on the floor, leaning against a table. We engaged in some Deep Discussion. I remember thinking, as I always did, how fantastic it was to have friends that you could talk to about anything. The conversation faded. Drunkenness had a hold.

“Hey man, get up and go to bed. I wanna sleep on the couch tonight,” Animal stated.

“What?!?” I laughed. “Your room is right across the hall. Go sleep in your own bed, ya drunk.”

“Yeah, but your couch is right here. Plus, it’s so comfortable. Just get the hell up. You’ve got a bed right there,” he pointed. My bed was three feet from the couch, maximum.

Again, his argument was fool-proof. The couch was there. It was comfortable. My bed was close. Case closed, your honor.

“Okay,” I said. “But I swear to God, you are the laziest sack of shit ever.”

I hoisted myself gently from the couch and crawled to my bed. I felt good. Buzzed, but not sickly so. I was a professional drinker. We do not make mistakes.

Or so I thought.

As I hit the mattress, still clad in my shorts and polo shirt, I turned to see Animal had already passed out in a curled ball on the couch. I lay flat on my back to test for room spinning. Everything was rock-steady.

The Plan had worked as designed.

I passed out.

In the dream I am having, there is crisp, cool beach air and the sun beats down upon my reclining body. I am lying up on a dune, surveying the scene. I can hear the surf crashing the shoreline. So calming. Gulls in the air overhead. Salt air. The water lapping at my feet. It's like I’m there. All details are so vivid that…wait. Why is the water lapping at my feet? I’m on a dune.

I am instantly awake. In the darkness, I see Animal at the foot of my bed. He is pissing all over my feet in the most happy-go-lucky manner. Great. Now I’m a fetishist.

“ANIMAL!! Man, you aren’t in the bathroom!! THIS IS MY BED!! KNOCK IT OFF!!!”

“Dude, I’m almost done,” he says by way of justification.

His superior logic has once again stumped me. I have no response, with the exception of the internal shrieking:

A denial. A denial. A denial. A denial.

Lady Vodka has her revenge.

I roll over and go back to sleep. Damp, but wiser.

2003-04-15T11:26:00.000-04:00

Taxed

Today, I could go on a rant about taxes and the guv’ment and how they are stealing from the rich to give to the poor (not that I’m in either of those brackets) and how I had a ton of fun doing my taxes, what with selling and buying a house last year and dealing with no less than ten W2’s and/or 1099-MISC’s (don't ask) between my wife and I in two different states and figuring moving expenses and donating a car and fretting capital gains. Nope. Today will be rant-free. Because today, I am curious.

With all of this talk of money, I have been thinking about some fundamental human questions. I know that we are all in different places in our lives and jobs. Some of you are out of work right now. But I think that these questions apply to all and I hope you are able to answer a few of them. For instance:

How much money is enough? Would you take less money to do something that you really love? How much less? What would you be willing to give up in your life in order to have fun at your job? Would you move? Would you take half as much money? What?

If you are in a job you love, why do you love it? What makes a job worthwhile and fun to you?

Do you value your free time enough so that you are willing to work harder, even if it’s doing something that you don’t necessarily enjoy, just to be able to have better, more fulfilling “play” time?

Are you willing to work harder at something you hate just to have a more enjoyable retirement?

What is the happy medium for you?

Cuz I’m having a hard time with these questions lately.

2003-04-14T12:32:00.000-04:00

Snob

This past weekend, there were a number of ways in which I proved myself to be cooler than you:

I got a haircut. Short and sassy. Chicks dig me. Your hair is a fucking gnarled mass of greasy spaghetti by comparison. Punch yourself.

On Friday night, I got drunk on Mandarin Absolut and played X-Box on a friends’ 61-inch TV. Your television is a festering pile of shit. Your friends are losers. Accept it.

On Saturday night, I cooked Shish-Kabobs with Honey Brown-marinated steak, green, red and orange bell peppers, onions and mushrooms on my ass-kicking gas grill. I served seared sea scallops in a butter and white-wine reduction as an appetizer. We ate out on our deck overlooking the waterfall in our backyard and got drunk on good wine. You, however, got drunk on Mad Dog 20/20, masturbated to an old Star Trek rerun and passed out on a bare mattress at 10:30. You woke up in your own puke as your roommate slapped you in the face with a dildo. Your dog won’t even look at you.

Yesterday, I bought four diverse and sophisticated DVD’s: Amadeus; Glenn Gary, Glenn Ross; Secretary and the Futurama Season One Collection. You stared at the static on the scrambled porn channels for 5 straight hours. The seizure you had was blessed relief from the monotonous hell that is your life.

That said, I still like those pants on you. Your ass looks fabulous. I’m not just saying that either.

Smooches.

2003-04-11T12:21:00.000-04:00

Send in your 5 Songs today!! Last chance!

I am continuing the ongoing story of Veronica today. If you are not familiar with my little tale, start here. Then, go here. And finally, scroll down to March 27th here.

Thanks.

*****

Reel

Veronica and Andrea let the sun and wind and alcohol wash over them for the better part of the afternoon. When the boys of the beach would walk by and clumsily attempt to ogle them, Drea would adjust her bikini top dramatically before telling them to move along. If the boy was shy, Drea was sure to whistle at him as he walked away. It made Veronica laugh every time.

“I’m cooked, Nic,” Drea said as she slicked back her hair, “let’s get ready for tonight.”

“And what, exactly” Veronica asked, “are we doing tonight?”

“Lady, I didn’t come all the way over here just to see you. I need to shake my ass on a dance floor soon,” Drea declared as she gathered up her towel and cooler, “I’m not letting a perfectly good buzz go to waste.”

As Veronica got up to follow Drea back to the house, she immediately felt the effect of the three Rum Runners that she had sipped throughout the afternoon. The sun and salt air had made her skin tight and every part of her body and mind felt unfamiliar. She tried to jog to catch up with Drea, but she felt herself reel.

“Drea, I am hammered. You gotta slow down,” Veronica breathed.

“Whoa, sorry, Nic. I forgot that you’re a schoolmarm now,” Drea laughed.

“Bite me,” she deadpanned.

“Well, Professor Petersen, that language is simply unacceptable. What will the soccer moms think of your potty mouth?” Drea mocked, hands on hips.

“The soccer moms,” Veronica said, “may also feel free to bite me.”

“Right. Okay, let’s get you inside for a nap before we go out. You’ll be a new girl in two hours,” Drea said as she grabbed Nic around the waist.

They walked together to the house and dropped everything on the porch. Veronica made a line to the oversized couch and plopped down, face first. She curled and brought her hands under her head. Drea walked over and smoothed her hair.

“Get some rest, sweetie,” Drea whispered.

Veronica was already asleep.

*****

Pushing herself up from the couch, Veronica walks over to the kitchen and grabs one of the huge convenience store cups from the bottom shelf of the cabinet. She fills it with ice and turns the faucet on high, waiting for the water to cool.

“Hey, you up Coma-girl?” Drea shouts from the bathroom down the hall to Veronica’s right.

“Yep. What year is this?” Veronica shouts back as she fills her cup.

“It is the year twooooo-thousand and fiiiiifty…” Drea bellows back in her best eerie voice.

Veronica laughs, pops a couple of aspirin into her mouth and takes a big drink of water. She walks down the hall to the bathroom.

As she enters, Drea is pulling her sun-colored hair back into a ponytail as she looks at herself in the mirror. She is wearing a red, spaghetti-strapped tank top without a bra that says, “Rack” in sparkles and her favorite light blue jean shorts. The reflection of her eyes in the mirror turns to Veronica.

“Nic, baby, you gotta get ready. We’re going over to BeachBound in a half an hour.”

“Ugh,” Veronica protests, “I can’t get ready in a half an hour. I need to shower and wash my hair and pick out clothes and…”

“Nic, we are leaving in a half an hour. I’ll pick out your clothes. Get moving,” Drea insists.

“I’ll try,” Veronica winks.

Drea reaches over to the end of the countertop and punches the play button on the CD player. Axl Rose’s scream pierces the bathroom. She turns and hugs Veronica.

“Now get ready, sugar, before I have to kick your ass.”

2003-04-10T12:31:00.000-04:00

More Restroom Etiquette

Maybe I pay way too much attention in public restrooms, but I have a few gripes. They are as follows:

- As I’ve explained before, groans of satisfaction are completely unwelcome. Please stop it now.
- Touching me at any point while I am “engaged” in my “activity” is strictly forbidden. You might as well cup my balls while you’re at it.
- Why am I not allowed to enjoy the handicapped stall? I am tired of feeling guilty for wanting to lounge in the luxurious vastness that is the handicapped toilet. I like to get in there and set up a little coffee table, maybe a small T.V. and just have some me time. Is that so wrong?
- Often times, there are two styles of urinals in the men’s restroom: The Highboy and the Lowboy. There are many men that refuse to use The Lowboy, as if it is reserved for midgets. Just step up and drain it, yogurthead.
- I don’t mean to give away any guy secrets here, but there are several methods that men use to pee. Some men prefer to hold down the pants with one hand and “aim” with the other hand. This is commonly referred to as The Two-Hand Flip and Drip. Ok, I just made that up, but that’s what it should be called. This is the method that I use and is the most generally accepted, unless you are some sort of fetishist or pedophile. One of the other methods always makes me giggle a little; I call this method The Gladiator and it involves taking the wang out and then putting both hands on the hips, as if to say, “I am The King of all that I see here!” These men always seem like they are waiting for applause. Another method, which I’ll call The Ankle Biter, I’ve only seen a couple of times. Here, the man employs a stand-at-the-urinal-and-drop-the-pants-all-the-way-to-the-floor maneuver. It’s like nobody taught him the rules after potty training at age four. It’s just sad.
- It’s ok to fart in the bathroom, but don’t look at me and smile. I'm very proud of you, but we’re not going to make out.
- I don’t care if you didn’t “touch it” or “wipe it”, wash your hands, scumbag.
- When either of us are in the act, do not talk to me. I need to concentrate.
- Ok, now this is definitely a guy secret that I’m giving away. When I take it out and let loose, I have no idea which direction this fire hose is gonna spray. I’ve always thought this was some sort of flaw in God’s design. You’d think that if you aim it down, it’d go down. But sometimes, when you aren’t paying any attention, it’ll just spray off to the right at a 45 degree angle like it’s a Vegas water show. I literally get angry with my penis when this happens. Sometimes I scold it, which usually draws some concerned glances from the other restroom patrons.

OK! Enough of that. Just a quick reminder to send me the list of your five favorite songs of all-time, if you haven’t done so yet. Remember, the songs should be representative of you. Also, since most can’t seem to stick to five, you can send more if you are a big fuckin’ baby. Tomorrow is the deadline!