An Even MORE Tragic Finale

I come to you, handful of blog readers, with hat in hand, ready to issue an apology for the oversight.  After writing last week's blog, I sat and thought on it (I have a lot of traffic to contend with on the daily commute) and I'm pretty sure that I had already told the story of falling-not-falling down Betsy's stairs.

Close enough to the image
I was trying to invoke

My shame, it is evident.  Do with me as you will. 

*ties blindfold around eyes* 

*lights cigarette*

But wait.  If you pull the triggers on that firing squad, you'll never get to hear the even more tragic tale of what happened after Betsy's graduation party!

Oh, I see I've earned myself a brief stay of execution.

Now, for this, you need to realize that I lived in a dingy little backwater town called Markle, which confidently strode the border of Huntington and Wells Counties in Indiana.  I lived on the western (read: far more cool and hip) side of town, so I went to Huntington North High School in Huntington, Indiana (don't ask where Huntington South is...).  Huntington was the county seat of Huntington County (amazing, I know), and as such was the largest city in the county.  Most of my friends lived in Huntington, not Markle.  It was a ten mile drive to Huntington--you know, all day trip type distance.

Betsy was one of those Huntington-residing friends.  Another was my good friend Matt Webb (it's almost like Matthew was a popular name for boys born in the middle of the 70s), and so it was that I made sure to go to Matt's graduation party.  I think it might have been the same weekend as Betsy's.  Don't ask for specifics; it was twenty a few years ago.  I've imbibed a few drinks and had mind-altering drugsblowing sex since then.  Details are a bit hazy.  Concentrate and ask again later.

Anyway, my friend Matt was a doctor's son, and a fairly successful doctor, at that.  As such, he could afford the finer things in life...such as a pool.  A pool which was fully engaged when I showed up at his party.  However, this was his "official" graduation party, and so all of his family--including ten thousand younger cousins--were at the party, and they were using the pool.

Like this, but with MORE purple

Unlike Betsy's party, I had no grand schemes or designs or speeches to deliver.  What I did have was a small bag of the ugliest fucking ties that the Seventies could have ever vomited up and called fashionable.  Matt was a big fan of retro fashion, and so I knew he would love these.  My dad didn't want them, so I folded them neatly and put them in a bag and took them to Matt's party. 

I was right.  He loved them.  He gushed over how happy they made him.  I felt pretty good.  Having a big slice of cake probably didn't hurt.  I spent probably an hour at Matt's house talking with him, his younger brother (he was a sophomore at HNHS), his mom (she worked at the school), and his dad (never met him before that day).  It was a great time.

After overstaying my welcome, I shook Matt's hand, congratulated him for graduating (I mean, why not?) and turned to go.  As I was leaving, Matt stopped me and said, "Hey, come back later tonight.  After dark.  A bunch of people are coming over.  It's going to be a pool party."  There was a hesitation, and then he added, "You can bring a suit...if you want..."

Now, the important thing here is that Matt and I ran in many of the same circles in high school.  This meant that, at this pool party, where bathing suits may or may not be needed, there was an excellent chance that several of the girls I had crushed upon over the course of the past four years would be in attendance, including Rachel, Amy, Elizabeth...and Betsy.

Holy shit.  I might get to swim naked.  With Betsy Motherfucking Hagar.

(This was not her middle name.  It was Anne.)

Ecstatic, I went and visited a couple of other friends, where they, too, were talking about Matt's graduation pool party.  Oh, the debauchery that the night promised.  It was almost too much for my 18-year-old mind to process.  I was almost literally aquiver with excitement. 

We'll just call it excitement and leave it at that.

Not Betsy...but another perfect blonde

I drove home, practically floating the whole way I was so happy.  I got home, parked the car, went inside and began preparing.  I got fresh clothes, grabbed the swim trunks (you know, to be gallant), and then hopped in the shower, scrubbed myself until I was pink and fresh-smelling, and then shaved and trimmed.

I was looking and feeling good.

I made myself some food and then sat down on the front porch with my parents to eat.  That's when my mother started in.

"Did you have a good time?"

"Yes, quite.  In fact--"

"Well, good.  You've been gone a lot over the past couple of weekends. I think it's about time to wrap up the graduation party circuit."

"Well, you see--"

"There aren't any other of your friends--your good friends, your close friends--parties to go to, right?  Good."

"Well Matt Webb--"

"You just went to Matt Webb's house.  You gave him all those old ties.  No need to go back."

Instead of arguing further, I just frowned down onto my plate and said, "Yeah, I guess not."  It's not like I could tell my mom that I had been invited to a pool party where I might see the nakeds.  Especially not ones that I had pined for for years, written erotica about, or developed pubescent carpal tunnel syndrome over.  Dejected--nay, defeated--I stayed home with my parents that night.

And yes, Matt had his pool party.

And yes, there was skinny dipping involved.

And yes, Betsy was there.

*peeks out from under blindfold*

Oh, what's that?  I've earned my freedom by spinning that tale?  Well, thanks, I'll just be going now.

*thinks back to what might have been on that fateful night at Matt Webb's house*

On second thought, just end it for me now...

In Which Our Hero Becomes an Unintentional Stalker

It all started with a dream.

Well, er, sort of. The other night, I had a dream about a girl that I had a huge crush on back in high school. It wasn't a sexy time dream; it simply featured her on some talking tour and she happened to be coming through North Carolina, so I met up with her and had lunch.

Not much of a dream, I know. There were no flying monkeys or pork knights or lusty babes in it. Except for her. She pretty much still is a babe. She was a babe back in high school, and, according to her profile on the Book of Faces (I looked just to verify and stuff *shifty-eyed*), she's still Babe-a-licious. Schwing!!!

Anyway, this girl's name was Elizabeth and I had a major thing for her in high school. She was blonde and had a killer body; she played soccer and she was very good at it. Good enough to be invited to the US tryouts. I would have paid really good money to see her score a goal and rip her shirt off in celebration. Schwing!!!

Okay, enough with the Wayne's World references. Party on.

To make a long story short, I asked her out, she said no, and we went on our separate ways happily ever after. The end.

Not so fast, my friend. Since Elizabeth was pretty smart, we ended up in a lot of the same classes, which is kind of how I got the crush for her in the first place. We had English, Trig/Pre-Calc and French together, and I think we had a semester of typing together. The way she worked that keyboard was mesmerizing. And that was all mostly in our Junior year, the year in which I had asked her out and was met with derisive laughter and finger pointing a gentle rejection with a sweet, soft smile.

And then, our senior year arrived.

As I was hellbent on getting into college, I was taking all the courses necessary to both graduate and look good for college application: calculus, physics, AP English, Government and Econ. I threw in French IV and Drama for shits and giggles (but mostly shits). It was a pretty good little schedule, if I do say so myself. I had Calculus and physics in the morning, and then wrapped up the day with English (which you might have noticed is one of my better subjects) and Drama.

The best part of all this?

Elizabeth had the exact. same. schedule.

Except she had government first semester when I was taking economics, and she took economics second semester when I had government. Everything else was exactly the same. Calculus, Physics, French, Econ/Government, English and Drama.

As the first day of senior year progressed, I found it amusing that we were in the first three classes together. By the end of the day, I wondered what sick-and-twisted master of the universe had done this to me? Here was the object of my desire dangled in front of me, sweet fruits tantalizingly out of my reach, and there she was in every class of the day. Since our class schedule was the same, our lunches also coincided. Fortunately, she didn't live near me, otherwise we would have ridden the same bus together.

Yes, I was a loser who rode the bus all four years of high school.

I imagine that Elizabeth had the same reaction as I did: what sick-and-twisted master of the universe decided to put this goofball mooning over me all day in each of my classes? I'd file a restraining order if I could.

And that's when I realized that I had become a stalker...but not just a stalker. I had somehow unknowingly, unwittingly, unintentionally transcended mere stalking and made an entire new art form out of it. And I had nothing but the Huntington County School Corporation to thank for it. It was almost like I was beyond a stalker...like a ninja stalker or something. Yeah, I like that. Ninja stalker.

Wanna see my katana?

Making Up Is Hard to Do

What a week. I've been fucking busy, like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. Except, you know, unless something really bad happens, I'm always going to have two legs.

Always

Shall I give you a quick recap of what's gone on this week? No? Well, fuck off, you're getting one anyway, chief.

Monday: Scramble in the morning to get everyone out the door on time with everything they need for school: backpacks, homework, books, lunch money. Suffer from intense indigestion as I roll the car down the street to the gas station, hoping that I can scrape together enough spare change and/or suck sufficient dick for nickels in hopes of having enough money to put a couple of gallons of gas in car. Succeed in gassing up car. Get daughter to school on time for chorus. Get son home in time for school bus. Get to work at decent time. Get phone call telling how daughter lost her lunch money. Curse. Like a sailor.

Tuesday: Get awakened balls-ass early by shrieking child threatening to throw up. Sit in bathroom on the edge of the tub (uncomfy) in boxers while child coughs, spits garbage into the toilet, then decides he's not going to puke. Says he doesn't want to go to school. Give in to his wishes. Crawl back into bed. Have puky child crawl into bed with you. Try--and fail--to fall back asleep whilst puky child thrashes around in bed beside you like an epileptic watching anime. Get up. Get daughter ready for school. Get in car to go get more lunch for daughter. Threaten her with bodily harm if she loses this. Reward yourself with Chick-fil-A breakfast (mmmm). Realize son is fine. Get him dressed. Get both children on bus. Get ready for work. Go to work. Get summoned to the director's office. Mentally begin updating your resume and wondering whose dick you're going to have to suck in order to get a good recommendation. Get told that the project you just switched to is being switched again. New project gets started next week. Finish shit up and move to new project. Heave sigh of relief, return to lab, and continue rearranging matter to suit your purposes.

Wednesday: Wake up early. Get dressed. Don't eat breakfast. Don't drink coffee. Do get balls fumbled by some strange woman. Feel relief because that shit's been sort of building up for a while you don't have any hernias, you've lost weight, and your blood pressure is fucking awesome. Reward yourself with Taco Bell lunch. Ignore your clean bill of health being shot clean to hell. Hope that the greasy shitstain on the back of your pants comes out with a little Shout, some Oxyclean, and a ritual sacrifice to Billy Mays. Note: may involve cocaine.

Aaaaaaand...that's where I am right now. What other joys does the week hold for me? Fuck if I know. I'm somewhere between My Hurricane's Name is Earl and having...prior commitments *shifty-eyed*...on the opening weekend of college football.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Normally, on Thursdays, you'd show up here, prepared to be disgusted by some story involving inappropriate-for-polite company emissions of bodily fluids and/or eructations. However, since most of you won't be around today, I'm skipping the TMI Thursday thing. Besides, TMI Thursday was yesterday. On a Wednesday. What has this crazy world come to? TMI Thursdays on a Wednesday? Me willingly going to spend time with my in-laws? How long before the Whore of Babylon is sipping blood from a goblet perched atop a nine-headed dragon? Lilo, I'm looking at you.

Also, since it's a holiday, you'd come around this place expecting some sort of story about the first Thanksgiving, or a tale of the historic aspects of Thanksgiving and harvest feasts in western culture. Yeah, fuck that, it seems too much like work.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about Tuesday night.

Let me just say...if you want to kill your appetite for two days prior to Thanksgiving, you should clean out your refrigerator. Honest. Shall I tell you what I found in the refrigerator? Sure. Why not?

Did you know that chicken breast can go so far beyond rotten that it actually turns green? True story. Apparently tupperware isn't the magical storage box that we all assumed. I found a jar of pickles that had no pickles. Just brine. I found a tipped over jar of Maraschino cherries, all the juice dribbled out. It pooled in the back of the fridge. Preserved in the middle of the Maraschino juice tar pit was a bag of lettuce. Well, it once used to be lettuce. It was now a greenish-brown pulpy liquid trapped in plastic, sealed within a La Brea-esque cocoon of red goo. I also found a pack of carrots that were withered on one end, liquid on the other. Perhaps the crown jewel was a potato I had peeled for a stew, stuck in a ziploc bag, and set in the fridge for some other use. Did you know that a peeled potato will turn so brown that it appears to have regrown its skin? Oh, yeah, and it gets really fucking soft, too.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I have to go vomit.

Oh, much better. Reliving that was actually worse than when I stuck my hand in the back of the fridge, feeling around for anything that might be old or out of place or trapped in Maraschino tar pits.

Anyway, I'm hoping that you're having--or had--one hellaciously kickass Thanksgiving. Maybe you're reading this in the midst of a tryptophan-inspired torpor. Perhaps you're escaping in-laws (hi!). Perhaps you're not American at all and you have all of your wits about you and are here for entertainment purposes. If that's the case, I'm sorry to have ruined your afternoon.

My main hope is that your day is better than my Thanksgiving in 1989. I remember it because I was in the eighth grade. We had Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle's house (Napoleon's mom and dad). You know that moment that everyone waits for on Thanksgiving day? When you've sat down, murmured some words of benediction to some distant deity, and the turkey is about to be sliced into? Well, when the tip of the knife entered that delicious brown breast, the skin crackled deliciously and then a gout of blood spurt into the air, the turkey gobbled, got up, and ran out the front door. That is to say, the turkey was a touch underdone.

I know this because the turkey on my plate was pink. And not the good kind of pink that you get when you smoke a turkey. This was more like raw poultry pink. Mmmmm...tasty!

I took one bite and the meat was cool and rubbery. The only time this is acceptable is when you're making out with your inflatable girlfriend. Suffice it to say, my appetite disappeared like I had just walked in on my mom blowing Hitler. Instantly, the gears in my mind started grinding, and--despite the fact that the Simpsons weren't really a thing yet--I wondered What Would Homer Simpson Do?

Easy: feed that shit to the dog.

Problem, though, is that even the dog doesn't like raw turkey.

Time to hide that shit in a napkin, excuse myself, and go to the bathroom. Oh hell. This isn't flushing down the toilet. Flush again. Maybe one more time. Wow, that water's getting high. Oh hell! Oho, this is what I get for likening my disgust to my mother performing oral pleasures on Hitler. Very sly, God. You really can see into the future. What to do now? Grab the plunger!!!

Ten minutes later, I return to the table and fill myself up on sides. Mmmm...green bean casserole, I love thee! Pile on some more dressing. Turkey? No thanks. These yams are too fucking delicious!

A few hours later, and my family and I were gathering our stuff up and getting ready to go. My grandfather lived next door to my aunt and uncle, and he came over to bid us adieu. He thumped his chest, and my mom said, "You know what's wrong, right?"

"Turkey," he belched.

Two months later, my grandfather died sitting in his recliner at home. We can't really prove it, but we do kid about how the uncooked turkey killed him. Nothing like a little raw, dark humor. Get it? Raw?

Anyway. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Be sure to cook the turkey until that little timer thing pops up. You never know when you might inadvertently have your toilet clogged by an unwitting fool take down a beloved patriarch.

Totally Blowing Shit Up Tuesdays: Do You Sense a Pattern Here?

In case you haven't been paying attention--and why should you, right?--I've had a bit of a theme going throughout the month of October. Oh, you picked up on that, did you? Well, good. I meant for you to.

And, no, it's not about me being angry and bitter when not lovingly plied with coffee every morning, noon and night. No, I'm talking about Tuesdays and how we've been blowing up pumpkins on them. Even on days when I'm supposed to be expressing my undying and wholesome feelings of love and lust and anything else starting with "l" for my wife, we had exploding pumpkins.

And do you know why I've blown up a pumpkin for every Tuesday?

Because I fucking hate pumpkins.

It's true. I'm pepophobic.

It all happened in those halcyon days of my youth. I was no more than four or five, I believe. My father was taking me trick-or-treating. It was just he and I, so either my brother wasn't born yet or he wasn't old enough to join us. I guess there's an outside chance that this could have happened when I was seven, but that would have made him three and he probably would have been with us.

Anyway, we had just gone to my Uncle Duff and Aunt Jan's house for tasty sweets. That meant our next stop along the way would be my Aunt Caroline and Uncle Marlowe's house (small town America, remember), and then a stop at my cousin Jamie's and then back down the hill to home. We used pretty much the same route for most years, only branching out later in life when I could walk further and haul my load home, because my dad wasn't going to carry it...not so much because he was trying to make a man out of me, but mostly because he had to carry my little brother and his candy.

So, as we were heading toward Aunt Caroline and Uncle Marlowe's, there was a big, kind of spooky-looking white house that sat at the corner of the alleyway that went to my aunt and uncle's house. It was one of those houses whose exterior was at one point white, but under years of neglect and somewhat harsh weather conditions, the paint had turned dingy and drab and in several places had been stripped away and hung in long, tattered tapers from the clapboards. The porch, as well, was mistreated and misused, with insipid gray boards bowing and buckling on the ends, no two matching up and making a proper seam.

Sounds like a perfect house to take your kid to, right?

Well, the light was on, so my dad decided we should reap some extra ill-gotten gains there. As I mounted the creaking, bowing steps, I noticed to the left of the door, a jack-o-lantern staring out toward the street. It sat between the door and the window that overlooked the porch. It was poorly-illuminated by the porch light, which hung on the right-hand side of the door. However, the jack-o-lanterns face glowed with a preternaturally evil light.

Not to mention, this thing was fucking huge. It was easily as big as I was back then, at least height-wise. I could have easily crawled inside it's hollowed-out shell. There was no way in hell I would do such a thing, however, because it was pure, unadulterated evil.

I only say this because, as I approached the door, the jack-o-lantern cackled at me. Madly. In a deep, resonant voice that smacked of paternal confessions shortly after lopping off your hand.

"Happy Halloween, Little Boy," the pumpkin boomed, cackling once more.

This rather unnatural series of events scared the living fuck out of me.

It was at this point that I did what any five-year-old who just had the living fuck scared out of him would do: I started crying. I ran off the porch just as the woman who lived in the house came running out to scold the pumpkin for scaring me. I remember seeing her bend over in front of the jack-o-lantern and waggling a finger in its face, telling it that it was a bad pumpkin for scaring me. However, the pumpkin responded to her scolding in that same harsh, forbidding, booming voice, rendering her attempts at allaying my fears moot.

She tried to encourage me to come up on the porch, but I would have none of that bullshit. I just wanted to leave. My dad, however, tried to coax me up onto the porch as well. I still refused. He then tried to explain to me that the pumpkin had a microphone hidden inside and that there was nothing to be afraid of. Great. A pumpkin with electronics wired inside? The pumpkins were turning into fucking cyborgs? No thanks. I remained steadfast--and teary-eyed--in my refusal to climb onto the porch.

So, the woman brought me my candy. I don't even remember what it was. I just wanted to get out of there. Finally, after receiving my hush money sugar-infused treat, we continued on our way, first to Aunt Caroline's, and then home.

And that, my friends, is why I love seeing these obnoxious orange orbs getting their explosive comeuppance.

I love how that one guy sought shelter by standing in front of the semi trailer. Brilliantly done! Encore!!!

Now, I love thermite. You love thermite. We all love thermite. That fiery concoction of aluminum powder and ferric oxide has made an appearance here on several occasions. Each time, it's warmed our souls (and chewed the hell out of whatever it was raining down on). It's so fantastic that it gives you a little warm feeling deep down inside. In fact, my toes are a little warm just thinking about it now.

That being said, this could be the dumbest thing I've ever seen:


The one chick did have some big tits, though. Big tits or not, you won't find me sticking my hand down into a mostly-sealed container trying to ignite thermite and then attempting to run from it as it shoots liquid metal cascading down onto the benchtop in front of me. I'm guessing that was water she was shooting it with there at the end, but still, I personally wouldn't get that close to it.

Safety first. Especially when blowing shit up.

How I Learned to Become a Man

My maternal grandfather was, to say the least, an ornery sort. People today would probably say he was twisted, or had a sick sense of humor, or just that he was immature. I'm not sure I'd agree, but he definitely knew what amused him.

This is one of those stories.

Now, remember, I lived in a small town when I grew up. I might have mentioned it once or twice before. This was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else, and people knew shit before it went down.

So, apparently, my grandfather had been visiting one night, and I was outside doing stuff with him. I don't remember how it happened, but I'm guessing he was out working in the yard or around the house or something (he had lived there before we did, so he was familiar with the workings of the house). As it came to pass, my grandfather probably had to toss a whiz, and being outside, he did what any man does: he snaked it out and let 'er fly, hosing down the weeds out behind the garage.

I must have witnessed this, and most likely commented on it. And then my grandfather explained it to me as "Little boys like to pee outside." Which is true. Very, very true.

So, either the next day, or some time in the not-too-distant-from-the-event-future, I was out in my driveway playing. We had a big screen porch that overlooked the driveway, and my mother sat there spying upon the neighborhood watching me with a steely eye of death to make sure I didn't hurt myself or be abducted or eat cat turd or anything. Evidently, as I was out there playing, the urge struck me, so I dropped trou, snaked it out, and began hosing off the driveway.

My mother, aghast, probably uttered some syllable denoting horror, for I loudly proclaimed to the entire neighborhood "Little boys like to pee outside, Mommy!"

The only problem was, two old ladies from the church were walking past the house as I stood there, akimbo, jettisoning urine for all to see. By this time, my mother had curled into the fetal position on the floor of the porch, whimpering, because the old ladies would gossip about it at the church. That's what they did. It was their sole purpose in being.

That night, we went to visit my grandparents. Now, my maternal grandmother was fiery, to say the least. As my mother was relating the days events as it revolved around my urinary practices, my grandmother, without missing a beat, turned and started slapping the shit out of my grandfather. Without a confession, she knew who it was who had taught me that little boys like to pee outside.

My grandfather, for his part, laughed. And with that, I took my first steps on the path toward manhood.

Lucky I Got a Compass in the Stock

Growing up in Indiana, there's two things you need to know how to do: shoot a free throw and shoot a gun.

I'm hopeful, at this point, that you're familiar with my prowess when it comes to the hardwood. Well, at least you know that basketball courses through my veins and drips from my tongue. Ew. Basketball has suddenly taken a turn for the gross, and I'm not even talking about being posterized like Greg "Sweaty Balls on My Chin" Paulus.

In case anyone cares: bounce the ball three times, spin it in my right palm, bend knees, breathe out, shoot, swish.

Did you know that I'm a dead-eye with a rifle? Damn straight. See, my best friend, whom I mentioned in passing during the Decapitated Clown Incident of 1993, lived in the middle of farmin' country. He lived just outside of Majenica, IN, and if that doesn't smack of BFE, then I don't know what does (perhaps living outside of Bippus or Disko, IN...but I'm getting off topic again). Basically, my friend, the Brewing Optometrist, had a huge yard--good for all sorts of mischief--with a barn all the way at the back of the property. Everything else was fields. If it wasn't house, yard, driveway, garage, barn, or field, it was woods. And empty. Lots of space here.

Anyway, out behind my friend's barn was a trash pile. Mostly it was branches and stuff that fell off the trees and various and sundry other collections of yard refuse. It just so happened to be packed solid enough that it would slow a bullet, but not cause the bullet to ricochet. It was our de facto shooting range.

I was out there one day with my trusty .22 bolt-action rifle when my buddy and his brother were like, "Look what we got: lightbulbs!" They had collected about fifty burnt out light bulbs--how long they had horded this many is difficult to fathom, but they had them and I was giddy with desire and the unbridled ecstasy of avarice.

Selecting a particularly delectable 100 watt beauty from the pile, I set it halfway up on the brush pile and returned to the back side of the barn. I loaded the weapon, hearing the bullet slide into the chamber with the cool, steely promise of death. Raising the muzzle of the rifle, I peered down the length of the cold steel barrel.

"Ten bucks says he doesn't hit it," I heard the Brewing Optometrist call to his brother derisively behind me. I put my former best friend out of my mind, focused only on the offending bulb before me. Holding my breath, my thumb clicked off the safety and my finger slowly began to squeeze.

BANG!

There was no sound of shattering glass. I raised my cheek from the stock as I clicked the safety back on, raising the muzzle and popping the bolt action back, spewing a smoking, spent shell somewhere into the withered brown grass at my feet.

The light bulb still stood before me. A .22 caliber hole fired through it so cleanly that only the glass struck by the bullet was displaced. Otherwise, it was perfectly whole.

Not looking at my friend, staring at the trophy before me, I calmly and quietly stated, "I'll take that ten bucks now, bub."

That sonuvabitch never did pay up.

Busting Six Words Out All Over Your Face

Today is my best friend's birthday. What better way to celebrate than to write a Six Word Saturday post in his honor. So, here you go, chief:

Happy Birthday to the Brewing Optometrist!

My best friend and I did a lot of stupid shit while we were in high school as teenage guys are prone to doing. Trying to pick just one story would do him a severe injustice, but I'm fucking lazy, so I'll tell you one of my favorites. One of the great things about our friendship was that it was a second generation friendship: his father and my pa had been best friends when they were in high school. Plus, he has red hair and big pecs. Hmmm...maybe I shouldn't have told you that last part.

Fortunately, he was about the only person my mom would let me ride in the car with, so he was typically the driver in our misdeeds. One day, we were in the mighty metropolis of Bluffton, IN, up to the normal chivalrous deeds that two high school lads would be up to on a fine day in early June. Such exemplary deeds as: minding our P's and Q's, rescuing kittens from trees, picking up litter, helping old ladies across the street--okay, fine, I admit it. We were buying comic books. There, are you happy? Christ almighty. You people bitch about everything.

Anyway, after we were finished in the den of dorkdom, we loaded back into the car and were pulling back out onto the main drag of the town (there was really only one drag in Bluffton, but I digress). As we were waiting for traffic to clear so that we could turn right on red, we noticed that there was a car wash in the Hardee's parking lot to our right.

Are you guys familiar with the charity car washes, or is this just a midwestern thing? The model for this is brilliant in its simplicity: you line up a bunch of cute girls to volunteer to work at the car wash. This, in turn, nets you a bunch of slovenly guys who pretend to care about charity so that they can hang out with the cute girls. You then make the slovenly males wash the cars while the girls, who are usually wearing bikini tops or white t-shirts that they've tied up in the front so their bellies are exposed, stand around holding signs to "advertise" for the car wash. Perverts Passersby see the girls and thus they decide their vehicles are in desperate need of a wash, so they pull into the parking lot for a very sick and dirty fantasy car wash, only to discover that some squeaky-voiced guy with a half-formed beard from the First Street United Methodist Church Youth Group is asking them for five bucks. Like I said, it's brilliant.

Anyway, there was a car wash next to us, with all the requisite filthy hot teens holding up their signs. But wait, there's more. There was...a clown. The clown, seeing us in our precarious position at the stop light, decided to approach the car. As we're waiting at the light and discussing all the egregious and perverted things we'd do to the high school chicks if we were given the chance Kafka, the clown sticks his head in the driver's side window (my side) and utters his stupid clown giggle. It sounded kind of like if Goofy were being given a prostate exam.

"Hey boys, you want a car wash?" the clown asks after giggling in our space.

Without missing a beat, my best friend leans over me and flips the clown a double bird right in his face. He bellows, "Fuck you, Clown!" as loudly as he can and, without checking traffic, stomps on the accelerator, rocketing us forward and around the curb. One problem: the clown's head was still in the car.

The force of the acceleration carried the clown's head with us, but--and this is rather tragic--the remainder of the clown, well, remained. As we sped away from the scene at--literally--breakneck speed, my gales of mirthful laughter suddenly turned to the terrified shrieks of the damned as something landed in my lap. Staring back at me, with a look of horror and shock on his face with his hollow, haunted eyes staring deep into my soul, was the clown's head.

To say I've never been quite the same since would be an understatement.

So, here we are, tearing through town with the remains of a freshly decapitated clown on my freaking lap and we have no idea what to do. We can hear sirens, but can't see the pursuit cars yet. We know it would be a bad idea to be pulled over with the clown's head still in our possession. Fortunately, the Wabash River runs through Bluffton, so, as we approached the bridge, I picked up the decollated clown's head and heaved it out the window, over the railing of the bridge and into the murky brown waters below, thus ridding myself of our rather maudlin souvenir from the trip to the comic book shop.

Okay, so, the last few parts might have been a bit embellished. However, everything up to the words "Fuck you, Clown" was true. Oh, and the Brewing Optometrist did floor it to escape the scene because, seriously, clowns are lame and fucking creepy.

And now you know why I chose him to be my daughter's Godfather, which is a fitting way to end this tale because today is also my daughter's First Communion. See what I did there? I took the story full circle. Well, not really, but I kind of distracted you from the decapitated clown story, didn't I?

No? Well, fuck you, I'm not paying for your therapy. Happy Birthday, J!

Have more fun, six words at a time, over at Cate's place!

What? Me? Heckle?

I went to a rather small school for undergrad. It was located in a rather pastoral setting at the south end of a very small, farming-oriented community. Describing it as one-horse probably is lending it too much credit, though it was the town that the driver's ed kids from the next county over would come to, so that they could practice driving through intersections with stoplights. From a certain point of view, it could be described as a booming, thriving metropolis...I guess.

Anyway, the college tried to get comedians and shows in to entertain the students as much as they could. Bear in mind, this was a small college, so the acts weren't always the greatest, and I doubt I could name a single one of the performers or comedians who stopped off in Rensselaer for an hour's worth of self-promotion and a meager paycheck at the end.

However, sometimes, we got really good acts or really good comedians. That was the case on the night in question. The comedienne was actually a very funny lady. I remember a couple of times laughing until tears came to my eyes. As per usual, she went on about driving through cornfields and such to get to the college. Everybody pretty much did that when they came to Rensselaer, but when she entered into her own act, it was damned funny.

I say all this as a preface for the crux of the story. Now, this particular comedienne was a black lady of, we'll say, ample proportions, and as such, she started talking about her love of ice cream. She had me right there. If there's something I love, it is the ice cream (along with a variety of other things that I have detailed here time and again). As luck would have it, Rensselaer had a small ice cream shop called Busy Bee, which was a common congregation point in the late spring evenings for the population of the college. We'd walk into town, enjoy our frozen dairy comestibles, and then sometimes stroll through other parts of the town or simply walk back to campus. It was truly idyllic.

The comedienne saw Busy Bee on her way to the campus and was, appropriately, fired up. But, she was worried. Like me, she had a refined palate and had a few prerequisites as to whether it would be worth her time to enjoy this fine fare.

"Now, this Busy Bee place, it doesn't have just one flavor, does it?" she asked the crowd.

No, was the general response from the crowd.

"No? How many flavors does it have, then?"

At this point, I thought, in the blink of an eye, Hey, she's really funny. Perhaps I'll throw something up there for her, and she can hit it out of the ballpark. We'll all be rolling in the aisles, holding our sides, pissing our pants because she's that fucking funny!

The end result of this internal monologue was me, firing off: "Two!" This was met with a few chuckles from the crowd.

Oh goody, I thought, my internal voice rising in pitch as I pondered the looming possibilities, here comes the comedy gold!!!

"Two?" she asked, her eyes wide, an eyebrow cocked. I swelled up in eager anticipation. Here it comes...

This is where, I should point out, things made a turn for the worse.

"Two? Is that all that makes you happy, farmboy? Two? You and that little ear thing you've got going on. Two flavors for me and my ears, please." And then she turned, dismissively, and continued on with her routine.

I. Was. Crushed. She even, in the course of pointing out that my ears stick out a tad, grabbed the upper part of her ear and pulled it out some. It was like she had just stomped on my puppy, and then kicked its gasoline-soaked carcass into the middle of the street, where it was to burst aflame the moment it was run over by a speeding semi-truck, trailer in tow.

Where was the funny? Where was the comedic gold I had known was coming? Is this all I get? Being called a "farmboy" and my ears made fun of? Not that you needed the help, but I just fired off a slow pitch over the middle of the plate. You could do something with it, other than point out the shortcomings of my personal appearance.

I shed a single tear, much like the Native American standing at the side of the road, an empty 7-Up can rolling at his feet.

Perhaps she thought I was trying to heckle her. Perhaps she wanted to get her entire act finished within the allotted time. I don't know. What I do know is that, after that moment, no matter how lousy or how funny the comedian or how talented the performer, I vowed never to interact with the person on stage, lest my personal attributes are once again held up before the jeering gallery to be judged and mocked.

This does not, however, include the time that, during a screening of The Scorpion King in the theatre, when Lucy Liu straddled the Rock's chest shortly after he had been wounded, I shouted (for all to hear) "Lay here while I suck the poison from your chest with my vagina!"

See, you can bite a movie, and the movie doesn't bite back.

Urinal Conversations 2

An actual event from yesterday:

*friend follows me into the restroom from the lab after I tell him I'm leaving for the day and wish him a nice evening*

Friend: I just can't get enough of you.
Me: It's my magnetic personality. *thinks for a second, remembering that my friend reads the blog* Oh, hey, say something witty, that way I have tomorrow's blog post already done.
Friend: *laughter* Well, sorry, I'm not very witty here.
Me: Yeah, that's true. I'm usually more witty and clever two stalls down. *beat* Oh, hey, there's tomorrow's blog post!

I told you guys I was lazy.

Urinal Conversations

Here's an actual event from yesterday:

*guy follows me from the lab to the men's restroom, where he sidles up next to me at the urinal (there are only two)*

Friend: I see I'm following in the steps of greatness.
Me: Either that, or you really had to piss.
Friend: Oh, now, that's not very nice.
Me: I like to think of myself as overly-humble...especially while standing next to someone in the restroom, with my pants open. *beat* Especially when that someone is from Texas; we all know everything is bigger there.
*laughter*
Friend: You know, Mr. Jenks, there's a fine line between humility and self-deprecation. And you can use that in that blog you write.

There you go, buddy, I think I will use it.

Seven Hours? I Can Do It In Ten!

So, my wife made it to Atlanta safely on Sunday night to be with her family. Of course, she had to drive through pretty nasty conditions, with blowing snow and a lot of ice build up on the roads. She would call me with updates about the road conditions, her position, and what level of road rage she was experiencing. Most of the time, it was code red. You know, the "I'm going to get out and pummel the guy in front of me with my bare knuckles if he leaves 200 car lengths of space between him and the car in front of him one more time...and turn off your effing blinkers, Smackass!"

I doubt you've ever made the drive to Atlanta from the Raleigh-Durham area. It, in theory, is a nice little jaunt down I-85. Charlotte's a nice town to drive through, the Upstate of South Carolina is scenic-ish, there's lots of ads for topless truck stops. You know, standard interstate travel. It's also about a six hour drive, but since we're northeast of the city and my wife's family all live on the northwest side, it takes about seven because you have to drive down to nearly the heart of the city, catch 285 over to I-75, and then come back up. As Hap said, it's a spaghetti mess. In theory, it should be an easy commute, but it's not.

We've also never had any luck on the drive.

This past weekend, of course, my wife was driving through what constitutes a blizzard around these here parts. She was cruising along at a break-neck speed of 2.5 miles per hour. She knew this because she went from exit 300 to exit 302 in an hour. She sat and stared at the same Waffle House for that entire time, wondering if she'd run out of gas and have to hang out in it's smoke-filled walls until someone came and rescued her. In theory, Waffle Houses are awesome--it's a dive restaurant built around a breakfast menu. However, trying to cut through the grease-addled and smoke-filled air to find a table that is wiped clean with some spit and a dirty rag by a waitress who hit her prime thirty years ago and permanently has the stub of a lit cigarette dangling from her lower lip brings the notion of a dive restaurant to an all new low. This ain't Mel's diner, and if you don't think you can hide a lot of health code violations in the biscuits and gravy, you've got another thing coming to you. Fortunately, she was able to find a gas station and refuel so that she could avoid a greasy death at the hands of Bear the Trucker and his sidekick.

It took my wife just about three hours to get from the Georgia-South Carolina border to Gwinnett county, which is on the north east side of Atlanta. You might remember Gwinnett county as being the home of Laura Mallory, the harpy stay-at-home mom who sued the county to get the Harry Potter books out of the school libraries. If you need a refresher, here's some links to her sad tale. Anyway, in Gwinnett county, the interstate opens up from two lanes to six. Also, here is the point where the snow plows from Atlanta decided to stop working and turn around and go home. The road from the border to the widening of the interstate was a solid glare of ice that less resembled the aftermath of a storm and looked more like Lou the Zamboni Driver put in another job well done. At one point, the car beside her or in front of her or something parked, everyone got out and had a snowball fight, because the rest of the traffic wasn't moving. I think that's when the vein in her forehead began throbbing, and she called me up to tell me that she was "going to die or kill someone."

Also, she saw the true signs of a southern snow storm on her commute: snow plows in the ditch. I'm always amazed and amused any time we get a snow or ice event (they're not storms down here, they're events, truly) and the snow plows are stranded in the ditch because the drivers don't know to turn into the slide. Overall, it took her about ten hours to get there.

The summer when my son Tank was just about to turn 1, we went down to Atlanta to visit my wife's family. Again, what should have been a routine drive turned not-so-routine when we were stopped, once more, on the interstate just after crossing the Georgia border. We sat there for hours. Apparently, as we finally creeped around the scene, we saw guys in hazmat suits cleaning up a tanker spill of some kind. I never found out what it was, but it was a very unpleasant time sitting in the car with an 11-month old and a three year old for three hours and not moving. When we finally were able to pull off and get some gas and hopefully a little snack, I stopped at a Chick-Fil-A and ordered a milkshake, because Chick-Fil-A milkshakes are the milkshakes they serve in Heaven (probably has something to do with that not open on Sundays thing). Only problem is, much to my chagrin, the milkshakes were not national yet, and only select cities had them. Durham, North Carolina had them; Commerce, Georgia, didn't. Muttering curses about shrunken genitalia and the fleas of a thousand camels to infest their body hair, I returned to the car unsated, but with my blood-sugar and cholesterol levels remaining in the "safe" category.

However, neither of these times top the first trip we made to Atlanta where we had an unfortunate traffic tie-up. We had just gone past Greensboro, North Carolina and were sailing down the road when we were met with a wall of traffic. This was shortly after my son was born, so all four of us were in the car and sitting, dead still, in traffic. The area was being lashed by some terrific thunderstorms at the time, so we figured that was the cause for the delay. However, the storms moved off and the traffic remained. We finally were able to limp up exit 118 to get gas and for a bathroom break. Unfortunately, at this juncture, there was only one option: a lone BP standing atop the hill overlooking the interstate. This means that everyone who needed to piss and refuel got off here. I had to wait fifteen minutes to get to a gas pump. In the meantime, my wife and daughter got out and stood in line for 25 minutes to get to the bathroom...which had six inches of standing water on the floor. Cold, brown, fetid standing water. My daughter's shoes got soaked while she waded through the sludge to get to the potty, and we left the shoes there as a souvenir for the owners. Looking out over the interstate, we saw that the cars stretched to the horizon and beyond, so we decided to cut cross-country to I-77, where we would go south and hook back up with I-85 in Charlotte.

First, though, we came to Business I-85, and so my wife and I decided to risk it. We turned on it, and things were going splendidly until the business route merged back in with I-85. Here, the cars were still backed up and still not moving.

That's when I lost my shit.

Fuming, my wife tried to calm me with a snack. For some reason, we were trying to eat healthy or some shit, and so we had some celery in the car. She gave me a piece of celery, and I vented my frustrations on the celery, slamming it against the steering wheel, screaming, "I don't want a piece of celery, I want the fucking traffic to move. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck FUCK!!!" While I continued to weave a tapestry of expletives that flowed out over the hood of the car and onto the lanes of traffic around me, I took the tattered remains of the celery and hurled them out the window as hard as I could at the guard rail, where they met the metal with a dull thud, clung to it for a moment, and then tumbled to the ground. With the celery valiantly sacrificed and my enraged tirade over, I rolled the window back up and worked my way through the traffic.

Again, three hours later, we finally passed the source of the trouble. Apparently, a semi truck had decided to take the scenic route into a deep, kudzu-lined valley, and the authorities were trying to pull it out. Half the road was blocked off and, as the wenches and cranes strained to pull the shattered remains of a once-functioning semi cab and trailer from the ravine, they would have to close the other lane, as well, to ensure people's safety. Once we were allowed past it, we had no other issues for the remainder of the trip. However, that trip was the pinnacle of road rage frustrations on our trips to Atlanta, and has forever been dubbed "The Celery Event."

On Golden Memories Pond

Holy heapin' helpin's of crap! I heard about this guy on the radio this morning, all the way down here in North By God Carolina!

What's the connection? you might ask, aside from the link taking you to a South Bend television station. Well, the connection is that, for the first thirteen years of my life, my family owned lake cottages on Webster Lake, where the perp was busting into summer homes. I'm sort of wondering if I don't know the guy from Chicago that had his home busted into--and worse, had his beer drunk! Most of the people who lived on my side of the lake, though, were from other places in Indiana. There were only a few folks from out of state, but there was one big cottage that was owned by a guy from Chicago. They also had a couple of other cottages on the same landing. I think that those cottages were all set up for year-round living. The ones we owned weren't. We'd have to close them up by the first weekend in October, but then we'd open them again, usually the first or second weekend of April.

Throughout my childhood, we would go to the lake every weekend. Every effing weekend. We'd also go for at least one week, sometimes two, as a "vacation." I missed a bunch of baseball games and scouting events because we would be at the lake. I missed the championship game one year for my little league division and missed the all-star game two years in a row because we were at the lake. Ah, good times, good times.

Of course, by the time I got old enough that having a lake cottage was practical for some of my more nefarious needs, we had sold them. So there were no episodes of awkwardly making out and heavy petting in a car and me smoothly injecting "Hey, I know, we can drive somewhere and screw. There's a bed there and everything! I have a key!" into the conversation. Or there were some times in college when I wanted to be like "Fuck it all" and get out of there for a weekend, but I didn't want to go home, so I'd go to the lake cottage for a couple of days. This would have been a great place for my buddy The Brewer The Brewing Optometrist and I to escape, drink and fish when we were both home during the summers. Also, Webster was only about 45 minutes from ND's campus. If we had the cottages, it would have saved me some money in grad school. Money I could have put toward more Schlitz Malt Liquor. The Blue Bull, baby.

I realized that the taxes were probably pretty nasty, having a bunch of other properties and such, which is why we sold the places. A couple of times, when my wife and I were first married, we drove down to the old lake cottage and just sort of hung out for a bit because--especially in the fall--it was peaceful and beautiful. The last time we visited, our old cottage had been redone really nicely with a big deck and painted and everything.

The best memory, though, was when we first bought the place. We already owned one of the bigger cottages on the landing, but it was kind of tough trying to cram my mom and dad, me, my brother, my sister, my aunt and uncle, my two cousins and then my grandmother and sometimes my other grandfather into one place. In fact, it really sucked. Perish the thought that my other aunt and uncle and cousin would show up for a visit. So, my family bought a smaller two bedroom cottage with a front porch that was converted into a third bedroom. The great thing about the front-porch-turned-bedroom was that it was across the lane from the Dietz cottage and the bedroom had lots of windows. The Dietzes were a family from Indianapolis with about seventy four slutty teenage daughters who always sunbathed in very little bikinis--it was as if they were allergic to tan lines and were hellbent on not having any on their bodies. And the girls would always have equally as slutty and allergic to tan lines friends up for the weekends. As someone beginning the great adventure of puberty whose entire thought process surrounded trying to penetrate something, this was like St. Peter throwing the gates of heaven wide open. Good times, good times.
I digress. The best part of the buying process was that we walked through the cottage and my parents said, "Hey, looks nice. Smells kinda musty, but we'll clean that up." We bought the place, got the keys and went in. Still smelled kind of bad. The first thing we wanted to do was get out all the beds that the previous owners had left because, well, we really didn't want to sleep on someone else's mattresses that we really didn't know. Plus, they all kind of smelled raunchy. So, in the small bedroom, I helped my dad move the bed out, and when we finally tipped it up, my view of the room was blocked, but my dad suddenly screamed, "Ah, shit!"

"What is it?" I inquire, peeking around the mattress, only to see my dad standing amidst several piles of dogshit that had been cleverly hidden beneath the bed. Very calmly I looked up at my dad, whose head had turned purple with an unholy mixture of anger and gouts of unspoken profanities, and said, "Well, I guess that explains the smell."
My dad looked at me, the color drained from his face, and then he started laughing so hard tears streamed down his cheeks. He staggered while laughing and almost stepped in one of the piles. "Dad, watch out!" I yelled, almost reflexively, "Don't step in the dogshit!"

Again, my dad paused and looked at me, the color once more draining from his face. For a second, a pregnant silence hung in the air as I thought my tongue was about to be ripped from my head. Once more, gales of laughter followed the pause and my father carefully stepped around the doggy nuggets and held himself steady against the wall while he collected himself. Finally, calmly, he said, "Go get me a broom and dustpan. And don't say that word in front of your mother."
That was the first time I ever swore in front of one of my parents. To this day, it's one of my fondest memories of my formative years.

Edit: Changed the name of the post, because I didn't like the original one and this one, I thought, reflected the overall nature of the post more.

Don't Laugh at My Shame!

Since it got cold last night...cold enough to counteract the colligative affect imparted by the brine/salt mixture thrown on the roads yesterday...everything froze up nice and solid. Therefore, the roads and such were too hazardous during the usual morning crush and my employer delayed opening by two hours.

Have I mentioned how much I fricking love my job?

It was so effing nice to by able to lay in bed this morning until 8:30 with the sultry breath of a half-naked redhead on the back of my neck. Yes, even when she's sighing at me over a lousy pun or pissed because I ate the last chocolate cookie, it's sultry. Most everything a redhead does is inherently sultry.

Still, when I finally rolled out of the house this morning at 9:15, it was 24 degrees F. And I shivered.

There used to be a time in my life when I would look 24 in the eye, whip my junk out, and wave it tauntingly at Old Man Winter. Six years of living in the South (just the South...not the Deep South) has softened me to marshmallow consistency. Much below 30 and I'm a quivering mass of jelly that doesn't want a thing to do with the outdoors. Unless there's nekkid chicks, but since most of them are marshmallow soft, too, that doesn't happen too often.

The first winter that we were married, back around the turn of the century, my wife and I came down to Charlotte to spend a week with her parents around the Christmas holiday. We had just left behind 48 inches of snow in South Bend from the blizzard that had hit us about two weeks prior (I think the blizzard dumped 24-28 inches on us, but that particular December had seen 48 inches of snow) and while it was cold in Charlotte, it wasn't as cold as it was in South Bend.

One day during the break, we went to one of the malls in Charlotte, and I was decked out in my winter attire. However, that day it got up to almost 40, and I was dying. I finally stripped down to just a t-shirt and my jeans and was finally comfortable. I remember steam coming off my head when I took my sock-cap off. It was sweet relief. Besides that, a steaming head is badass.

Now, the thought of a t-shirt in 40 degree weather sends chills throughout my body. I think my feet got colder just thinking about it.

That, however, was not the least I've ever worn on a winter's day. When I was in my first semester at ND, I was living alone in an apartment about two miles from campus. It was pleasant enough, though my neighbors were rather...sketchy...to say the least. One night, though, I decided I was going to do some laundry, so I spent the afternoon carting my stuff back and forth from my place to the community laundry room. It was mildly annoying, but I figured the walking was good for me. As I was putting my last load of clothes in, the washer wasn't completely full, so I figured I'd man-worn my jeans enough and stripped them off right there and tossed them in the wash. I gathered up my stuff and walked back to my apartment to find that I had thrown the lock on the way out.

With my keys still in the apartment.

And my pants in the wash.

I tried my best to kick or bash the door in but--remember the neighborhood was sketchy--the lock was pretty strong. While I felt safer that I wasn't going to be murdered in my sleep anytime soon, I was not looking forward to weathering the night on the floor in front of my door until the maintenance guys came to work the next morning. It was $20 if you had to call them after hours to let you in. I had no cash in my wallet, which was also inside the apartment.

I realized that there was one thing I would have to do. Some of my friends were having a little dinner party at a friend's apartment near campus. I opted for laundry and watching the Indiana/Ohio State game that night instead of the party, but I was planning on showing up for movie time. However, I knew that my only hope now rested in crashing the party.

I did have my shoes on, which was a damned good thing since there was 8 inches of snow on the ground. So, I set down my laundry basket (which was full of towels and other non-pants items) and, in my underwear, started walking to campus. From time to time, I would get cold enough that I would start running, but running in the cold night air when you're an asthmatic is not conducive to breathing. I would run as far as I could until I had to stop and walk. My lungs burned with inflammation; my skin burned with the cold; my humility just burned.

Now, I've never had a problem with being less than fully-clad, we'll say, much to the chagrin of most everyone in the world. However, I do take issue with being in just my undies while it's somewhere around 15-20 degrees.

I learned that night that South Bend cops could give a fuck less about your needs when they have their sights set on Nick's Patio, the local greasy spoon. What, stop and help the guy who is running in his underwear and waving his arms and gesticulating madly for me to help him, when there's biscuits and gravy that I could be shoving in my gob? You're on your own, fatboy. You could probably use the exercise, anyway.
So, I showed up at the party in my underwear and a t-shirt. I'll just toss in here that the dinner party-goers...all women. Except for my friend Jeff, one of the few Red Sox fans not named Karp that I can stand.

Here's my soliloquy that I gave when I got to the door, somewhat sweaty and panting:

"I locked myself out while doing laundry." *pant pant* "Don't ask." *pant pant* "Can I borrow $20 from someone?" *pant pant wheeze* "I'll pay you back." *pant pant wheeze wheeze* "If you're not watching anything, can I watch the Indiana game?" *wheeze*

Priorities.

Fortunately, after they ate and before we started the movie, Jeff lent me the cash and drove my sorry ass back to my apartment and hung out while I waited for the maintenance guy to show up...who lived in the next apartment building over. Fuck him. Having secured some pants and a warmer shirt, I returned to the party and watched Office Space. A couple of the ladies felt sorry for me and huddled/cuddled up to me to keep me warm.

That was the night I triumphed over Old Man Winter, not only successfully braving the cold and snow, but also I got cuddled on by a couple of reasonably attractive ladies to help "warm me up."

These days, though, I'll just take the ladies.

Always Cutting Edge

Have you guys heard of this fun game that you and your friends can play when you're bored and/or drunk? Or even bored while drunk? Yeah, it involves taking an actor and, in six names or less, linking him or her to a movie they starred in with Kevin Bacon. I know, crazy, huh? Crazy fun!

Did you know that I can play this game with myself? Not play with myself, mind; I'm Catholic after all, and that's why God created this thing called a "wife". Am I right or am I right?

Anyway, I'll bet you didn't know that I used to light up the stage with my friendly visage, perfect enunciation, and projectile voicing. Ironically, usually after a stage production, I'd get to the projectile vomiting at the cast party, but those are stories for another day. Or right now, if I'm boring you. Heh. If.

I know that you might not believe me, but some of my stage credits include "Angry Townsperson" from "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", "The Russian Cop with an Irish Accent" from "The Good Doctor", "Another Policeman" from "Boys from Syracuse", and "An Amalgamation of Seven Roles Lumped into One Middle Management Character That We Called 'Marty Party'" from "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying" among many others. I could throw in "That Guy Who Was Nowhere Near as Funny as Steve Giles and Will Shannon But Still Funnier Than Roger in the Improv Troupe", but I don't want to brag. That last one even netted me a whole mess of Townie Groupies. It's true. Pathetically sad and something that I don't like to admit, but true.

Anyway, back to this whole crazy Kevin Bacon thing. I just thought I'd prove to you that I am within six degrees of him. In my Marty Party role, I shared the stage with Charles Barrett III, who was 'Air Force NCO' in Thirteen Days with Kevin Costner, who was in a movie called JFK along with...*gasp*...could it be...Kevin Bacon?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? I realize that's less than six connections, but I'm lazy and wanted to show you just how important I am in only four connections. Badassosity, thy name is Jenks.

Feel free to shower me with undergarments and boob shots.

In case that's not enough for you, there's also this game out there where you link yourself to the King of Spain through handshakes, and once again I was playing with myself (notice how thick my glasses are). The awesomeness of this is that there's two ways I can link myself to the King of Spain:

Option One: I once shook Dain Fife's hand, who shook Bob Knight's hand, who went hunting pheasants with the King of Spain. Funny story, that. Apparently, Bob decided not to shoot the birds that were for the King. See, Bob Knight is a humble man.

Option Two: This one is my favorite. My college buddy, David, is something like fifth or seventh in line to inherit the crown of Spain. Yeah, who knew that some schlub from Da Region in Indiana had royal blood coursing through his veins. Well, if you met David, you would know right away. But, I shook his hand once, and he shook his dad's hand, and his dad shook his uncle's hand...and you get the picture. The best part of this story is that, one time in college, I was relating this whole scenario to my mom, and I offered up the "You know, if we were to bump off the King of Spain and the six guys after him, David would inherit himself a whole country!" My mom, however, grew concerned, not so much that we were suggesting regicide, but she gravely offered: "Oh, don't kill the King of Spain. He could be the Anti-Christ."

Yes, you read it correctly: my mom told me NOT to take out the Anti-Christ. And that's just a peek into the hilarity I call "my childhood".