Showing posts with label True life. Show all posts

Outhouse to the penthouse: Where I was eight years ago last night

(I think it's safe to tell this story in public now. At least I hope so.)

Eight years ago last night (June 7, 2004), the Tampa Bay Lightning were facing the Calgary Flames in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. It was the most fantastic, incredible night I've ever experienced as a sports fan, although it definitely didn't start out that great.

I was not an employee of the Lightning at that time, but I was a huge fan, as I had been since the team began back in 1992. The NHL playoffs are two months of severe manic mood swings. Wins produce euphoric elation. Losses result in soul-crushing despair. Friends and co-workers would base decisions on whether or not to interact with me based on the team's performance the night before. Yeah, it was a big deal.
Being as I worked at the Sun Dome, an arena across town, I had peers, colleagues and friends in the Lightning organization, some of whom were able to hook me up with tickets for games during the regular season as well as the playoffs. Away games were spent at The Press Box, Tampa's oldest established sports bar. As the team advanced, tickets were difficult to get. When the whole thing boiled down to Game 7, a single winner-take-all contest to decide the whole thing, they were non-existent for freeloaders like me. However, one of my friends was dating an upper-level executive with the team at the time (he's actually in that photo at the bottom). She told me that she and others would be in a suite and if I could somehow find my way there, I was more than welcome to join them. Meanwhile, another friend who was actually an executive herself told me she didn't have tickets, but she would be willing to open a side door while looking the other way. Hey, 2/3 of a plan is better than nothing! Although that missing middle part was pretty important and would need to be addressed somehow...
I left work early and got downtown around 3:30 in the afternoon. True to her word, my friend opened the door and said "Good luck, I don't know you" as I hurried through. I quickly made my way to an elevator that took me to the floor where the suite was located. I found a men's room, locked myself in a stall, squatted on a toilet and read the Tampa Tribune, standing up every now and then to discourage pesky leg cramps. Occasionally, someone would come in and I would freeze like Lucas Haas in "Witness".

"Ohh shiii..."

But nobody ever challenged me being in there and later, when I was finally sure I could hear crowd noise out in the concourse hallway, I got up and tried to dart across the hall into the suite...but I'm not really a darter. I got nailed by an usher who wanted to see a ticket I didn't have. I told her I'd forgotten it and would go back and get it. I walked down the concourse a few feet, looked back and saw her step away from her post and doubled back quickly and got inside before she saw me. I was there before my friend, so I had to introduce myself to the other people in there, among them Lightning general manager Jay Feaster's wife Anne, head coach John Tortorella's wife Christene and goalie coach Jeff Reese's dad. No longer stressed about being discovered and getting thrown out (or arrested!) after hanging around a men's room for over four hours, I relaxed and helped myself to free chicken tenders, chips and spinach dip and ice cold beer, all while watching the Lightning skate to a 2-1 victory over Calgary to win the championship. 
   

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I don't Like that

Recently, a co-worker who happens to be an aspiring writer used my computer. I found out when I visited Facebook and found out that I had "Liked" her romance novels.


Here's the thing: Sometimes at work, I visit Facebook. Sometimes, other people need to use my computer. Often, I don't log out of my account when I'm finished. This always leaves me at risk of people doing inappropriate things with my Facebook account. Okay, that's on me. I shouldn't do that and I should accept the consequences when I do. That's fair punishment. But be reasonable, folks. Change my profile photo to a picture of a dog's butt. Change my status to "I Heart Balls!" Sign me up for a bunch of Adolph Hitler fan clubs. Whatever. But don't presume to speak for me, making it look like I "Like" your shitty books, you hack. What makes it worse is I'm all about supporting fellow writers, or anybody indulging their creative pursuits, for that matter. If she had asked me to "Like" them, I would have done so happily. Hell, that's a lot easier than actually having to read them.
"Before I open this, I'm not going to find
 any moody, lovestruck vampires, am I?"
Instead, I'm going to do the opposite of "Like" them and help her. I'm going to un-"Like" (or hate) them and un-help (or hinder) her. And that's just a shame, because like I said, that's not my usual inclination.
Seriously, what kind of psycho does something like that? I'm not normally somebody who wrings their hands over this perceived wave of bad behavior spawned by the likes of Facebook and Twitter. Twitter isn't what makes people say stupid things on Twitter; stupid is what makes people say stupid things on Twitter. And it's the same way with Facebook not turning normal, rational people into assholes. Although, this situation has thrown me. It's like showing up uninvited at some kind of function and using it in an attempt to impose your personal preferences and beliefs on someone...just because you're an opportunistic, bottom-feeding dipshit. That kind of thing doesn't happen in the real world, does it?
Never mind.




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The RAWR of the crowd

I love sports action photos. The images captured are often incredible but what I find really entertaining are the reactions of spectators watching the action. Sometimes, you can look at the same photo a hundred times and find something new going on in the crowd every time. Other times, you can spot something that completely draws your focus away from anything else going on in the photo entirely.
For instance this is what is currently my computer desktop wallpaper at work:

This is Martin St. Louis who plays for my favorite team, the Tampa Bay Lightning, celebrating after scoring a goal against the San Jose Sharks. Marty is truly a great player, easily one of the top five to ever play for a Tampa Bay team in any sport, which is why I chose it initially. But now, after looking at it dozens of times and studying it in detail, I find myself fixated on what's going on with this guy:


"Bra-a-a-ins...err, I mean, Go-o-o-o-al!"
 So it's no longer a picture of one of my favorite players celebrating a goal, it's now a picture of one of my favorite players seperated from a zombie by a pane of glass and a helmet.

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If I started a bucket list right now, it would already be half finished

As much as I complain about it, I actually have a pretty cool life. I get to do some cool stuff, anyway. Because of some weird, mystic combination of knowing a bunch of different people who are engaged in a wide variety of activity, my big mouth and a pinch of Forrest Gump-like serendipity, sometimes I find myself with opportunities that clearly aren't earned on any kind of actual merit. Previously, this has resulted in things like getting to sit in a dugout with Brooks Robinson and Harmon Killebrew at an exhibition baseball game in St. Petersburg or riding through Times Square in a limo with Leeann Tweeden. More recently, this happened...

Over the last few years, I've gotten to know Ronny Elliott. Ronny is a musician's musician, in that while many people don't recognize his name, there's a chance that they own an album by somebody that he's played with, and the people whose names are on those albums probably know him. I'm not going to attempt to write a bio because I'll forget something important. If you're so inclined, you can read the one that's posted on his web site. I'll just leave it at mentioning that he opened for Jimi Hendrix.
Anyway, recently Ronny mentioned that he's recording a new album, his first in five years. As is my wont (for better or worse), I had to open my piehole: "Hey, I want to be on the new album!". Now, I'll point out that I was being completely sincere: I did/do want to be on the album, but that doesn't mean I expected to get the opportunity. I want to do all kinds of things but not every single self-indulgent whim that comes flying out of my mouth gets granted. More accurately, my bluffs often go uncalled, dismissed with a pat on the head...but not all the time.
Ronny told me that they would be in a recording studio last Friday and I was welcome to come by. Well, sure! Sounds like fun! Maybe I could contribute hand claps or bang on a tambourine or something. When I got there, Ronny met me at the door. "Are you warmed up?", he asked, gesturing to his throat. "Huh? Oh yeah. I was singing along to the Beatles on the way over. Ha ha!" "Good. Because you're up next. Rebekah already did her part. We just need to add you singing with her and that track is done."
Singing? Me? With who? Rebekah? As in Pulley? Yes. He actually wanted me to sing. Further, I'd be singing with the immensely popular and critically adored Rebekah Pulley (one of my favorites). Suddenly, the stakes were MUCH higher. But rarely have I been accused of favoring discretion over valor so I wasn't going to back out...unless I was given the chance, of course. Steve, the producer said to Ronny, "I don't know if you need more vocals. Maybe a (French term that I don't remember) would fit." "Yeah, definitely", I said, "I could do a (French term I don't remember). What is that?" "A (French term that I don't remember) is a brief spoken, not sung, part." "Oh right. Yeah, I should probably do one of those." Ronny said, "No, let him sing. It will be good."
They played the song for me and said "just sing the same part as Rebekah on the chorus" and put me in a room by myself with a microphone. I put on the headphones and realized the microphone could pick up everything. I immediately became self-conscious about my breathing and cocked my head at a weird angle and started breathing out of the corner of my mouth, like a smoker trying not to blow exhaust fumes in someone's face. The song started playing and I sang along quietly. Steve stopped the song and said "are you singing?" "Yeah..kind of...it seems really loud" "Don't worry about that. Just sing normal." "I don't normally sing." "Just sing loud and I'll take care of it in here."
We started over and I sang louder this time, and kind of got into it. When it was over I asked, "Is there a back door that I should just leave through back here or...?" "Come on up. It's fine." I went back to the control room and Ronny said, "Wow, you turned into George C. Scott there!" The guy that won the Oscar for playing Patton isn't the first person that pops into my mind when I think of music but I said thanks. "I just mean in terms of how dramatic you were. It was good!" So apparently, he's happy with it and they're going to keep it. The album is scheduled to be released around the middle of July and I'll be sure to include all the info here so you can check it out.

So while that may not have been as cool as hanging out with Brooks Robinson and Harmon Killebrew, it's definitely up there.

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I don't get Pinterest

The other day, I was chastised about the sad state of my Pinterest account...

"I just started following you on Pintrest. I have to say your boards aren't very pintresting at all...add something already! You certainly have a ton of stuff to share!"

I'm not sure that's true though. Mostly because I'm not sure I understand how Pinterest is supposed to work. "Pinterest is a Virtual Pinboard!" is what it says at the site. But what does that mean? I don't even know how I would use a real pinboard, let alone a virtual one. I only signed up a few days ago and since I don't know what I'm doing, as of right now I have one Pinterest board. It's titled "Board" (subtitled "A board upon which one could pin Things" for clarification purposes) and has nothing on it. I'm actually pretty proud of it because it's extremely organized. It's probably the most neat and orderly thing in my life. But I'm clearly doing it wrong.

Here's what I think is supposed to happen...
  • I go on line and come across a picture of a dog. Whose dog is it? I don't know. It's not mine. I don't think that matters. Or somebody's cat. Maybe it's my cat. Or a pie. I don't have any pie right now though. Whatever.
  • Hey, I like dogs! As well as cats and pies. This picture of an unknown dog pleases me, so I "Pin" it.
  • Now this picture of someone else's dog is on my board.
  • Other people, whom I may or may not know, can see this picture of someone else's dog on my board.
  • One of these people, possibly a complete stranger whom I will never meet in my lifetime, says to themselves, "I also like this picture of a dog that Clark has on his board. I shall Pin it myself."
  • This connects that person to me and now we are friends. I guess.
I mean, is that it? I think it is. I'm pretty sure it is. If so, what exactly is the point? I'm not knocking it; I honestly just don't know. I'm aware it's incredibly popular and people talk about it all the time. It's probably me, missing something. So if somebody who gets it wants to give me a class, I'm willing to learn. Especially if you can show me how to use it to shill promote my stuff. 
Thanks in advance.
I wish there was a way to share this photo of my cat Jack making it
difficult to type this very blog post...oh wait a minute!

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Happy Memorial Day

I have no idea what I'm doing today. Toiling thanklessly for a bad company managed by bad people at my previous job has rendered me incapable of handling having holidays off. There were some military training exercises in downtown Tampa last week. I kept hoping they'd wander up the river a bit and accidentally hit my old place of employment with some rockets...but no dice.
As far as today is concerned, my first thought was that I would go to the beach. Nice, relaxing, stress-free. Then friends clued me in and told me EVERYBODY would be at the beach and the experience would be the exact opposite of nice, relaxing and stress-free. So I'm not sure what to do today. I'll come up with something.
Whatever you're doing today to observe the occasion (I have a funny feeling it doesn't involve reading this; I'll check the numbers later to validate that hunch), please do it safely. I'll see you here again Wednesday with brand-new fart jokes and real life incidents of stupid behavior!

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Still fighting for my right to party

In my day (and I'm fully aware that starting a sentence with that phrase is a dead giveaway that what follows is likely to be some sort of folk tale from an elderly person, which is fine because that's exactly what this is), I had impressive party skills. What that means is, when I was younger, I was really good at drinking alcohol. I was in the army between the ages of 18 and 22; among several people my age, all away from home for the first time with full legal access to booze. When I got out, I moved to Florida and the first people I met who were my age were minor league baseball players; men in their early 20s who usually don't have to be at work before 4PM. So yeah, I ran with peer groups who could put it away pretty good. I have lots of stupid stories about stupid behavior that resulted from that activity. But the point of mentioning it here and now is to say that I outgrew that behavior. Now, I rarely drink at all and almost never to excess. Not for any great reason; it's just something I don't do anymore, like ice skating. Well, last weekend, I was invited to a friend's house-warming party where I learned that things have changed.

The invitation stated that accomodations would be available on site for those who overindulged and being as I have no intention of ever getting a DUI, this sounded good to me (an aside: I think I've stated this somewhere here before, but drunk driving infractions are the dumbest crimes anyone can ever commit simply because there are always alternatives). I decided it would be fun to go, let myself off the leash and see how much poor judgment I could exercise, for the first time in at least five years.
I got to the house about an hour after the party had started. The house is huge and beautiful and after roaming around a bit and mingling, I found a spot in the rec room at the bar with fun people and easy access to all the booze. Perfect. The party was great with lots of nice people, a ton of food and more alcohol than I have ever seen in a residential dwelling. I set to work consuming with the intent of just getting levelled. Several Jägerbombs, even more pudding shots, lots of some kind of rum punch (I think) and I even tried absinthe for the first time. As planned, I got really intoxicated, but was pleasantly surprised to learn that my hard-earned skills had not diminished from lack of use. I didn't get sick, I didn't pass out, I didn't have a hangover the next day and I didn't get in a fight (it's all about making smart food intake choices, being mindful of what you're mixing, remaining hydrated and not being an asshole, kids). But as I mentioned previously, things have changed.

At some point during the evening, people started shedding their clothes. One woman in particular kept walking by topless, then fully clothed, then fully naked, clothed again but in a different outfit, topless, clothed, naked... It was like what I imagine a Cher concert is like. And the thought I had was "I wonder why she can't get comfortable?" Not "Naked woman = SEX!!" or "AHHHHHHHHH!!!!", as an adolescence spent hiding copies of Playboy under my mattress and not ever having 'The Talk' with my parents had conditioned me to approach adulthood.
Nope.
Things have changed. 

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My latest genius idea

I have made a concerted effort to stay away from the evil that is fast food, but there are still occasions, driven by time constraints or some other circumstances that require me to sacrifice quality for convenience, where I find myself waiting in a drive-thru line. Of course, those lines never move fast enough for me, which adds to the stress and frustration of time wasted, which is what I'm trying to avoid by going there in the first place. There's always some boob in front of me, fumbling with their change or asking stupid, inappropriate questions ("Excuse me, may I have some napkins, please?", etc.). As I sat in one of these lines the other day, getting aggravated at everybody in front of me in line, muttering "just take it and go, damn it", the idea for a new restaurant concept hit me...



"Tiago"
Finally, a REAL fast food restaurant, catering to customers in a serious hurry.

Here's how it works:
  • Every Tiago location is open 24 hours, every day of the year.
  • No "dining room", drive thru only (Does anybody really consider the Formica countertops and fixed-in-place plastic stools in a fast food joint to be a 'dining room'? I don't call the place where I eat in my house a dining room. "Come darling, let us avail ourselves of this establishment's dining room, so that we may partake of these chicken chunks in comfort and splendor". Please.)
  • You pull up to a speaker box.
  • A voice greets you; "YEAH?"
  • You yell back with how many Its (the I in Tiago) you want; "Three".
  • You drive up and pay the cashier. Everything is $5 each; "$15".
  • You drive up to the next window and a sullen teenager shoves however many Its, a paper bag full of hot, salted lard and a cup of carbonated sugar water, at you. In this example, three of each. The teenager says, "Take It And GO!" and that's exactly what you do.
  • In order to keep things moving smoothly, any deviation from this process by you, the customer ("Excuse me, may I have some napkins, please?", etc.) triggers an extremely loud and unpleasant air horn that blows until you move. It blows at everybody in line, so peer pressure helps keep things moving.
  • If at least four customers aren't completely served every 60 seconds for any reason whatsoever, it triggers an extremely loud and unpleasant air horn inside, making the staff tending the lard pit and water carbonator (the only things approximating restaurant equipment on the premises) and working the windows even more surly and aggressive (ie: hard working).
Honestly, just about everything in that scenario, aside from the speed and efficiency (and the air horns, which is, admittedly, my favorite aspect of the whole concept), is exactly what you get from the average fast food drive-thru experience already. I'm just streamlining the process. Why demand more if you're not going to get it anyway?
Ask about our kids meals! (Just kidding.
Don't do that! Are you crazy?)

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The gentleman from New Jersey

Based on recent history, we should expect the upcoming election season to be even more mean and ugly and angry and just plain stupid than anything we've ever seen. I know, it's hard to believe that's possible but I have no doubt that we'll find a way. We're good like that.It won't just be the presidential election either. Pretty soon, we'll have dopes running around all over the place.
Not solid candidates like Dr. Hector Castillo...

Dr. Castillo is running in the 2012 election for the U.S. House, representing New Jersey's 9th District. He is seeking the nomination on the Republican ticket. You might think that this is a guy who can get you into a Buick or give you a tip on the #6 dog in the third race at Derby Lane or who is frequently mistaken for the late Jack Lemmon, and maybe he is, but this is a man who got nearly 4% of the votes when he ran as an independent for the office of governor in 2005! All you really need to know is that his sweet thumbs-up and almost smile-like rictus are gestures that are intended to tell you everything is going to be okay. But if you insist on digging deeper, I'd like you to ignore the fact that there's no web site at drcastilloforcongress.com and focus instead on that comprehensive-yet-vague list of just-short-of-promises on his to-do list. Especially this one at the bottom...

Oops!
My first guess is that he meant "one man-one woman". That's an easy mistake to make...the "A" and the "E" are located on the same keyboard, after all. You get in a hurry and shit heppans. Although, you expect a little more attention to detail from a doctor running for office, who has Bachelor degrees in Biology and Chemistry from Seton Hall University. He's probably saving up for the important stuff. Yeah, I'm sure he'll be much more thorough in representing your concerns than he would be in posting an advertisement touting his own ideals and philosophies, right? Or who knows, maybe it's not a mistake and he supports dudes having harems! Either way, rock on, New Jersey!

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Road Word-iors

A friend of mine was involved in a road rage incident the other day. It was really just a verbal confrontation with no physical violence but "road rage" is such a sexy phrase that I will always try to use it whenever possible.
This particular incident happened on Wednesday, a rainy day here on the west coast of Florida, and my friend was picking her daughter up at school. My friend was reluctant to drive through a large puddle at high speed (which is always a good idea) and was honked at for it. What followed was a brief insult battle. Who won? Who lost? I'll let you be the judge...and by that, I mean I'll be the judge but I'll let you watch.
My Friend: Hey, my car isn't a hovercraft.
Other person: But your broom is.
My Friend: No, that would be your mom.
WINNER: My Friend
At first glance, My Friend's opponent seems to score a point with the broom comment. But on further review, it doesn't hold up. The opponent was so quick to break out with a witch reference that they didn't bother to have it make any sense. How is a broom similar in any way to a hovercraft? Is this person completely unfamiliar with Harry Potter or even more traditional witch broom usage? Regardless, the comment is waved off and the point does not stand.
My Friend responds by dropping a "your mom" bomb. It doesn't make any sense either (is the other person's mom a hovercraft or a broom?), but it doesn't have to. Referencing someones mom escalates the conflict to a deeply personal level. It is, quite simply, the nuclear weapon of verbal warfare. It effectively ends the conflict because there is no defense for it nor is there an effective counter strategy. Whoever deploys it first wins (the exception being, of course, when it's a "yo' mama" battle, during which insults directed at the opponents' mothers are the only weapons used and a winner isn't determined until somebody gets angry enough to start crying). 
The moral of the story is don't honk at people unless you're willing to risk them talking about your mom. 

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It's not easy being green. And huge.

This is the cover of a men's fitness magazine currently on newsstands:


And this is the typical cover of one of many women's fitness magazines that are on newsstands every single week:

Now, granted there are far, far more of the women's magazines, all telling you how you need to aspire to look like the model on the cover, while not-so-subtly implying that if you don't look that way after following the "12 simple steps" inside, it's your fault because you're somehow deficient. And that's a lot of pressure which is inherently unrealistic and unfair. But the point is the woman on that cover exists in the world that we actually live in. She may be airbrushed and photoshopped and may subsist on a diet of steamed carrot shavings and pictures of celery because it's her job, meaning how she pays bills and makes a living, to look that way...but out there somewhere, she walks the earth like the rest of us. Unlike The Hulk, who is a comic book character who only "lives" as computer generated imagery in movies and video games. Honestly, I don't see how the article in the men's magazine can say anything besides "The Hulk isn't real. Go see 'The Avengers', now playing in theatres everywhere!". I bet it doesn't say that though. The cover hints at a "real-life routine" that will make you look like a creature that doesn't exist in real life. 
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that's bullshit and that we men have it pretty damn rough.
I should probably shut up now. 

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The Amazing Spider-foot!

This is the blog post that will FINALLY
get Quentin Tarantino's attention!
The other day, a co-corker got bit by a spider or something. No, not at work, although that would have upped the excitement around it considerably. It happened over the weekend when she was at someone's outdoor wedding. By Monday, her foot had swollen up pretty bad (see photo). The redness and swelling was halfway up her foot when she got to work and had almost reached her ankle a couple of hours later. After getting feedback from concerned colleagues, she finally went to the doctor. I did my best to help.
  • "Hey, let's all make pen marks on your leg, guessing how high up the poison goes by lunch time. Winner gets a prize!"
  • "If we can believe 50 years of comic books, a series of successful movies and one overblown Broadway musical, you are going to be having some fantastic adventures soon."
  • "In the event that it needs to be amputated, definitely opt for a peg leg. Instant street cred during Gasparilla!"
As she left, I sang a song...

Spider-foot, Spider-foot 
She's got poison inside her foot
Got bit up at a wedding, should have watched where she was treading
Look out, here comes the Spider-foot!



In case you're concerned about her and thought I was being insensitive, relax, she's fine. I'm watching her scamper around on the ceiling above me at this very moment.

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RIP MCA

"...it was the stupidest name we could come up with." - Adam 'King Ad Rock' Horovitz, on where the name 'Beastie Boys' came from


It's amazing when something people come to care about comes from such humble origins.
Original Beastie Adam 'MCA' Yauch died on Friday after a long bout with cancer. When entertainers die, often the spectacle surrounding the circumstances is so overwhelming that it becomes more cartoonish than tragic. Think Michael Jackson or Whitney Houston. Other times, such as in the cases of John Lennon and Kurt Cobain, it's nothing but sad, for so many people. The New York Mets paid tribute to Yauch Friday night by changing the players' walk-up music to Beastie Boys songs and my friend Catherine Durkin-Robinson wrote this column about what Yauch and the Beasties music have meant to her and her family. Even Coldplay, not the first band you would associate with the Beastie Boys, offered a touching tribute during their concert in Los Angeles Friday night...




Who'd have guessed in 1986, hearing "Brass Monkey" for the first time, that we'd feel like this in 2012?

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The quest for inspiration

Inspiration for writers...well, any creative types, I would guess...comes in waves. There are times when having eight arms to write down all the good ideas coming at you wouldn't be enough. Then there are other times where it's impossible to get excited enough about any one thing to even bother jotting it down. Lately, I've been feeling kind of...flat. I usually don't worry about it because eventually, these highs and lows tend to correct themselves, usually via some internal mechanism. But sometimes, during what seems like an extended dry spell, I find myself looking for an external stimulus of some sort.
I asked a comedian friend about this and here's the advice I got...

"Tell you what you do; go to a strip club. One of the good ones..."
"Oh, I don't know, man. Strip clubs really aren't my thing..."
"Hear me out. Not a skeevy dive, a nice place."
"How do I know if it's a nice place? Is there a web site that ranks them by likelihood of contracting hepatitis?"
"A nice place is the kind that serves food."
"Food?"
"Yeah, you can get a full steak dinner with everything."
"Not on a buffet, I hope."
"No, a buffet wouldn't be good. 'Destiny, I found one of your pasties in the creamed corn again'."
"They have creamed corn on the buffet? Oog." 
"No, these places have a menu and you order a steak with lobster and even a baked potato and they cook it to order and bring it out to your table."
"Just like a regular restaurant."
"Right. Well, that plus boobs."
"So a steak dinner is your advice for getting me inspired? Why don't I just go to Outback?"
"It's not about the steak dinner. That's just your indicator that it's a nice place."
"Okay, so then what?"
"Then get yourself the best stripper. And I don't necessarily mean at this club; you might have to try other nice clubs. But you're looking for The Best One. There is always one who is prettier than all the rest of them. Not all tatted up and cracked out with a boyfriend named Diego and notices from DCF jammed between the baby seats in her '97 Dodge Neon."
"This has suddenly become a very specific description..."
"Actually, you'd be surprised how generic that description is."
"If you say so..."
"More important than how pretty The Best One is, she's classier than the rest of them. You can tell by the way she carries herself. Got more going on upstairs too. She's definitely a cut above the rest of the herd."
"Strippers gather by the herd? Huh. I would have guessed flock or litter."
"You'll know her when you see her. She's a magical creature and she shouldn't even be here. She shouldn't even exist, but she does."
"This is a stripper you're talking about and not a unicorn, right?"
"Why is this woman a stripper? Is there some deep, dark secret or is she doing it for kicks? Who knows? Who cares?"
"Wow."
"She's usually busy so you'll have to wait for her but it's worth it. Ignore the skanks, sit there and have a drink, be patient and when you get a chance, go talk to her. Offer to buy her a drink. That will usually get her to sit with you. Once you've engaged her and have her undivided atention, that's when you go to work."
"Ah, okay! You try out material on her, entertain her, get her to laugh and when she does, your confidence is boosted. Then you feel better about yourself and it allows you to go home and write! I get it now."
"What? No. That's stupid. Why would I waste time trying out material on some dumb stripper who just wants my money? No, you waste her time just long enough to where she's ready to get up and leave and then you give her just enough money to let you touch her on the butt."
"...Oh."

I probably won't go to a strip club but what I think he was saying is sometimes you have to indulge yourself. I may give that a try. Does anybody know if I'd need reservations at Outback on a Friday night?

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Lesson learned: dig deeper

My first job was as a busboy at the restaurant of the Ramada Inn in Benton Harbor, Michigan. My parents lied about my age so I could start working there as a 15-year-old. As a result of being even more immature than I would have been if I was actually of legal age, I lacked the sophistication (but not the motivation) to approach Pam, the hot waitress who worked there.
Pam was college-age, maybe 23, tall, with long brown hair. She was the only waitress there under the age of 50 who didn't smoke a million cigarettes (aside from the barmaids, who did smoke lots of cigarettes and whose tight, short skirts, husky laughs and salty vocabulary rendered them worldly, formidable and ultimately unapproachable). I was instantly smitten. She drew the attention of every lead singer of every band that played in the lounge and I knew that I had to do something dramatic to get her to see me as more than the bow tie clipped to the collar of a short-sleeved white shirt that cleared dishes and replaced linens from her tables. The obvious answer? Tell her I was in a band!
"Wow! What do you play?"
Guitar. Lead guitar.
"Oh cool! What kind of music does your band play?"
Rock and roll. But good rock. Not like these guys, I repiled, tossing a thumb in the general direction of the lounge, dismissing the musical credibility of The Midnight Sons or whatever local troubadors were holding court there that week. 
"I'd love to see you play some time!"
Somehow, it had escaped my logical mind that this would be the ideal response from a girl whose attention I wanted...if only I were actually in a band or could at least play guitar or I at least owned one. As it was, I was completely unprepared to respond. However, the mind of a 15-year-old, hormone-driven boy is capable of responding quickly to negative feedback and I quickly came up with a solid back-up plan.
I told her we didn't have any gigs scheduled. It's hard to get bookings in this town, you know?
"Well, make me a tape so I can hear you play!"
Um. Sure.
I went home and looked through the combined record collections of my household. For obvious reasons, I couldn't use anything from The Everly Brothers (my dad's), The Four Seasons (my mom's) or Sesame Street (my sister's). It all sounded old, very polished, instantly familiar and/or fixated on learning the alphabet. For many of the same reasons, I couldn't use my Beatles albums like Abbey Road. Then I remembered a two-disc Beatles compilation titled "Rock And Roll Music". It was a slapped-together cash-grab, issued in a tacky silver sleeve (with icons of '50s nostalgia, for some reason) and was comprised mostly of uptempo cover songs that hadn't necessarily been "hits" on the same level as "I Want To Hold Your Hand" or "She Loves You". Obscure (in my mind) Beatles songs! Perfect! I inserted a cassette in my tape recorder and put together my first attempt at impressing a girl via mix tape.
This went about as well as you would probably guess. I gave Pam the tape after work one night and told her to let me know what she thought. And that's exactly what she did the next time I worked with her. Apparently, she got less than 30 seconds into the first song on the tape ("Twist and Shout") before the jig was up. There is absolutely nothing more motifying to a male of any age than to be busted in the act of perpetrating a hoax with the intent of impressing the object of your desires by the object of your desires. For a 15-year-old, you get the added bonus of knowing that you have the rest of a very long life to live under the assumption that Pam the waitress managed to spread the word to every single female on the planet.
Of course, with the benefit of hindsight and the wisdom that comes with age, I can see where I went wrong: not that I lied about being in a band and tried to pass off relatively obscure music from the most famous band of all time, which makes it still pretty well-known, as my own. The plan itself was solid. My execution was off though. I should have done something like this instead...

Scratch that; I should have done exactly this instead!
So Pam, if you're out there; look, no one knows yet. My heart loves you. We meet because of destiny. We also create false promises. But my heart loves you. And I really do own a guitar now.

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Once in a Blue Moon

Friends here in Florida will occasionally hear me mention a craving for Blue Moon ice cream. "What is that? A new brand?", they ask. "No, it's not a brand", I answer. "It's a flavor." "I've never heard of it", they'll say. "What does it taste like" To which I always have to reply, "I...don't know."
Blue Moon ice cream is (or at least was, when I was growing up) a pretty common staple just about anywhere that sells hard ice cream in the midwest. But anywhere else, you won't find it or people who've ever even heard of it. I haven't been back to Michigan in about 20 years so I haven't had Blue Moon since then and I've missed it somnething awful.
I clearly remember the taste but I can't for the life of me describe it to anybody. I found an article on the intenet that says it tastes like Fruit Loops breakfast cereal. I guess I can't say that's wrong but I don't think it's right either. the color certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to the red, orange and yellow you find in Fruit Loops. It's a blue that looks like the color commonly used in the road uniforms of American League baseball teams in the '70s, a time when I accumulated the vast majority of my beloved baseball card collection (which I still have). That might actually be a factor in my fondness for it.
Anyway, if you have a powerful enough childhood memory and access to the internet, you can find anything. And often, what you're looking for is closer than you would have guessed. In this case, I found out that Blue Moon ice cream is available at the Kilwin's on St. Armand's Circle in Sarasota, just over an hour away. They're open until 11pm and the other night I called my friend at 8 o'clock at night.
"Let's go to Sarasota."
"What? Tonight?"
"Yeah, I want ice cream. Let's go."
"Let's just go to Bo's."
"Bo's is great, but Bo's doesn't have Blue Moon. Kilwin's in Sarasota does. Let's go!"
"Dude, is that the ice cream you're always talking about that looks like baseball uniforms?"
"Yes! Come on!"
She convinced me that that was...how did she put it?...crazy, and promised if I'd wait until Saturday, she would ride down with me to get some.
Saturday afternoon we headed down and ate lunch at Yoder's, a great Amish restaurant in Sarasota. This almost proved a critical error in judgment because Amish people apparently think everybody works hard and needs to eat like a farmer to maintain their strength. We waddled out almost too full for ice cream. Not that I would have been deterred; by now I was obsessed with Blue Moon ice cream and nothing as minor as a full-to-bursting stomach was going to keep me from having it.
We headed out to St. Armand's, which was packed, but a car pulled out of a parking space right across the street from Kilwin's just as we pulled up. I took this a sign from above that this was truly meant to be. We got out and my friend was asking me something about what I would do if it didn't live up to my expectations. I didn't hear her as she was in front of me and I had shoved her into some bushes to get her out of my way. Giggling in anticipation, I then ran out into traffic where I may or may not have been hit by a truck (I honestly don't recall). I ran inside and went right to the cooler. I am now convinced that what was in the briefcase in "Pulp Fiction" was some Blue Moon ice cream. I asked for a cup and took a spoon full of that powder blue goodness into my mouth.
And it was just as good as I had built it up to be.
And I still have no idea what it tastes like.

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National "'Like' us on Facebook" Day!

Wednesday, May 2, 2012
If you've ever uttered the phrase "Have a nice day" to someone, chances are you didn't mean it. Not that you wanted them to have a bad day, but you really didn't care one way or the other. It was just a way to end a conversation pleasantly without investing any REAL emoti...on (or even thought, for that matter). Or maybe you were angry and DID want them to have a crappy day and you used the phrase sarcastically, as a way of telling them to bug off. Either way, the phrase doesn't mean what it says and the only purpose it serves is as a kind of conversational punctuation mark.



As you're well aware, Facebook has rendered the word 'Like' meaningless as well. It's just a way to show you know about something. You don't have to actually LIKE something to 'Like' it. You just have to acknowledge it exists. They just want you to click that button to drive up an imaginary aggregate popularity index (they've probably been led to believe that number is somehow important for marketing purposes, although they don't really know why) and move on. Whether it's some jerk with a blog you don't read (ahem) or some company's web site where you go to complain about their products and/or service...because you can't reach a human being on the telephone..., at some point they're going to ask you to "'Like' us on Facebook!"


The object of National "'Like' us on Facebook!" Day is to point out the silliness of empty, meaningless things people say by replacing the empty and meaningless phrase "Have a nice day!" with the empty and meaningless phrase "'Like' us on Facebook!". Your mission is to say this as much as possible, with everyone you encounter all day long. "But I don't have anything to promote on Facebook", you say. That's perfect! What better way to illustrate that a phrase means nothing than by applying it to nothing?


Ideally, chaos, or at least mild confusion...and eventually hilarity...will ensue.


Invite your friends, have fun and 'Like' us on Facebook!

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What's in YOUR wallet?

I'm a big fan of the personal organizer. They're binders with calendars, phone directories and other stuff you can use to keep your affairs in order. They're like the precursor to smart phones and "apps". They're made by Franklin Covey or Dayrunner and you can get them anywhere that sells office supplies. Mine is a Dayrunner and I've had it since the early '90s. This is a picture of it:

Might be time to buy a new one.
It sort of looks like it's been through a war, doesn't it? In ways, it kind of has. But it's very dependable and with my penchant for over-scheduling myself, I can't imagine my life being on track in any way, shape or form without it. I take it everywhere. I also carry all kinds of stuff in it and so some people think it's funny to call it a "murse", short for man-purse. I don't mind because, let's be honest, that's what it is. Yesterday I got around to cleaning it out and updating it for the first time in a while, something I've been meaning to do but just never got around to. My inventory of membership cards indicates that either the economy was worse than I realized or I need to sit down and go through my stuff more often...
Borders: Gone.
Gameworks: Gone.
Albertson's: Gone.
Blockbuster: Maybe not gone but definitely forgotten. I have no idea where one near me is. They used to have stores all over the place but now the business with a blue and yellow awning that's on every other street corner is Amscot.

But it wasn't a complete purge. I also found some gift cards that I was pretty sure I'd barbecued but had hung on to for some reason. I checked the balances and here's what I found:

  • Red Lobster ..... $5.26
  • McDonalds ..... $0
  • 7-Eleven ..... $2.12
  • Vanilla Visa ..... $3.33 (I accepted this as payment for a $30 fare during my cab driving days. I could have gotten ripped off but I took a chance and it had a whole $50 on it! That was a good night.)
  • Another McDonald's ..... $0
  • Long John Silver's ..... $2.56
  • Another 7-Eleven ..... $1.82 (Hey, I can combine the 7-Elevens and buy a gallon of gas!)
  • Starbucks ..... $1.67
  • Yet another McDonald's ..... $0  (don't judge me)

So while I'm sad that so many well-established corporate entities either weren't equipped to adapt to changing business climates or weren't prepared to weather a severe economic downturn, I'm thrilled to have found $16.76 I didn't know I had.
Win some, lose some, I guess.

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Admitting the problem is the first step to recovery

The other day, I saw a sign that made me wonder if I might have a problem...
You know, I'd never thought about it before but could I be addicted to beds? I quickly ran through a checklist of the seven symptoms...
  • Neglect of other activities: I probably do spend more time in bed than I do on any other piece of furniture I own. Hmmm...
  • Excessive use: Yeah, pretty much every night. Especially the nights when I sleep (not counting the times I fall asleep hunched over a steering wheel or over the condiment dispenser at 7-Eleven).
  • Impaired control: When I'm in bed, I can actually still do quite a few things. For example, it's pretty easy to use the bathroom. So while that may be indiciative of another problem, I may be okay on this one.
  • Persistence of use: Like I said above, almost every single night!
  • Large amounts of time spent in bed related activities: Oh, heh heh, I don't want to brag but...well, actually no. 
  • Withdrawal: I wish I was in bed right now!
  • Tolerance: I am completely used to spending time in bed now.
Oh my god! I might have a problem!

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Porn and philosophy

"That's good, but do you have anything with Kierkegaard and Nietzsche...you know...together?"

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