I Am Almost Old

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Late Night Shopping

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

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

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

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

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

“O.K.”

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

Money talks...

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

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

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

Comedy Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was some good stuff. But then…

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

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

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

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

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

Looking Back

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

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

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

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

So I’m screwed.

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

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

I Can't Believe This Guy Is Kicking My Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JOHN

This alley looks safe to me.

GUY IN ALLEY

Give me your wallet.

JOHN

I’m kicking the knife out of your hand.

GUY IN ALLEY

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

JOHN

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

GUY IN ALLEY

Yep. I’m flat on my back.

JOHN

Now several blows to the face and head.

GUY IN ALLEY

Yep. I’m severely beaten.

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, I could take him. Little fucker.

Can I have a word with you

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

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

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

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

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

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

I thought. I remembered. Oh shit.

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

Yes, yes I did say suck my cock.

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

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

Good luck, Lacey.

Lucky Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fred’s Sister

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

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

Fred had a nickname for Jodi. JidaBean.

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

Then Bullwinkle Moose. JidaBean-FatBanana-BullwinkleMoose.

He continued this for several years.

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

I will never forget that.

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

Rochester to Buffalo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No Mom.”

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

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