John's 32nd Birthday Suprise

I was just reminded of John’s 32nd birthday party. Wait. Let me rephrase. John’s 32nd surprise birthday party. No one told me it was a surprise until after I asked John about his party. I was scorned and accused of anti-suprisism. Screw them. No one told me.

The next weekend, something else was planned. This time I wasn’t given any details. Probably a smart move. I was told to go to John’s apartment where a new surprise was going to take place. Miss Sally and I headed over. I decided to wear my orange sweater with a blue stripe. John and his brother Chris were hanging out. We chit chatted for a few minutes, acting casual and waiting for a stripper or a horse or whatever to show up at the door.

There was a ruckus at the back door and in through the kitchen stormed eight chicks dressed in black and wearing masks and bandanas. John was quickly subdued, handcuffed and blindfolded. This was going to be interesting.



Until they did the same to me.



As I was cuffed and blindfolded, I was called a traitor and a sneak. Submerged in total darkness and tightly bound, we were dragged out of the house and put in separate cars.

The rest of the night went like this:

1. The cars would stop (unbeknownst to John and I) at landmark locations around Columbus
2. We would be pulled out
3. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my body
3a. Compromising positions were created using John’s and my and a male stripper’s body
4. There would be several flashes
5. We would be thrown back in the cars

We stopped about five or six times. At the end of the night, we were walked across a busy street, into a crowded bar and unmasked. Many of our friends were there. A cake and gifts for John were spread out along with 30 or so Polaroid photos from the evening.

It was a very memorable night. And I’m sure I was supposed to have learned a lesson from the evening, but I can’t tell you what it was.

Later on I realized that Miss Sally knew what was going to happen that night and she didn’t let on. I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

……..

Oh yeah. I changed a few facts in this story.

A. It was actually seven girls and one gay guy that kidnapped us
B. I wore a blue sweater with an orange stripe
C. The handcuffs were the really cheap plastic variety and the blindfolds were the type Mrs. Howell would have worn. I had to re-snap my cuffs on every three minutes. We were very willing participants.

See the photos of the night here:

John's 32nd Birthday Photos on Flickr

Note to Self: Idiot

My job is an unhappy place. There is no joy in the work. The only happiness is derived from the interaction with the people in my office. It has its moments, but compared to some of the exciting stuff I’ve done in the past… this job is purgatory.

What really stinks is that I’ve known this for over a year, but every morning I get out of my car and walk into that rotten building. (Morning is being generous. I’ve taken to rolling in at noon some days. At least the job has that going for it.) I know that I’ve known this for a while because I just received an e-mail from myself telling me just that.

Explaining…

There is a website called FutureMe.org. From this site you can write an e-mail to yourself that is delivered at some point in the future specified by you. On the site, you can see what other people have written to themselves. Letters of Happy Birthday or Are You Married Yet are not uncommon. Every so often you get Am I Dead? Last Thursday morning, I was greeted by this e-mail as I strolled into the office (very close to noon.)

From: FutureMe.org [mailto:pastme@futureme.org]
Sent: Thursday, May 18, 2006 5:00 AM
To: Doug
Subject: Do you still work here?


(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Sunday, December 18, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)

Dear FutureMe,

If you are reading this, it means you still work at (INSERT MY CURRENT JOB HERE) and that you are a TOTAL FUCKING LOSER!

Quit now.

Then kill yourself.

You (me)

Last December, I was applying for a job where I thought I was a shoe-in. In my mind, I shouldn’t have been interviewing for the job, they should have been recruiting me. Little do (did) I know (knowed.) When the phone call came, I thought it was for the last of the interviews with VPs and the P. Instead it was the FU; “We’ve gone with someone else. Thanks!” I about shit my pants. The best part must have been listening to me reply back, “Hey, thanks for letting me interview. I totally understand your decision.” Boo fucking hoo.

So, six months later is now five days ago. I still haven’t quit the job and killing myself just isn’t in the plans (unless it’s through drinking.) So I guess I have two choices… move on or shut up. I guess the third scenario would be that my boss reads this and fires my sorry ass.

It could be worse.

1995 Honda Civic

I am waiting for the car repair guy to call. My breaks broke, so I guess they are working perfectly.

They’ve simplified their pricing:

Nothing wrong (which means they didn’t have a chance to look at it.) = $50.00
Something Wrong = 1 credit card
Holy Shit = 2 credit cards plus a free oil change (thanks!)

He called. Holy Shit.

Kid Rituals

I have a kid. Other people do too. Seems to be a trend.

My ex-co-worker, Steve, has a little girl. As a special gift of love, he would write a small note that would go with her everyday to preschool. The note would say things like “Daddy loves you” or “Have a great day.” Cute. That is until the day they forgot to give her a note and she had a, now predictable, meltdown for several hours.

Solution: They started hoarding old notes and recycling them. They also started giving the teachers at pre-school a stockpile of notes in case they forget again.

My warning to you: Do not interact with your child in any special, out of the ordinary way. Keep it basic. Keep it mundane. Keep your sanity. Currently with our kid, the bedtime ritual includes: read two books, ensure all stuffed animals are in bed, blanket number one, blanket number two, hug, kiss, I kiss you, high five, double high five, thumbs up, secret sign, I have to pee, repeat. If any step is missed, he’ll tack it on the end and then want to do all the others that come after it. If you miss blanket number two and he decides to do an inventory on the stuffed animals, you could be there all night.

I’m sure someday we’ll look back and reflect on how cute it was.

Actually, I’m lying. I’m totally into creating an elaborate combination of moves, signs and dance steps before bed. I’m hoping to get up to 25 steps before my wife figures out what I’m doing. This is the only time I’ll be able to get away with this before my kid figures it out and starts thinking I’m gay.

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.