ComFest 2006

I would like to think that this year’s ComFest was supposed to be about music, community and the celebration of diversity. The most entertaining part of it for me was what happened after ComFest while people were leaving and how they interacted with a shopping cart and two hula hoops. Please allow me to present my first photo heavy entry.

Miss Sally, Greg and I drove down to ComFest and I sold what was left of my soul for an awesome parking spot. We loaded Greg and the goods into the little red wagon and rolled into the crowds. Greg got his first sight of hippy and his first smell of weed. We spread out a blanket and listened to music for a few hours. It was a good time. Russ, Cheri and Reed joined us and we all shared grapes, juice and squirt guns.

Reed got to see a spiky, blonde haired lesbian throw up. Greg and I threw a Frisbee with a mentally disabled kid.

Um, at a mentally disabled kid.

Around 8:00pm, Miss Sally had to make water and we did not have the 30 minutes to wait in line at the porta potty. Instead we packed up and wagoned over to my friend Meshell’s house to meet up with some friends. They were all surprised to see Miss Sally’s pregnant belly. (Miss Sally is at best 105 pounds with a wet winter jacket on. The baby has decided to grow straight out and so she only looks pregnant from two angles.) While we were there, Shorty taught my kid how to karate chop an inflatable palm tree.

I took Miss Sally and Greg home and returned to Meshell’s around 10:00pm. I noticed a shopping cart.

“Hey, that’s a shopping cart.”

Earlier in the day, the folks at Meshell’s watched stunned as a man with a broken arm, broken leg and numerous head stitches lurched down the brick paved street with a walker. He and his girlfriend were not making much progress. This dude was a wreck. Someone came by with a shopping cart and offered it up to the guy. With a little careful lifting and tucking, the guy was loaded inside. Girlfriend rumbled him down the street and to ComFest. Hours later they returned, poured the guy out of the cart and headed back the way they came. A true American story of heroism, ingenuity and a guy that got the smoke beat out of him by a baseball bat.

The shopping cart remained a focal point for all those who passed. Some would jump in it and scream. Others would team up and push eachother in circles. Some would just push the empty cart. For something that was obviously stolen, people seemed intent on returning it to its unrightful owners. It never was more than five hula hoops away.

“Hey, those are hula hoops.”

Taresa had brought two hula hoops to Meshell's. They were in use from noon until 2:00am. Taresa was either hooping or helping someone else to hoop all night long. She was really good. Here you can see how good I was. That is until you compare it to these other photos. It only took 8 shots to get one photo that made me look good. The only good thing was that Shorty was as bad as me. We had several hoop offs that consisted of us holding beers and cigarettes while dropping the hoops to the ground at our feet. Repeat. We sucked.

Josh had it going on, though.

Throughout the night, people would random walk up to the hoops and try them out. Others were coaxed in by one of the resident barkers. As the night wore on and beer sales finished at ComFest, many were conned into foolishness with the allure of free beer to anyone who could hula for more than x amount of seconds. (I’m no programmer, but the hula timing went like this: if hula person = chick then x = 3, if hula person = dude then x = 50)

We had one woman drop her top while hula hooping.

We had another without a shirt whose naughty bits were covered by post-its (postits?)and red marker. I think x for her equaled what she had stuck in her mouth three hours earlier.

All in all, a beautiful night. From the guy who couldn’t find his buddy’s house (it was just on the left of the CVS) to the 24+ guys who humped the traffic cones to the dude who actually ran down the street at full speed with a hula hoop around his waist and performed for five minutes straight.

Other photos from ComFest 2006 can be found here:
  • ComFest 2006 photos
  • Passing the time

    I understand that driving and boredom go hand in hand. Many would say that a good book on CD can help pass the time. Some people (like me) listen to Sirius Satellite radio. This woman, whom we saw driving in Atlanta, was passing her time by reading.

    We were driving around 45 - 50 MPH through a construction zone at the time.

    At least she's got both hands mostly on the wheel.

    Three and out

    A storm passed through our little corner of Columbus this afternoon and was kind enough to knock out the power to our office. All I have to ask is why didn’t it happen three hours earlier? As we sat in the dark and listened to the server backup battery beep, the question was raised if we should leave and get a drink. The answer was of course yes, but as the resident lush, I needed to wait for someone else to commit. It was 4:30 and everyone was hemmin’ and hawin’ about going home. Fortunately, vice-lush stepped up to the plate and we went to Doubles. Three beers and I went home. I knew that if I had four that I would have five which would give me the courage to call home and ask if it was ok to stay out for a little longer knowing full well that it was bath night and that I am going out tomorrow AND Saturday and so I left.

    What do we do if we show up in the morning and the power is still off? Answer: Bloody Marys.

    You look like someone famous

    Allen and I went to LA. (There’s almost a palindrome in there somewhere.) We were there for work, but we were also there to drink. One place to drink is Trader Vic’s. It is located in the Beverly Hills Hilton. It’s a restaurant too, but we were not there to eat.

    It was a Thursday and Thursdays are busy at Trader Vic’s. The lounge was full of people and every bar stool was occupied by a hottie or someone trying to pick up a hottie. We set up shop at a very small table that was created from a slice of log which had been drowned in resin.

    Allen is very good at ordering drinks. I always fall back on the Captain and diet (then later I just fall over.) Allen is a fan of greyhounds and martinis. He’s the type of guy that puts salt in his beer. At trader Vic’s, there is a playground of drinks to choose from. He’s not one to mess with a Tiki Puka Puka, but he will drink Suffering Bastards until I start to look good. We racked up a $200 bar tab by the end of the night.

    Our view over the shellacked table encompassed the corner of the bar and a few tables to our right. Right smack dab in front of us on a barstool was a chick with a lot of back showing. She was either wearing a thong that was riding way up her ass or her bra strap was slipping down. We realized what was happening when she went to adjust her pants. Sensing the 30 or so guys in the place burning a hole in her backside, the chick would blindly reach back to pull her pants up to hide he thong. What she was doing was the exact opposite by pulling her thong up even higher. This went on for at least fifteen minutes until she got up to go pee-pee. (Or to go shit out the part of the thong that was wedged up her butt.)

    On the short side of the bar, there were two VERY attractive women. Coming from Ohio, I’d say these girls were 9 – 9.5s. I’m sure that in L.A. they were just 7s, but 90% of the guys out there are gay, preparing to be or acting like they are to get work so it doesn’t matter what they think. These two were hot. The 10% of guys in L.A. that weren’t gay showed up at Trader Vic’s that night to hit on these chicks. The girls were knocking them down left and right. We thought we were cool because we didn’t even attempt to get shot down. Out of the blue, the hotter of the two chicks stepped away from the bar and sat down next to Allen and me. She said hi. We said hi. Allen chatted her up in a very innocent way and she seemed to appreciate sentences that didn’t end with question marks.

    After a bit, her friend came over from the bar and joined us. (I use “joined us” very loosely. She sat down at the next seat 10ft from me.) At this point, the first hottie looked at me and said, “You look like someone famous.” Get out of here. I do? Who? “I’m not going to tell you.” Come on. “I’ll tell your friend.”

    At this, she leaned over and whispered into Allen ear. I can only imagine what her alcohol soaked breath smelled like. I like to imagine her lip glossed lips close up, breathing the name of the famous person that might get me in the sack with this chick. Allen listened and then looked at me with a, “Yeah. He does,” kind of look.

    Allen wouldn’t give up this golden ticket of knowledge. If she thought I looked like some hot famous dude, I might have an in. I pressed him, he denied me. She wouldn’t tell me either. I had to know. Finally Allen leaned over and said…

    Andy Richter

    Fucking great.

    Over to my right, Meredith Baxter sat at a table with five people. No one bothered her for an autograph.

    Can you guess which is me and which is Andy?

    Pumpkin Guilt

    Miss Sally, Greg and I were driving in the car on our way to or from somewhere. Greg said that he wanted to carve a pumpkin. I said that pumpkins only grow when it is cold and it was summer and he’d have to wait.

    He accepted that. Then I felt guilty for some reason and I ended up buying round watermelons that we carved.

    The best part about it was cutting off the top and digging in with our hands and eating the red gobs of sweet. We got sticky juice everywhere. Luckily mom was asleep.

    Sucks To Be You

    What do you do when you see someone broken down along the side of the highway? Hood up. Steam pouring out. Talking on the cell phone to the spouse or AAA (or both if your spouse works at AAA.)

    I usually think, “It sucks to be you,” as I speed by.

    I fear stopping to help unfortunate souls for several reasons. The first being that I am always late and no one would believe that I stopped to help someone. I do have the ability to change a tire in about three minutes, but that’s three minutes on top of the 20 that I am all ready late. Even though I know there is no difference between 20 and 23 minutes late, I don’t want to clutter up my sorry excuse with a plausible one.

    Another reason is that people are scared of me. As a white male in my thirties, I fit the perfect stereotype of the guy that drives up, smiles, shoves you in my trunk, draws weird designs all over your body in magic marker and buries you in my mom’s crawlspace. I’d hate to freak anyone out. I’m sure most stranded people would rather wait for a sexy, 20 something in a red Mini Cooper to stop by and help them. You can’t shove a body in the trunk of a Mini Cooper. Unless you cut them up first and no 20 something hottie is going to get blood on her Blue Cult jeans.

    If I did stop and help someone, they would probably need to use my cell phone. Just think of the complexity here. Roaming charges. Long distance charges. What if they text their mechanic? Now all of a sudden, my phone number is known by all sorts of freaks. I don’t want Ed from Ed’s Garage calling me. That dude is white and in his thirties. Not to mention what will happen if my wife casually searches my recent calls and finds a number that isn’t one of the ten that I am allowed to call. She wouldn’t believe the “I helped someone” excuse either. I’d get beat with the phone and have to sleep in the garage again.

    I would also hate to help someone and spend all that time getting thanked and accepting gifts from the broken-downee. Many people are trained in the art of annoying thankfulness and feel it necessary to give you a gift of thanks. Sadly, most people don’t have gifts in their cars and you end up getting a White Castle box filled with flowering weeds from the side of the road. Just so everyone knows; cash is not insulting.

    As I write this I’m realizing that I have the trifecta of car-breaking-downage in effect. My car is paid off. My engine light is on (but may be going off as it has been on for three months and that bulb ain’t getting any younger.) I do not have a spare tire. You can’t ask for a better combination of reasons for my 1995 Honda to give up on life and die on 270 in the morning/afternoon on my way to work. Oh yeah. I need an oil change bad. 10,000 miles bad.

    Tomorrow morning/afternoon, as I am pulled off to the side of the road, please stop and help me. But only if you are a 20 something and wearing Blue Cult jeans. Can you drop me off at my mom’s house? I can write you directions on the back of this white castle box with this magic marker. My, what a small trunk you have.