"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
Shortcut Guy
John was down in
JOHN
This alley looks safe to me.
Give me your wallet.
I’m kicking the knife out of your hand.
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.
Yep. I’m flat on my back.
Now several blows to the face and head.
Yep. I’m severely beaten.
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.
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.
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.)
- 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?
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.
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.
Escalator
I had an odd experience the other day.
I am on the road this week for work. My flight on the way to Wilmington transferred in Atlanta. The Atlanta airport has four terminals that are joined by a tram system. You need to take a long escalator down to the tram level. I went down and hopped on the tram to head to my connecting terminal. (I also tried to stand on the tram without holding on to the grab bar. I failed and jammed my finger as I grabbed for it when the tram took off at 125 MPH.)
My stop was a popular terminal and a large group of travelers got off the tram and headed for the escalator. It was immediately apparent that something was not right. People were bunched up at the bottom. Ah, the escalator was not working and people were climbing it like stairs. I, along with the other schmucks, started hoofing up the awkward metal steps.
It was a long trek and I started to get a weird 9/11 feeling. It was creepy. Technology had failed. I was stuck in a social group of others in a similar position. The woman in front of me was struggling in heels. She had asthma or lung cancer or was just lazy, but she was laboring taking one step at a time. In a different situation, I could have carried her like hero or thrown her over the rail like a survivalist.
And then we were at the top. Several people were catching their breath. Others ran off to make up for lost time. I had 60 minutes to kill so I walked. (Actually it was 180 minutes, my flight was delayed.)
Since then on the jobsite, I’ve almost had my fingers crushed, nearly been decapitated by a falling loading dock door and just about run over by a forklift. But as I sit here in the hotel room thinking of such things, the memory of climbing the escalator keeps nudging my brain. It’s fading though.
I am on the road this week for work. My flight on the way to Wilmington transferred in Atlanta. The Atlanta airport has four terminals that are joined by a tram system. You need to take a long escalator down to the tram level. I went down and hopped on the tram to head to my connecting terminal. (I also tried to stand on the tram without holding on to the grab bar. I failed and jammed my finger as I grabbed for it when the tram took off at 125 MPH.)
My stop was a popular terminal and a large group of travelers got off the tram and headed for the escalator. It was immediately apparent that something was not right. People were bunched up at the bottom. Ah, the escalator was not working and people were climbing it like stairs. I, along with the other schmucks, started hoofing up the awkward metal steps.
It was a long trek and I started to get a weird 9/11 feeling. It was creepy. Technology had failed. I was stuck in a social group of others in a similar position. The woman in front of me was struggling in heels. She had asthma or lung cancer or was just lazy, but she was laboring taking one step at a time. In a different situation, I could have carried her like hero or thrown her over the rail like a survivalist.
And then we were at the top. Several people were catching their breath. Others ran off to make up for lost time. I had 60 minutes to kill so I walked. (Actually it was 180 minutes, my flight was delayed.)
Since then on the jobsite, I’ve almost had my fingers crushed, nearly been decapitated by a falling loading dock door and just about run over by a forklift. But as I sit here in the hotel room thinking of such things, the memory of climbing the escalator keeps nudging my brain. It’s fading though.
The Consequences of Truth
I am very fortunate to be married to Miss Sally. She is beautiful and mostly tolerant of my antics. We make a good team because one makes up where the other lacks. One sphere of relationships where I lack and Sally excels is in the area of knowing when not to speak the Truth.
For me, speaking the Truth seems self apparent. Why wouldn’t you tell someone what they need to hear? (Red Flag – need to hear in my opinion.) If someone’s tag is sticking out the back of their shirt, tell them. If someone is being an ass, tell them. If someone is about to make a really crappy life decision, tell them. If you’ve got a glob of mustard on your face, I’ll be the first to tell you. I think most people don’t say anything because they do not want to embarrass the guy with the mayo on his forehead. That is mayo, right?
(SIDE NOTE: Back a while ago, Greg and Doob traveled from Lancaster to Columbus to visit a newly built mall. Before they went a-malling, they had lunch at the Spaghetti Warehouse. Hours later, as they walked through the mall, Doob turned to Greg and said, “If I had spaghetti sauce on my face, would you tell me?” Greg said, “Yes. Yes I would.” Doob said, “You’ve got spaghetti sauce on your face.” I have found this phrase a great way to start the usually embarrassing “something on your face” conversation. Try it. Just not three hours later.)
Miss Sally and I, as a team, have a policy that goes against my Truth motto. Summed up it states, “Standing up for your friends requires you to forget the Truth.” In some situations, we tend not tell our friends how we really feel. It’s deceivingly simple: when a friend takes a stance, we side with them and support their decisions based on that stance. Under most circumstances, we stick with our friends whether or not we actually believe in what brilliance/nonsense they are spouting off. Luckily, we run with a group of friends who aren’t joining the KKK or debating the merits of polygamy. We usually aren’t put in a position to defend really dumb decisions.
By now you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t a true friend always be truthful?” Well, YES and NO. Let’s start with the NO.
NO (A true friend isn’t always truthful)
Our friend Lynne is very smart and spiritual. An odd combination because you would think that someone as smart as she is would not believe in fate or signs from a higher power. She’s had more than her fair share of shit dumped on her, but she seems to always come out shining. Maybe it is a good combination.
Lynne has a dog named Thea. Thea started to have problems with her back leg. Several hundreds of dollars later, Thea was diagnosed with bone cancer. Surgery and treatments, that were not guaranteed to work, would cost THOUSANDS of dollars. THOUSANDS!! I have a theory about pets. I do not pay for any procedure that costs more than the euthanization of the animal. That’s not entirely true, but if a cat needs $500 worth of surgery… there are plenty of healthy cats at the shelter that could use a good home.
Lynne, or should I say dirt poor Lynne, was bound and determined to get the treatments for Thea. There were a number of friends, including me, that were against this. Several friends were adamant about saving Lynne the heartache and from wasting THOUSANDS of dollars. Several friends shared the Truth with Lynne. Miss Sally said, “No matter how we feel on this, Lynne is determined to save Thea and we should support her.” So we did. It was very hard for me, but as determined as Lynne was, she needed some friends on her side. We gave her our support, secretly knowing that even if she could scrape together the money, Thea would probably relapse and die anyways.
Through a combination of luck and what others would call fate, Lynne’s mom called her with some interesting news. Due to several accounting errors, the IRS actually owed her mother THOUSANDS of dollars. The money was Lynne’s if she needed it. (Lynne’s mother was not aware of the surgery Thea needed. This was completely random. Oh wait, sorry… fate.) Turns out mom, Lynne could use the money. Lynne had just started working nights and weekends to make the needed cash and the money from her mom would pay for the initial surgery.
Thea had the surgery. Thea went through the treatments. Thea had a second surgery. Thea went through more treatments. That was five years ago. Thea, still alive and still very active, lives with Lynne in Copenhagen. (There’s another story in itself.)
Honesty isn’t always the best policy. See how smart we are... oh, right. The other side.
YES (A true friend should always be truthful)
Miss Sally has a very good friend named, for this story, Sarah. Over the years, Sarah had dated several guys and none seemed to be the right one. It was always tough on me because when she broke up, I’d have too as well. Sarah always got Miss Sally and I in the boyfriend divorce. The ex would get to keep the lawn chairs.
Then, Sarah met Mr. Right. As she dreamily described him, he was perfect. Same likes, similar backgrounds, great personality. Over the phone the guy seemed a perfect match… finally.
You can see where this is going.
From our initial contact, we really didn’t like the guy. We went on several outings, camping trips and even a reunion. The guy was an ass. We tried to like him. We tried to see past his scowl and snide remarks. It just wasn’t happening. We developed what you might call a hate for the guy. But, Sarah was in love. She saw something in this guy that we just couldn’t. When she started talking about marriage, we couldn’t have been happier! Really, we are very happy for the two of you. Really.
Other friends said, “That guy is a dick.” We said, “We trust Sarah’s judgment.”
Family said, “I don’t like him.” We said, “You need to know him like Sarah does.”
At home with the doors shut, we waited for Sarah to see the Light. Wedding plans were in full motion. We debated our now tarnished policy.
Luckily, she saw a bit of the Light. The guy was such an ass that it started leeching through Sarah’s love blinders. She started to dig her heels in on the wedding. He turned up the dick. She was feeling a whole lot of doubt about the relationship. As soon as we saw our opening, we shared the Truth with her. We hated the guy. He is bad news. Get out now.
Sarah was amazed. Why didn’t we tell her how we really felt? As good friends, she would have understood our feelings and trusted our judgment. Looking back, I think she is half right. I think we should have told her a lot earlier than we did. There is a big problem with telling someone in love that their perfect person is wrong for them. It tends to push the two closer together when you doubt their judgment. So close that anything you say or do from that point on just bounces off the love nest. It’s an easy way to lose a friend.
We learned our lesson. There is a point where Truth overrides friendship. Or perhaps that friendship is based on the ability to know when Truth needs to rear its ugly mug. A good friend should be supportive, up until a point. It’s finding that point that I leave up to Miss Sally.
I, of course, am always available to give you the Truth on an individual basis. If you are willing to listen to my version of it. And able to pay the going rate of one Captain and coke every half hour. Buy four hours, get the fifth for free.
For me, speaking the Truth seems self apparent. Why wouldn’t you tell someone what they need to hear? (Red Flag – need to hear in my opinion.) If someone’s tag is sticking out the back of their shirt, tell them. If someone is being an ass, tell them. If someone is about to make a really crappy life decision, tell them. If you’ve got a glob of mustard on your face, I’ll be the first to tell you. I think most people don’t say anything because they do not want to embarrass the guy with the mayo on his forehead. That is mayo, right?
(SIDE NOTE: Back a while ago, Greg and Doob traveled from Lancaster to Columbus to visit a newly built mall. Before they went a-malling, they had lunch at the Spaghetti Warehouse. Hours later, as they walked through the mall, Doob turned to Greg and said, “If I had spaghetti sauce on my face, would you tell me?” Greg said, “Yes. Yes I would.” Doob said, “You’ve got spaghetti sauce on your face.” I have found this phrase a great way to start the usually embarrassing “something on your face” conversation. Try it. Just not three hours later.)
Miss Sally and I, as a team, have a policy that goes against my Truth motto. Summed up it states, “Standing up for your friends requires you to forget the Truth.” In some situations, we tend not tell our friends how we really feel. It’s deceivingly simple: when a friend takes a stance, we side with them and support their decisions based on that stance. Under most circumstances, we stick with our friends whether or not we actually believe in what brilliance/nonsense they are spouting off. Luckily, we run with a group of friends who aren’t joining the KKK or debating the merits of polygamy. We usually aren’t put in a position to defend really dumb decisions.
By now you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t a true friend always be truthful?” Well, YES and NO. Let’s start with the NO.
NO (A true friend isn’t always truthful)
Our friend Lynne is very smart and spiritual. An odd combination because you would think that someone as smart as she is would not believe in fate or signs from a higher power. She’s had more than her fair share of shit dumped on her, but she seems to always come out shining. Maybe it is a good combination.
Lynne has a dog named Thea. Thea started to have problems with her back leg. Several hundreds of dollars later, Thea was diagnosed with bone cancer. Surgery and treatments, that were not guaranteed to work, would cost THOUSANDS of dollars. THOUSANDS!! I have a theory about pets. I do not pay for any procedure that costs more than the euthanization of the animal. That’s not entirely true, but if a cat needs $500 worth of surgery… there are plenty of healthy cats at the shelter that could use a good home.
Lynne, or should I say dirt poor Lynne, was bound and determined to get the treatments for Thea. There were a number of friends, including me, that were against this. Several friends were adamant about saving Lynne the heartache and from wasting THOUSANDS of dollars. Several friends shared the Truth with Lynne. Miss Sally said, “No matter how we feel on this, Lynne is determined to save Thea and we should support her.” So we did. It was very hard for me, but as determined as Lynne was, she needed some friends on her side. We gave her our support, secretly knowing that even if she could scrape together the money, Thea would probably relapse and die anyways.
Through a combination of luck and what others would call fate, Lynne’s mom called her with some interesting news. Due to several accounting errors, the IRS actually owed her mother THOUSANDS of dollars. The money was Lynne’s if she needed it. (Lynne’s mother was not aware of the surgery Thea needed. This was completely random. Oh wait, sorry… fate.) Turns out mom, Lynne could use the money. Lynne had just started working nights and weekends to make the needed cash and the money from her mom would pay for the initial surgery.
Thea had the surgery. Thea went through the treatments. Thea had a second surgery. Thea went through more treatments. That was five years ago. Thea, still alive and still very active, lives with Lynne in Copenhagen. (There’s another story in itself.)
Honesty isn’t always the best policy. See how smart we are... oh, right. The other side.
YES (A true friend should always be truthful)
Miss Sally has a very good friend named, for this story, Sarah. Over the years, Sarah had dated several guys and none seemed to be the right one. It was always tough on me because when she broke up, I’d have too as well. Sarah always got Miss Sally and I in the boyfriend divorce. The ex would get to keep the lawn chairs.
Then, Sarah met Mr. Right. As she dreamily described him, he was perfect. Same likes, similar backgrounds, great personality. Over the phone the guy seemed a perfect match… finally.
You can see where this is going.
From our initial contact, we really didn’t like the guy. We went on several outings, camping trips and even a reunion. The guy was an ass. We tried to like him. We tried to see past his scowl and snide remarks. It just wasn’t happening. We developed what you might call a hate for the guy. But, Sarah was in love. She saw something in this guy that we just couldn’t. When she started talking about marriage, we couldn’t have been happier! Really, we are very happy for the two of you. Really.
Other friends said, “That guy is a dick.” We said, “We trust Sarah’s judgment.”
Family said, “I don’t like him.” We said, “You need to know him like Sarah does.”
At home with the doors shut, we waited for Sarah to see the Light. Wedding plans were in full motion. We debated our now tarnished policy.
Luckily, she saw a bit of the Light. The guy was such an ass that it started leeching through Sarah’s love blinders. She started to dig her heels in on the wedding. He turned up the dick. She was feeling a whole lot of doubt about the relationship. As soon as we saw our opening, we shared the Truth with her. We hated the guy. He is bad news. Get out now.
Sarah was amazed. Why didn’t we tell her how we really felt? As good friends, she would have understood our feelings and trusted our judgment. Looking back, I think she is half right. I think we should have told her a lot earlier than we did. There is a big problem with telling someone in love that their perfect person is wrong for them. It tends to push the two closer together when you doubt their judgment. So close that anything you say or do from that point on just bounces off the love nest. It’s an easy way to lose a friend.
We learned our lesson. There is a point where Truth overrides friendship. Or perhaps that friendship is based on the ability to know when Truth needs to rear its ugly mug. A good friend should be supportive, up until a point. It’s finding that point that I leave up to Miss Sally.
I, of course, am always available to give you the Truth on an individual basis. If you are willing to listen to my version of it. And able to pay the going rate of one Captain and coke every half hour. Buy four hours, get the fifth for free.
Dumb Wish
I wish I were dumb. Not that I’m intelligent by any means. Clever, sure. But I’m not very smart. When I say dumb, I’m suggesting that I wish that I could take certain information and knowledge that I have retained and flush it down my brain stem. The reasoning for this starts out with some really great news:
Miss Sally is pregnant. That’s great news.
The not so great news is that this is #2 for us. Greg is #1. During the Age of Greg, much knowledge was gained about where a baby comes from, what hormones it disturbs for nine months, and how insanely purple an umbilical cord is. Other areas explored were the eat, shit, sleep cycles and the learning to not fall down and babble interpretation. All of this information was learned through brute reality and sleep deprivation. It was a tough time, but because I had no idea what was about to happen next, a blessedly dumb time. The Age of Greg is moving on. We are now entering the Age of Two Kids. Also know as the Doug’s Not Going Out For Another Six Years Era.
So to get back to the point, I’m not so dumb anymore. Now I know ahead of time what hormones get riled up. And because nature is such a bitch, they are going to be different ones than before. Now I know that I’m not going to get any sleep. It’s not like I can store up 45 naps to use at a later date. And any of the joy that was shared by the three of us before, now needs shared by four with a three year old who doesn’t share.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly happy. Miss Sally and I wanted to have two kids and that was always the Plan. The reality is that it is sometimes best to be oblivious to some of the realities of pregnancy and child birth. Now I know ahead of time about Braxton-Hick’s contractions and Sally’s unrelenting discomfort and stirring and that there’s more than just water when the water breaks.
So I wish I were dumb. Only because there is responsibility with knowledge. Now that I am not dumb, I can plan ahead for these possible issues. I can be the one that steps up and keeps Greg occupied while Miss Sally doesn’t sleep, but has to try. The fridge can be stocked with vanilla pudding and then re-stocked with chocolate because all of a sudden the sight of vanilla makes Miss Sally nauseous. The heating pad is staged. There is always filtered water. I’ll park the car as far as possible on the right side of the garage.
I guess in the end, me being dumb only helps me. Me not being dumb helps Miss Sally. And besides lifting heavy things, helping Miss Sally is about all I can do that has any merit.
I love me. But I love Miss Sally just a little bit more. (And believe me, that’s a lot.)
Miss Sally is pregnant. That’s great news.
The not so great news is that this is #2 for us. Greg is #1. During the Age of Greg, much knowledge was gained about where a baby comes from, what hormones it disturbs for nine months, and how insanely purple an umbilical cord is. Other areas explored were the eat, shit, sleep cycles and the learning to not fall down and babble interpretation. All of this information was learned through brute reality and sleep deprivation. It was a tough time, but because I had no idea what was about to happen next, a blessedly dumb time. The Age of Greg is moving on. We are now entering the Age of Two Kids. Also know as the Doug’s Not Going Out For Another Six Years Era.
So to get back to the point, I’m not so dumb anymore. Now I know ahead of time what hormones get riled up. And because nature is such a bitch, they are going to be different ones than before. Now I know that I’m not going to get any sleep. It’s not like I can store up 45 naps to use at a later date. And any of the joy that was shared by the three of us before, now needs shared by four with a three year old who doesn’t share.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly happy. Miss Sally and I wanted to have two kids and that was always the Plan. The reality is that it is sometimes best to be oblivious to some of the realities of pregnancy and child birth. Now I know ahead of time about Braxton-Hick’s contractions and Sally’s unrelenting discomfort and stirring and that there’s more than just water when the water breaks.
So I wish I were dumb. Only because there is responsibility with knowledge. Now that I am not dumb, I can plan ahead for these possible issues. I can be the one that steps up and keeps Greg occupied while Miss Sally doesn’t sleep, but has to try. The fridge can be stocked with vanilla pudding and then re-stocked with chocolate because all of a sudden the sight of vanilla makes Miss Sally nauseous. The heating pad is staged. There is always filtered water. I’ll park the car as far as possible on the right side of the garage.
I guess in the end, me being dumb only helps me. Me not being dumb helps Miss Sally. And besides lifting heavy things, helping Miss Sally is about all I can do that has any merit.
I love me. But I love Miss Sally just a little bit more. (And believe me, that’s a lot.)
Smokin’
Back when I had the greatest job in the world, I spent eight months at the Museum of Natural History in Denver, Colorado. During that time I made friends with Stephanie, who was a volunteer at the museum. We became good friends and better drinking buddies.
Stephanie had a roommate whom I will refer to as The Witch. Well, she was a self proclaimed witch. She had the books and the hair and wore gothy clothes. I didn’t really think she was a witch. That was until Steph and I walked in on her sitting naked in a ring of candles. It might have been a pentagram, but she knocked some over running to the bathroom. (Oh yeah, that reminds me, she was really pale, too.)
The Witch had an ex-boyfriend. He was a drummer. She should have known better. Unlike other drummers, this guy had a job as an assistant manager at a grocery store. Also unlike other drummers, this guy had a car which he left unlocked while he was working as an assistant manager at a grocery store.
One night, The Witch wanted to get some revenge on the ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure who brought the smoke bombs or where they came from, but needless to say, they were there in the car with the three of us as we sat parked across the street from the grocery store. The Witch thought it would be funny if we tossed a smoke bomb in his car and then watched his reaction as he opened up the door.
Steph and I hunkered down in her car as The Witch made her way though the increasingly protective darkness. Like a total dude, the drummer ex had backed into his parking spot. Like a total ass, he parked right up next to the store in one of the better spots. The Witch made it to the car and wisely checked to see if the passenger side backdoor was unlocked. It was. She lit a smoke bomb. In one fluid motion she threw it into the car and slammed the door. Not-so-stealthily she ran back to the car and flopped in the backseat. We quietly laughed hysterically.
We peeked out the windows and waited to see roiling smoke through the windows of his car. We waited for the great gouts of smoke to erupt. We waited. Nothing. Debate ranged between whether the smoke bomb had not gone off or if one was not enough. The solution to both possibilities was to throw two additional smoke bombs into the car.
This time, The Witch walked right up to the car. We could see her silhouette with the store’s double entry doors lit on the other side of the car. She lit the two smoke bombs. She opened the door.
A great murky fog squeezed out from the top, bottom and side of the door. The first smoke bomb had gone off. Whether it was the slight tint to the windows or if we had not been paying enough attention while laughing, we missed that the car had filled with smoke.
With witch-like determination, she tossed the two other smoke bombs in the car, slammed the door and ran back. The first smoke bomb now had two new friends to hang out and smoke with.
I want to remember that we laughed even harder, but I think we were all stunned. If one smoke bomb created that much smoke… shit.
We waited for drummer ex to leave the store. Twenty minutes later, lights started to go off in the building and people started to come out the front doors. As an added bonus, the drummer ex was a kind enough assistant manager to ensure that all the workers got to leave at the same time, so there were five additional witnesses. The bastard made us wait an extra few minutes as he chit chatted with his five buddies. Probably about his stinking band. He then opened his car door.
As expected, smoke belched from the car. Unexpectedly, it just kept coming out. Even in the dark, you could see the smoke oozing out. The other dudes ran over to the car. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude! Dude!” They opened all the doors. The co-workers insisted that his car was on fire. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude!”
We drove off before they started looking for witnesses.
Later, after The Witch got back together with the drummer (duh,) we found out some other details. Drummer though that the smokage had been committed by an ex-worker. (We were safe.) The smoke bombs burnt a hole in his carpet, but did not start a fire. (We were not felons.) The car never lost the sulfur smell of the smoke. (We were avenged.)
Steph is now married and a semi-professional photographer. The Witch is into scrapbooking. I’m still trying to figure out where those smoke bombs came from.
Stephanie had a roommate whom I will refer to as The Witch. Well, she was a self proclaimed witch. She had the books and the hair and wore gothy clothes. I didn’t really think she was a witch. That was until Steph and I walked in on her sitting naked in a ring of candles. It might have been a pentagram, but she knocked some over running to the bathroom. (Oh yeah, that reminds me, she was really pale, too.)
The Witch had an ex-boyfriend. He was a drummer. She should have known better. Unlike other drummers, this guy had a job as an assistant manager at a grocery store. Also unlike other drummers, this guy had a car which he left unlocked while he was working as an assistant manager at a grocery store.
One night, The Witch wanted to get some revenge on the ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure who brought the smoke bombs or where they came from, but needless to say, they were there in the car with the three of us as we sat parked across the street from the grocery store. The Witch thought it would be funny if we tossed a smoke bomb in his car and then watched his reaction as he opened up the door.
Steph and I hunkered down in her car as The Witch made her way though the increasingly protective darkness. Like a total dude, the drummer ex had backed into his parking spot. Like a total ass, he parked right up next to the store in one of the better spots. The Witch made it to the car and wisely checked to see if the passenger side backdoor was unlocked. It was. She lit a smoke bomb. In one fluid motion she threw it into the car and slammed the door. Not-so-stealthily she ran back to the car and flopped in the backseat. We quietly laughed hysterically.
We peeked out the windows and waited to see roiling smoke through the windows of his car. We waited for the great gouts of smoke to erupt. We waited. Nothing. Debate ranged between whether the smoke bomb had not gone off or if one was not enough. The solution to both possibilities was to throw two additional smoke bombs into the car.
This time, The Witch walked right up to the car. We could see her silhouette with the store’s double entry doors lit on the other side of the car. She lit the two smoke bombs. She opened the door.
A great murky fog squeezed out from the top, bottom and side of the door. The first smoke bomb had gone off. Whether it was the slight tint to the windows or if we had not been paying enough attention while laughing, we missed that the car had filled with smoke.
With witch-like determination, she tossed the two other smoke bombs in the car, slammed the door and ran back. The first smoke bomb now had two new friends to hang out and smoke with.
I want to remember that we laughed even harder, but I think we were all stunned. If one smoke bomb created that much smoke… shit.
We waited for drummer ex to leave the store. Twenty minutes later, lights started to go off in the building and people started to come out the front doors. As an added bonus, the drummer ex was a kind enough assistant manager to ensure that all the workers got to leave at the same time, so there were five additional witnesses. The bastard made us wait an extra few minutes as he chit chatted with his five buddies. Probably about his stinking band. He then opened his car door.
As expected, smoke belched from the car. Unexpectedly, it just kept coming out. Even in the dark, you could see the smoke oozing out. The other dudes ran over to the car. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude! Dude!” They opened all the doors. The co-workers insisted that his car was on fire. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude!”
We drove off before they started looking for witnesses.
Later, after The Witch got back together with the drummer (duh,) we found out some other details. Drummer though that the smokage had been committed by an ex-worker. (We were safe.) The smoke bombs burnt a hole in his carpet, but did not start a fire. (We were not felons.) The car never lost the sulfur smell of the smoke. (We were avenged.)
Steph is now married and a semi-professional photographer. The Witch is into scrapbooking. I’m still trying to figure out where those smoke bombs came from.
Yield
I love yield signs.
The concept is simple: YIELD = merge with traffic, but make sure you give the right of way to oncoming traffic. In some situations, you might have to completely stop, but that would show everyone behind you how much of a pansy you are.
The yield sign has a different meaning depending on which side of the sign my ego is accelerating from.
Say for instance, I am the one with the yield sign. As I approach the sign, I accelerate to match the flow of traffic I'm about to intrude upon. There’s nothing as gratifying as passing someone on the inside of the merge lane. As I accelerate, I expect that if there is a car that is beside me, they will continue on their way and that I will slow down, slightly, to allow them in front of me. I will then slide in behind them like a good little boy. If there is a car right behind the first car, I expect them to understand that I am yielding, but to keep the flow of traffic going, they should maintain their speed to allow me to sneak in. If they do not allow me in, then the next few seconds are a bit hairy. Usually, as the merge lane ends, there are scraps of trash, tires, bits of steel and (if you live in Jersey) mattresses on the side of the road. As you drive over these items, they kick up, like a James Bond car secret weapon, and rain down upon the car behind/beside you. It causes them to change lanes or slow down so that you can merge. You win! You’ve got three flat tires, but damnit you won!
Now let’s say I’m the oncoming traffic and some idiot is trying to merge in MY lane. First off to the mergers, accelerate. Yield sign is red like a stop sign, but that does not mean slow down, so you should use the merge as a launching pad. If you are going as fast as the traffic you are merging with, you’ll have more MPH to negotiate with. As I approach the people merging, I classify them into two categories; Jerks and Grandmas. Jerks are OK. They speed up and cut you off and sometimes kick up a mattress off the side of the road. I can live with that. If I see a spoiler, neon or hear bass from ¼ mile away, I know that with a few hand gesture transactions, we’ll all make it through the yield OK. Grandmas will kill you. You don’t have to have silver hair to be a Grandma either. It’s the hesitating. The stopping. The talking on the cell phone and looking over the shoulder. It’s best to change lanes or just drive into the concrete barrier and be done with it. Grandmas are why everyone is late to work or dead.
Basically, what it boils down to is that yield signs are for everyone else. If I am merging with you, you should be kind enough to let me in. If you are merging with me, follow the law, slow down and get behind me. I would hate to see what would happen in an alternate universe where I would have to merge into traffic with myself.
The concept is simple: YIELD = merge with traffic, but make sure you give the right of way to oncoming traffic. In some situations, you might have to completely stop, but that would show everyone behind you how much of a pansy you are.
The yield sign has a different meaning depending on which side of the sign my ego is accelerating from.
Say for instance, I am the one with the yield sign. As I approach the sign, I accelerate to match the flow of traffic I'm about to intrude upon. There’s nothing as gratifying as passing someone on the inside of the merge lane. As I accelerate, I expect that if there is a car that is beside me, they will continue on their way and that I will slow down, slightly, to allow them in front of me. I will then slide in behind them like a good little boy. If there is a car right behind the first car, I expect them to understand that I am yielding, but to keep the flow of traffic going, they should maintain their speed to allow me to sneak in. If they do not allow me in, then the next few seconds are a bit hairy. Usually, as the merge lane ends, there are scraps of trash, tires, bits of steel and (if you live in Jersey) mattresses on the side of the road. As you drive over these items, they kick up, like a James Bond car secret weapon, and rain down upon the car behind/beside you. It causes them to change lanes or slow down so that you can merge. You win! You’ve got three flat tires, but damnit you won!
Now let’s say I’m the oncoming traffic and some idiot is trying to merge in MY lane. First off to the mergers, accelerate. Yield sign is red like a stop sign, but that does not mean slow down, so you should use the merge as a launching pad. If you are going as fast as the traffic you are merging with, you’ll have more MPH to negotiate with. As I approach the people merging, I classify them into two categories; Jerks and Grandmas. Jerks are OK. They speed up and cut you off and sometimes kick up a mattress off the side of the road. I can live with that. If I see a spoiler, neon or hear bass from ¼ mile away, I know that with a few hand gesture transactions, we’ll all make it through the yield OK. Grandmas will kill you. You don’t have to have silver hair to be a Grandma either. It’s the hesitating. The stopping. The talking on the cell phone and looking over the shoulder. It’s best to change lanes or just drive into the concrete barrier and be done with it. Grandmas are why everyone is late to work or dead.
Basically, what it boils down to is that yield signs are for everyone else. If I am merging with you, you should be kind enough to let me in. If you are merging with me, follow the law, slow down and get behind me. I would hate to see what would happen in an alternate universe where I would have to merge into traffic with myself.
Conversation
Me to Friend: Are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: You can tell me.
Friend: I’m not hooking up with whatshername.
Me: But if you were hooking up with her, you would tell me that you weren’t, right?
Friend: Probably
Me: So, are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: That’s all I needed to know.
Friend: No.
Me: You can tell me.
Friend: I’m not hooking up with whatshername.
Me: But if you were hooking up with her, you would tell me that you weren’t, right?
Friend: Probably
Me: So, are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: That’s all I needed to know.
How was it?
“Not much happened. The girls weren’t that hot. We just drank a lot. It was fun, but not crazy.”
And the award goes to....
Stu did not win a Grammy last night.
He was up for:
FIELD 24 - PACKAGE
Category 86 - Best Recording Package
In 2003, Stu had a residency at the
It was nominated because of the packaging. A handmade, 7” x 7” folded, rigid composite with a die punched aluminum applique with cotton inset and handwritten liner notes on the interior. (Or a square piece of cardboard with a cotton ball glued on as
The packaging was pretty neat. There was no way he was going to win. He was up against Ani DiFranco and Aimee
Stu didn’t win. But he didn’t need to. He lives in the moment of the creation and moves on. Sounds like a goofy artistic cliché. He’s all about the journey. I’m all about the destination. Somehow, we seem to get along pretty good. He created the album. All I had to do was buy it.
Next album up for Stu: Shrimp Attack See you at the 49th annual Grammys.
Gun Range
We drove to the range and parked. The place looked as it should; old building in need of paint although it had one last summer. Hand written signs about where not to park and that the proprietor had guns inside. Four cars were parked outside at
“You’ll be in #8 down at the end”
“You got it.” Walk off boldly.
“#8! Go through the other door.”
“Yes, sir!” Skitter skitter skitter.
I don’t want to make this place out to be a hole in the wall, all though there were several thousand. This was definitely not a brushed stainless steel / marble with teak trim. The carpet was stained with copper and black residue. There were empty casings everywhere. The booth walls were marred and scored with dings. It is what it is. We set all our goods down on a bench next to #8.
There were two other guys shooting down in the #5 booth. They were finishing up and from the piles of shells around them, they had been there a while. As the one guy put away a gun, the other grabbed a broom and industrial dust pan and made a few compulsory sweeps along the floor, picking up about 20% of the casings surrounding their booth. Oh well, I clean the same way at home.
“Reload!”
“It hurts my fingers, Captain.”
We inspected the gun.
BAM.
I have never fired a hand gun. Now, I’ve played hundreds of video games with guns. I think I’m pretty good. This was no comparison. The gun felt foreign in my hand. The weight and the kick were body jarring. The sound was expected, but even muffled it shocked me. It seemed like there were 15 variables to align and meld to get the bullet to hit the target. As soon as you pulled the trigger, all 15 were scattered and you’d have to start over. Grip the gun. Not to tight. Hold it steady. Line up the sights. Relax. Not too much. Hold the gun straight. Keep it level. Bend your knees. Squeeze, don’t pull the trigger. Prepare for the recoil. Keep it aimed.
Eject the clip. Put the gun down. Shake. I’m such a pussy.
“Um, sweeping up, sir?”
“You didn’t have to do that, son. Here, I like you.”
He handed me a gold token, good for ½ of shooting. “Thanks!”
Per usually, I had to say something wiseassish, “I’m not going to leave a mess in a place where everyone carries a gun.” The gentleman replied, “See, an armed society is a polite society.” We all laughed our manly laugh and left.
The Jan B
I was in Ketchikan, Alaska back in the summer of 1992 to make millions of dollars in the salmon industry. I made about what I would have if I had stayed home in Lancaster and worked at the Baskin Robbins. Of course, then I wouldn't be writing this.
The cannery I worked at was kind enough to provide a barge that had living quarters on it. It was a biggish, whiteish, rustyish hunk of metal with what looked to be mobile homes duct-taped to it. It was, at some point it its life, when someone gave a shit, christened the “Jan B” registered out of San Francisco. For a mere one dollar per hour worked, we got to collapse at the end of the day in something that wasn’t a tent. In the years prior, cannery workers lived out of tents in an open field in what you might consider a small city. It was called, “Tent City.” Problem was that Ketchikan receives about 152” of rain a year and most of that seemed to focus itself over Tent City. The workers had very little access to facilities and it was a complete muddy mess. Two guys I met said that they preferred sleeping in the plant next to the Iron Chink* instead of slogging back to their tents.
(*The Iron Chink was a huge machine that somehow scaled, gutted, beheaded and betailed the salmon in a few spins of a giant metal drum. Hundreds at a time. And yes, it is a derogatory name. I'm not sure if it has another name.)
The Jan B was, with all good intentions, a floating motel. And a motel has got to have a manager. Our manager was a mix of ex-marine, racist, sexist, jerk, power hungry, asshole, suck up, and, oddly, neat freak. His name was Bruce. So of course we called him Barge Bruce. All Barge Bruce wanted was to take the responsibility trusted in him to manage the barge and somehow make it as if he was Mayor and Sheriff of the Jan B. He was known to just pop into rooms unannounced while people were in them, accused of popping into the them when no one was in them and basically running the place like a prisoner of war camp. The memos he would post were hilarious. A simple reminder about taking trash out of the rooms would fill an entire page, have eight to ten exclamation points and a smattering of misspelled words liberally sprinkled in. Barge Bruce sucked balls.
I lived in room #39. Our room had three guys. Of course there was me. Jeremy was an extremely cool guy out of San Francisco. He was like a land locked philosophical, surfer. The other guy was Steve. Steve was fucking crazy. Steve had recently returned to the United States after being detained in Thailand for three months where he had been busted with pot in his possession. It seems that the ship he was working on didn’t care that he hadn’t made it back on board and left port without him. No one on the Thailand side of the bars told anyone he was there. He just ate rice and sat in squalor for three months. Luckily (for him,) another American got busted for something and Steve was able to get word out that he was stuck behind bars. His post-squalor travels brought him to Ketchikan and room #39.
Steve brought with him a sack full of clothes and a case of Hepatitis B. One day Steve felt sick and didn’t look good. It’s just a cold he said. A few days later, his skin turned a sort of greenish yellow. I ate some bad fish last night he said. Then, his eyes turned yellow. Take me to the hospital he said. We didn’t know it was hepatitis. We went to the bookstore and found a medical book and looked it up. Yuck. Sitting in feces for three months can do that to you.
I should mention a side note here that carries into the main part of this recollection. We were slobs. At the end of the work day, I would take off my blue coveralls and toss them in a corner. The next morning, I would put them back on. The clothes I wore underneath the coveralls got thrown in that corner too. The pile would get pretty big and pretty stinky. I knew that I was sweating something fierce while in the cannery because in the morning when I would put on the coveralls, they would still be wet from the day before. I mean damp. And stinky. An odd stinky too. But hell, I was working in canning factory. I thought this all was normal. I mean, what else could it be beside my own sweat. Normal. Until… (I’m pausing to hold back the vomit.)
Until the night when I woke up to find Steve walking over to the corner where my dirty clothes were piled. He stood in the corner and pulled out his dick and PEED ALL OVER MY CLOTHES! He is peeing on my clothes! “Steve! Steve! STEVE!” I could see his face as he turned, still peeing. He was laughing! “Steve!!!” He finished up and went back into his bunk. I got up and stumbled over all the other crap in the room to his bunk. I shook Steve and woke him up. I explained the situation to him, “You peed on my clothes!”
“What are you talking about.”
“You just walked over to the corner and peed on my clothes!”
“No I didn’t”
Steve had been sleep-peeing. And, thinking back, he’d been doing it for about three weeks. He had no idea that he’d been relieving himself at night. I had been going to work wearing Steve’s hepatitis tainted pee. Shit. I got tested when I got home. I’m clean, but really…
So, we were slobs. I left my clothes everywhere (oh yeah, and piled in the corner.) There were beer cans and food containers and newspapers and magazines and books and tapes (tapes were used to store music back in the 80’s and 90’s.) I think Steve liked the room because it reminded him of his home away from home in Thailand.
One day, I was on the line in the cannery when my friend Taylor came up and got my attention. He took me aside and filled me in on a situation. It turns out Barge Bruce was going through the rooms and wandered into #39. I’m sure he had a hard time getting the door to open with the amount of crap piled against it. Barge Bruce was completely pissed. Taylor heard Barge Bruce yell at someone else that he was sick and tired of the trash and was going to get the plant manager over to take a good look at what he had to deal with everyday. Taylor ran over as soon as he heard this. I had Dan and Jim on the line to cover for me and I ran back to the barge. Boy, my coveralls were going to be sweaty tonight!
(Have you ever heard some old codger talk about how they walked to work uphill both ways? Bullshit? Well, we did. The barge had a ramp going to the shore. In the mornings, when the tide was low, you had to walk up an extremely steep incline to get to the shore. At some later part in the day when the tide was high, the ramp would be at a very slight angle up from the shore to the barge. Up hill both ways to work. I can’t wait to get older so I can tell that one every day.)
I ran from the cannery to the barge and up to #39. I shoved non trash under the beds. I put everyone’s clothes into whatever drawer or laundry bag was available. I filled the trash bag and an empty beer case with trash. Put the trash in a closet in the hallway. I even made the beds. If you would have looked under the sheets you would have seen magazines and books and tapes, but it’s the surface look that counts. I did this all in less than five minutes. (Which of course makes me think, why the hell didn’t we just keep it clean?)
As I walked back to the cannery, I passed by Barge Bruce and the plant manager. Barge Bruce was going on about how unbelievably messy this one room was and how these punk kids have no respect. He was so intent that didn’t even notice me. The plant manager and I made the briefest of eye contact. I went back to the line.
About ten minutes later, Barge Bruce and the plant manager walked into the cannery (The plant manager walked, Barge Bruce seemed to vibrate with hatred). Barge Bruce was pissed. Barge Bruce was steaming. Barge Bruce pointed at me and started to, I kid you not, stomp his foot. The plant manager had Barge Bruce go and cool off to the side. I am motioned to speak with the plant manager. He is not happy, but at the same time, he seems to have a slight upturn on his mouth that would hint at a subdued smile. He basically says that he knows that I must have found out about the inspection. He knows I must have cleaned it. If this happens again I am fired. Keep the room clean.
He then slapped me on the shoulder and, out of Barge Bruce’s line of sight, winked at me.
My only guess is that the plant manager had to listen to Barge Bruce complain every day. For once, it was good to see Barge Bruce completely insane with rage and though words were coming out of his mouth, speechless. Barge Bruce mostly avoided me after that. I was waiting for the confrontation, but it never happened. Good old Barge Bruce. I went back to the line.
At the end of the season, my camping and working friend Dan Berman took white tape and changed the name of the barge from the Jan B to the Dan B. Below is a photo of him, standing on the top ramp, arm held out and finger pointed to the sky. It was low tide and he would have had to walk up the ramp to get to the shore.
The cannery I worked at was kind enough to provide a barge that had living quarters on it. It was a biggish, whiteish, rustyish hunk of metal with what looked to be mobile homes duct-taped to it. It was, at some point it its life, when someone gave a shit, christened the “Jan B” registered out of San Francisco. For a mere one dollar per hour worked, we got to collapse at the end of the day in something that wasn’t a tent. In the years prior, cannery workers lived out of tents in an open field in what you might consider a small city. It was called, “Tent City.” Problem was that Ketchikan receives about 152” of rain a year and most of that seemed to focus itself over Tent City. The workers had very little access to facilities and it was a complete muddy mess. Two guys I met said that they preferred sleeping in the plant next to the Iron Chink* instead of slogging back to their tents.
(*The Iron Chink was a huge machine that somehow scaled, gutted, beheaded and betailed the salmon in a few spins of a giant metal drum. Hundreds at a time. And yes, it is a derogatory name. I'm not sure if it has another name.)
The Jan B was, with all good intentions, a floating motel. And a motel has got to have a manager. Our manager was a mix of ex-marine, racist, sexist, jerk, power hungry, asshole, suck up, and, oddly, neat freak. His name was Bruce. So of course we called him Barge Bruce. All Barge Bruce wanted was to take the responsibility trusted in him to manage the barge and somehow make it as if he was Mayor and Sheriff of the Jan B. He was known to just pop into rooms unannounced while people were in them, accused of popping into the them when no one was in them and basically running the place like a prisoner of war camp. The memos he would post were hilarious. A simple reminder about taking trash out of the rooms would fill an entire page, have eight to ten exclamation points and a smattering of misspelled words liberally sprinkled in. Barge Bruce sucked balls.
I lived in room #39. Our room had three guys. Of course there was me. Jeremy was an extremely cool guy out of San Francisco. He was like a land locked philosophical, surfer. The other guy was Steve. Steve was fucking crazy. Steve had recently returned to the United States after being detained in Thailand for three months where he had been busted with pot in his possession. It seems that the ship he was working on didn’t care that he hadn’t made it back on board and left port without him. No one on the Thailand side of the bars told anyone he was there. He just ate rice and sat in squalor for three months. Luckily (for him,) another American got busted for something and Steve was able to get word out that he was stuck behind bars. His post-squalor travels brought him to Ketchikan and room #39.
Steve brought with him a sack full of clothes and a case of Hepatitis B. One day Steve felt sick and didn’t look good. It’s just a cold he said. A few days later, his skin turned a sort of greenish yellow. I ate some bad fish last night he said. Then, his eyes turned yellow. Take me to the hospital he said. We didn’t know it was hepatitis. We went to the bookstore and found a medical book and looked it up. Yuck. Sitting in feces for three months can do that to you.
I should mention a side note here that carries into the main part of this recollection. We were slobs. At the end of the work day, I would take off my blue coveralls and toss them in a corner. The next morning, I would put them back on. The clothes I wore underneath the coveralls got thrown in that corner too. The pile would get pretty big and pretty stinky. I knew that I was sweating something fierce while in the cannery because in the morning when I would put on the coveralls, they would still be wet from the day before. I mean damp. And stinky. An odd stinky too. But hell, I was working in canning factory. I thought this all was normal. I mean, what else could it be beside my own sweat. Normal. Until… (I’m pausing to hold back the vomit.)
Until the night when I woke up to find Steve walking over to the corner where my dirty clothes were piled. He stood in the corner and pulled out his dick and PEED ALL OVER MY CLOTHES! He is peeing on my clothes! “Steve! Steve! STEVE!” I could see his face as he turned, still peeing. He was laughing! “Steve!!!” He finished up and went back into his bunk. I got up and stumbled over all the other crap in the room to his bunk. I shook Steve and woke him up. I explained the situation to him, “You peed on my clothes!”
“What are you talking about.”
“You just walked over to the corner and peed on my clothes!”
“No I didn’t”
Steve had been sleep-peeing. And, thinking back, he’d been doing it for about three weeks. He had no idea that he’d been relieving himself at night. I had been going to work wearing Steve’s hepatitis tainted pee. Shit. I got tested when I got home. I’m clean, but really…
So, we were slobs. I left my clothes everywhere (oh yeah, and piled in the corner.) There were beer cans and food containers and newspapers and magazines and books and tapes (tapes were used to store music back in the 80’s and 90’s.) I think Steve liked the room because it reminded him of his home away from home in Thailand.
One day, I was on the line in the cannery when my friend Taylor came up and got my attention. He took me aside and filled me in on a situation. It turns out Barge Bruce was going through the rooms and wandered into #39. I’m sure he had a hard time getting the door to open with the amount of crap piled against it. Barge Bruce was completely pissed. Taylor heard Barge Bruce yell at someone else that he was sick and tired of the trash and was going to get the plant manager over to take a good look at what he had to deal with everyday. Taylor ran over as soon as he heard this. I had Dan and Jim on the line to cover for me and I ran back to the barge. Boy, my coveralls were going to be sweaty tonight!
(Have you ever heard some old codger talk about how they walked to work uphill both ways? Bullshit? Well, we did. The barge had a ramp going to the shore. In the mornings, when the tide was low, you had to walk up an extremely steep incline to get to the shore. At some later part in the day when the tide was high, the ramp would be at a very slight angle up from the shore to the barge. Up hill both ways to work. I can’t wait to get older so I can tell that one every day.)
I ran from the cannery to the barge and up to #39. I shoved non trash under the beds. I put everyone’s clothes into whatever drawer or laundry bag was available. I filled the trash bag and an empty beer case with trash. Put the trash in a closet in the hallway. I even made the beds. If you would have looked under the sheets you would have seen magazines and books and tapes, but it’s the surface look that counts. I did this all in less than five minutes. (Which of course makes me think, why the hell didn’t we just keep it clean?)
As I walked back to the cannery, I passed by Barge Bruce and the plant manager. Barge Bruce was going on about how unbelievably messy this one room was and how these punk kids have no respect. He was so intent that didn’t even notice me. The plant manager and I made the briefest of eye contact. I went back to the line.
About ten minutes later, Barge Bruce and the plant manager walked into the cannery (The plant manager walked, Barge Bruce seemed to vibrate with hatred). Barge Bruce was pissed. Barge Bruce was steaming. Barge Bruce pointed at me and started to, I kid you not, stomp his foot. The plant manager had Barge Bruce go and cool off to the side. I am motioned to speak with the plant manager. He is not happy, but at the same time, he seems to have a slight upturn on his mouth that would hint at a subdued smile. He basically says that he knows that I must have found out about the inspection. He knows I must have cleaned it. If this happens again I am fired. Keep the room clean.
He then slapped me on the shoulder and, out of Barge Bruce’s line of sight, winked at me.
My only guess is that the plant manager had to listen to Barge Bruce complain every day. For once, it was good to see Barge Bruce completely insane with rage and though words were coming out of his mouth, speechless. Barge Bruce mostly avoided me after that. I was waiting for the confrontation, but it never happened. Good old Barge Bruce. I went back to the line.
At the end of the season, my camping and working friend Dan Berman took white tape and changed the name of the barge from the Jan B to the Dan B. Below is a photo of him, standing on the top ramp, arm held out and finger pointed to the sky. It was low tide and he would have had to walk up the ramp to get to the shore.
My boss quit...
My boss quit on Monday. It was a shock only because some thought he was going to get fired. We are now on day four of the rebuilding process and oddly, things are looking up for now.
I used to be a roofer back in college. We had a team of about 8 guys. I was the only kid. As with most construction jobs, the kid got picked on. It was almost a loving kind of abuse, probably because the guys knew I'd go back to school and be out of their lives once summer was over. But there was also one other guy on the team that got abuse... one of their own so to speak. Everyone hated that guy. He was either lazy or stinky or dumb or his wife cheated on him... all merely allegations, but these things were said behind his back, but just loud enough for him to hear. Either this guy would quit after a week or try and stick it out and become my buddy. I think they would seek refuge in the other guy who got picked on.
No man can take that much abuse and they would snap and start a fight or walk off the job. Either way they were gone.
For a few days, all the guys would sit around at lunch and talk about what an asshole the quitter was and how they were happy he was gone. Everyone was happy. But then after those few days were up, you would see everyone looking around for the new guy to start picking on. Sometimes it was easy when a new guy was hired to replace the last. Sometimes no one was immediately hired and the cannibalism set in. One of their own was chosen. The circle is complete.
I guess what I'm thinking is that we've got about a week to blame all the company's issues on the old boss. If things aren't fixed, where will all that hatred and blame go? I don't see us hiring anyone in the near future.
Well, to keep this from ending on a downer, let me tell you this: I went on a smaller job with two other seasoned roofers (Old Goat and Charles.) While we were working, I managed to put "Kick Me" signs fashioned from asphalt can stickers on both their backs. I went to one and pointed out the other's sign. I went to the other and did the same. What followed was a round or two of comical kicking, followed up by some aggressive kicking and then the inevitable old guys shoving back and forth on top a 25' roof. By the time I pointed out the signs on their backs, it was too late. They were pissed at each other and did not see the humor in my little joke.
The truck ride home was pretty quiet. My small talk did not create a truce. I was sure that one or both of the guys were going to quit once we got back to the shop.
The next morning at the shop, while changing into my work clothes, I found out the hard way that both my boots had a dollop roofing asphalt in them. I didn't notice the first one until after I had the second one on. Just enough to make me uncomfortable as hell, but not enough to keep me from working. Both guys said nothing. But I'd like to think they collaborated. Punk kid.
I used to be a roofer back in college. We had a team of about 8 guys. I was the only kid. As with most construction jobs, the kid got picked on. It was almost a loving kind of abuse, probably because the guys knew I'd go back to school and be out of their lives once summer was over. But there was also one other guy on the team that got abuse... one of their own so to speak. Everyone hated that guy. He was either lazy or stinky or dumb or his wife cheated on him... all merely allegations, but these things were said behind his back, but just loud enough for him to hear. Either this guy would quit after a week or try and stick it out and become my buddy. I think they would seek refuge in the other guy who got picked on.
No man can take that much abuse and they would snap and start a fight or walk off the job. Either way they were gone.
For a few days, all the guys would sit around at lunch and talk about what an asshole the quitter was and how they were happy he was gone. Everyone was happy. But then after those few days were up, you would see everyone looking around for the new guy to start picking on. Sometimes it was easy when a new guy was hired to replace the last. Sometimes no one was immediately hired and the cannibalism set in. One of their own was chosen. The circle is complete.
I guess what I'm thinking is that we've got about a week to blame all the company's issues on the old boss. If things aren't fixed, where will all that hatred and blame go? I don't see us hiring anyone in the near future.
Well, to keep this from ending on a downer, let me tell you this: I went on a smaller job with two other seasoned roofers (Old Goat and Charles.) While we were working, I managed to put "Kick Me" signs fashioned from asphalt can stickers on both their backs. I went to one and pointed out the other's sign. I went to the other and did the same. What followed was a round or two of comical kicking, followed up by some aggressive kicking and then the inevitable old guys shoving back and forth on top a 25' roof. By the time I pointed out the signs on their backs, it was too late. They were pissed at each other and did not see the humor in my little joke.
The truck ride home was pretty quiet. My small talk did not create a truce. I was sure that one or both of the guys were going to quit once we got back to the shop.
The next morning at the shop, while changing into my work clothes, I found out the hard way that both my boots had a dollop roofing asphalt in them. I didn't notice the first one until after I had the second one on. Just enough to make me uncomfortable as hell, but not enough to keep me from working. Both guys said nothing. But I'd like to think they collaborated. Punk kid.
Hitchhiking
My friend Amy and I went to
This tale is about hitchhiking.
First off, hitchhiking in
Amy and I had hitchhiked on several occasions. We were camped at Ward's Pond about five miles west of
Woman - "So, your car broke down?"
Us - "Um, no."
"Oh, did you run out of gas?"
"No."
"Then what is wrong with your car?"
"We don't have a car. That's why we are hitchhiking."
"I saw you standing by your car by the side of the road!"
"We don't have a car!"
-silence-
“So, are you tourists or you here for the salmon?”
One night, Amy and I went out drinking in town. It was easy to find a bar in
About ¼ mile outside of town, a suburban pulled over. We got in. I think Amy sat in the middle. The guy was a little drunk. We told him which wilderness area of Ward’s Pond we were camped in and he said he knew it well. The hard part of hitchhiking was over with.
Drunk driver guy then started telling us that he held a world record. He hauled the most tonnage of timber with a helicopter in one day. We were really impressed. He then started ranting about how hitchhikers sometimes try to attack the driver. We were really silent. He then patted the seat suggesting something underneath and said, "But I’ve got protection so no one’s going to mess with me and get away with it." We were really scared shitless. Luckily, we were close to the area where we were camped. In a moment of sheer brilliance or panic, I told him to drop us off in an area where our campsite wasn’t. As he stopped he said, “This isn’t the place you told me about. You better not try anything." Now I remember. I was in the middle. I was in the middle because I about scrambled over Amy as this guy was reaching under his seat. We both scurried off into the bushes behind the truck and hid behind a tree. (Side note: these pines were big and two adults could hide behind them.) He yelled something audible but incoherent out of his truck. We waited until he drove off. I would have peed my pants but I was able to unzip and release. Wow.
We walked about 100 yards to our campsite and climbed in the tent. We laid there and waited for him to come back. About 15 minutes later a truck drove by our campsite real slow. Luckily there were other campers around so we could be singled out. He drove on and circled one more time. We dared not look out the tent. Somehow nylon and a zipper seemed the best protection. He drove off for good.
I’m sure I could look up who the record holder for the most tonnage of lumber to be carried in one day by helicopter was in 1992…
I did not go to Skully's last night.
I did not go to Skully's last night. I told Miss Sally that I wasn't going to go to Skully's. I told my co-workers that I wasn't going. I told my friends I wasn't going.
So, I ran into Freckled Jen at Skully's last night. (She also told me she wasn't going to Skully's.) She was with her friend Tracy. Tracy is upset with me because during an argument a few days ago, I got tired of her talking so I made a fist and made my hand talk by moving my thumb up and down. My hand said something like this, "All I hear you say is blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah." I kind of moved my puppet closer and closer to her face with each "blah."
She didn't like that.
So when I saw her last night, I immediately apologized because I have low self esteem and can't stand to have people dislike me. She said she would think about accepting my apology.
So now it’s noon. I've been at work for 1/2 hour. Shorty is going to Sam's Club to buy some 1/4 pound kosher hot dogs.
Things are looking up.
So, I ran into Freckled Jen at Skully's last night. (She also told me she wasn't going to Skully's.) She was with her friend Tracy. Tracy is upset with me because during an argument a few days ago, I got tired of her talking so I made a fist and made my hand talk by moving my thumb up and down. My hand said something like this, "All I hear you say is blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah." I kind of moved my puppet closer and closer to her face with each "blah."
She didn't like that.
So when I saw her last night, I immediately apologized because I have low self esteem and can't stand to have people dislike me. She said she would think about accepting my apology.
So now it’s noon. I've been at work for 1/2 hour. Shorty is going to Sam's Club to buy some 1/4 pound kosher hot dogs.
Things are looking up.
50 Dollars Change
It is a well known fact amongst my circle of guy friends that I frequent (though not frequently) establishments that cater towards men that have an expendable collection of one dollar bills and a penchant for boobies. My M.O. is a bit like this:
1. Go out drinking
2. Leave early
3. On the drive home, find your car is taking the long way, which happens to drive past establishments which have such words as Pink, Gold, or Kahootz in their neon marquee.
4. Call Acton.
5. Leave a short, but precise message about where I will be and that I hope he can join me.
6. Stop at the ATM
7. Enter nudie bar.
8. Spend money
9. Go home smelling like vanilla, cotton candy and sin.
10. Retrieve message from Acton 12 hours later asking if there was any trouble.
For me, there’s never any trouble at the nudie bar. I’ve heard testimonials about a friend’s friend who got laid in the back or a buddy who swears they took a stripper home with them. For me, I never even get close to that. Oh wait… I’ll have to piece together the story about the layover in Canada… that’s for later.
On this particular night, I had made it all the way to #6 on the list. I stopped at the drive through ATM and got out $50 fast cash. $50 fast cash turned out to be a single $50 bill. I was dismayed.. A $50 bill now calls me out as a big spender. I like to be the lowly guy in the club who doesn’t attract attention. You walk in with $50 dollar bills and that makes you a mark. Not really, but I thought that at the time.
I was tempted to swing around through the ATM again, but I was very interested in getting to step #8.
I parked and entered the club. This particular club is called Sirens. It resides in what used to be an Asian restaurant. The girl at the front counter was bantering with the coat check guy. As I walked in, he vaporized. We traded our hellos and the girl said, “There’s an $8 dollar cover charge.” I handed over my $50. She stuck it in the drawer and counted back my change.
“Two makes ten. Ten makes twenty. Twenty makes forty, sixty, eighty and one hundred. Did you want some of that in ones?”
Pause for one second.
“Nope. I’m fine.” Walk into the club.
I immediately went into the bathroom. I’m not sure what level of protection a bathroom offers. It seems to have kept the ISI from finding the attendant. I fake peed and gave the guy a buck. This gave me the opportunity to see that I had $91 in my wallet when there only should have been $41. Gracias.
Walking out of the bathroom I expected to be confronted by Goon in Bar #1 and Goon in Bar #2. At some point the girl up front would figure out her mistake have said Goons track me down. I believe I have coke or meth to thank for the scatter brainedness of the counter girl. I went to the bar and bought a drink.
Skip ahead to step #9. (I could talk about the dollar bill folding technique or the avoiding the strung out stripper method, but I think that’s for another time.) I left the club and walked to my car. I had several drinks and gave away a large number of neatly folded bills and I still had $30. I had about two hours of girly fun and drinks for about $20. Not bad at all.
I mentioned this story to John then next day when I returned his message to my message. He couldn’t believe it. A few years before this, John and I went to a nudie bar and on the way in, he found $80 lying right outside his car. He was kind enough to share that money with me and we spent it very quickly. When that money ran out, he reached into his pocket to get the $100 that was in there and all he had was a $20.
He suggested to me that I try the $50 trick again. So I did.
One week later. Step #6. Get money. I drove through the ATM again. Hit $50 fast cash. To my surprise, I was dispensed two 20s and a 10. This bank had a dual ATM system and the one side gave out 50s while the other, as I just found out, did not. I looped around and went to the original ATM. Bing, a $50 bill.
Park. Door. And guess what… the same strung out girl.
“Two makes ten. Ten makes twenty. Twenty makes forty, sixty, eighty and one hundred. Did you want some of that in ones?”
Pause for one tenth a second.
“Nope. I’m fine.” Walk into the club.
Unbelievable.
This time around, I spent all of it. I had many drinks. I even had the private dance or two. Good stuff.
On my way out, I had $5 left in my wallet. All that fun for $45.
$45? Think again. I forgot about the original $50 I took out that came in the 20s and 10 variety. I actually spent $95 of my own money. Crap. Oh well, it was worth the story.
1. Go out drinking
2. Leave early
3. On the drive home, find your car is taking the long way, which happens to drive past establishments which have such words as Pink, Gold, or Kahootz in their neon marquee.
4. Call Acton.
5. Leave a short, but precise message about where I will be and that I hope he can join me.
6. Stop at the ATM
7. Enter nudie bar.
8. Spend money
9. Go home smelling like vanilla, cotton candy and sin.
10. Retrieve message from Acton 12 hours later asking if there was any trouble.
For me, there’s never any trouble at the nudie bar. I’ve heard testimonials about a friend’s friend who got laid in the back or a buddy who swears they took a stripper home with them. For me, I never even get close to that. Oh wait… I’ll have to piece together the story about the layover in Canada… that’s for later.
On this particular night, I had made it all the way to #6 on the list. I stopped at the drive through ATM and got out $50 fast cash. $50 fast cash turned out to be a single $50 bill. I was dismayed.. A $50 bill now calls me out as a big spender. I like to be the lowly guy in the club who doesn’t attract attention. You walk in with $50 dollar bills and that makes you a mark. Not really, but I thought that at the time.
I was tempted to swing around through the ATM again, but I was very interested in getting to step #8.
I parked and entered the club. This particular club is called Sirens. It resides in what used to be an Asian restaurant. The girl at the front counter was bantering with the coat check guy. As I walked in, he vaporized. We traded our hellos and the girl said, “There’s an $8 dollar cover charge.” I handed over my $50. She stuck it in the drawer and counted back my change.
“Two makes ten. Ten makes twenty. Twenty makes forty, sixty, eighty and one hundred. Did you want some of that in ones?”
Pause for one second.
“Nope. I’m fine.” Walk into the club.
I immediately went into the bathroom. I’m not sure what level of protection a bathroom offers. It seems to have kept the ISI from finding the attendant. I fake peed and gave the guy a buck. This gave me the opportunity to see that I had $91 in my wallet when there only should have been $41. Gracias.
Walking out of the bathroom I expected to be confronted by Goon in Bar #1 and Goon in Bar #2. At some point the girl up front would figure out her mistake have said Goons track me down. I believe I have coke or meth to thank for the scatter brainedness of the counter girl. I went to the bar and bought a drink.
Skip ahead to step #9. (I could talk about the dollar bill folding technique or the avoiding the strung out stripper method, but I think that’s for another time.) I left the club and walked to my car. I had several drinks and gave away a large number of neatly folded bills and I still had $30. I had about two hours of girly fun and drinks for about $20. Not bad at all.
I mentioned this story to John then next day when I returned his message to my message. He couldn’t believe it. A few years before this, John and I went to a nudie bar and on the way in, he found $80 lying right outside his car. He was kind enough to share that money with me and we spent it very quickly. When that money ran out, he reached into his pocket to get the $100 that was in there and all he had was a $20.
He suggested to me that I try the $50 trick again. So I did.
One week later. Step #6. Get money. I drove through the ATM again. Hit $50 fast cash. To my surprise, I was dispensed two 20s and a 10. This bank had a dual ATM system and the one side gave out 50s while the other, as I just found out, did not. I looped around and went to the original ATM. Bing, a $50 bill.
Park. Door. And guess what… the same strung out girl.
“Two makes ten. Ten makes twenty. Twenty makes forty, sixty, eighty and one hundred. Did you want some of that in ones?”
Pause for one tenth a second.
“Nope. I’m fine.” Walk into the club.
Unbelievable.
This time around, I spent all of it. I had many drinks. I even had the private dance or two. Good stuff.
On my way out, I had $5 left in my wallet. All that fun for $45.
$45? Think again. I forgot about the original $50 I took out that came in the 20s and 10 variety. I actually spent $95 of my own money. Crap. Oh well, it was worth the story.
Naked Man
I went streaking. It was a number of years ago, but I feel that streaking is on the “Do At Least Once In Life” list. (Standing boldly between smoking pot and skinny dipping.)
Ohio University. A night when it was short sleeves warm when you walked into the bar and stumbling out you’d be cold if you weren’t shielded by the false warm aura of drunkenness. Acton and I had been in the C.I. for most the evening. There seemed to be some kind of commotion in front of the bar as we exited. In the street, a girl stood in the back of a parked pickup truck, her shirt disheveled. A boy had jumped into the back with her and grabbed her from behind. A protective hug. From the cheers of “do it again” and “nice tits,” I reasoned... (no wait, I was drunk) I guessed she had just flashed the people exiting the bar. Acton and I looked at each other. He was in despair that we had missed the flashing girl. (Flashing is on the list if you are a girl. It’s down near parachuting and eating sushi.) I had another idea.
“I’m going to streak.”
Acton, the smartest guy I know reasoned with me. “No way………… OK, where do you want to take off your clothes?”
We quickly shuffled down Court Street towards the corner. Athens has all sorts of hidey holes and twisting alleys. You can still find crushed beer cans with pull tabs in the bricked up, ground level windows back in those dark spaces. I needed a place to get naked.
The commotion of the guys yelling tits collected the attention of the cops. Their cop car stopped on Court Street a few feet in front of the sans tits truck. I think they wanted to do a show up and scare the kids away. It worked. The crowd dispersed. Little did they know that they had also halted my plans of disrobing.
Acton said, “Hey, let’s jump up and down on the hood of the cop car! We’ll split up and they’ll never catch us. Hell, they won’t even get out of the car.” That sounded like an even better idea. Those fat fuckers could never catch up with us. I can still envision it. American Graffiti color scheme. The shot is from the back seat of the darkened cop car. Motionless silhouettes of the cops as Acton and I gleefully jump up and down on the hood. All you see is my Converse and Acton’s beat up leather shoes bounding up and down. Pure joy.
But that didn’t happen. On the sidewalk, I gave up. “Let’s go home.”
We turned and walked back up Court Street away from the bars.
I’m not sure if it was the last beer finally wandering up and down my brain stem or perhaps I heard a couple of guys who saw the truck girl tits reminiscing. Either way, three blocks from home I changed my mind.
“Fuck it, I’m going to do it.”
And Acton immediately pointed, “There’s a stairwell… no wait, that alley.”
John followed me back. I stripped down and handed him my clothes. John handed me back my Converse. “You better wear these.” I put the shoes on.
Now, at this point, I want all streaking purists to just keep their shirts on… or off. Streaking is the act of running with your ass and frontal naked bits exposed. Don’t get all technical on me. Streaking, you can wear shoes. Especially Converse.
John said to give him a minute to run up the street so that he could watch. He bounded off with my clothes under his arm. That was an interesting minute. I stood there naked, arms crossed and jogging in place. I was almost waiting for someone taking a shortcut to turn the corner to see a naked guy in black Converse.
48… 49…. 50.. long enough.
I sprinted out of the alley, almost running into a couple.
“Hey! Holy shit!”
I ran across the brick street in a wide arc and down the side walk. At this point in the night, everyone is walking in the same direction, away from the bars. Groups of two, four and seven filled the side walk. I ran forward, slowing only to slip and dodge in between couples. As I broke through the crowds I’d shout, “Naked man coming through!” Shouts of, “Hey what are you… oh my God!” and laughter followed me down the street. It was pure joy.
I ducked down the alley by Acton’s apartment. I reached the back and climbed up the fire escape. Silent cops followed me, I was sure. In through the kitchen window and in a heap on the floor. I walked down the hallway and waited for Acton to come up. His laughing preceding.
Several friends sat in the front room and I did a quick lap through the room. Acton gave me back my clothes and I got dressed.
Everyone should go streaking at least once.
Ohio University. A night when it was short sleeves warm when you walked into the bar and stumbling out you’d be cold if you weren’t shielded by the false warm aura of drunkenness. Acton and I had been in the C.I. for most the evening. There seemed to be some kind of commotion in front of the bar as we exited. In the street, a girl stood in the back of a parked pickup truck, her shirt disheveled. A boy had jumped into the back with her and grabbed her from behind. A protective hug. From the cheers of “do it again” and “nice tits,” I reasoned... (no wait, I was drunk) I guessed she had just flashed the people exiting the bar. Acton and I looked at each other. He was in despair that we had missed the flashing girl. (Flashing is on the list if you are a girl. It’s down near parachuting and eating sushi.) I had another idea.
“I’m going to streak.”
Acton, the smartest guy I know reasoned with me. “No way………… OK, where do you want to take off your clothes?”
We quickly shuffled down Court Street towards the corner. Athens has all sorts of hidey holes and twisting alleys. You can still find crushed beer cans with pull tabs in the bricked up, ground level windows back in those dark spaces. I needed a place to get naked.
The commotion of the guys yelling tits collected the attention of the cops. Their cop car stopped on Court Street a few feet in front of the sans tits truck. I think they wanted to do a show up and scare the kids away. It worked. The crowd dispersed. Little did they know that they had also halted my plans of disrobing.
Acton said, “Hey, let’s jump up and down on the hood of the cop car! We’ll split up and they’ll never catch us. Hell, they won’t even get out of the car.” That sounded like an even better idea. Those fat fuckers could never catch up with us. I can still envision it. American Graffiti color scheme. The shot is from the back seat of the darkened cop car. Motionless silhouettes of the cops as Acton and I gleefully jump up and down on the hood. All you see is my Converse and Acton’s beat up leather shoes bounding up and down. Pure joy.
But that didn’t happen. On the sidewalk, I gave up. “Let’s go home.”
We turned and walked back up Court Street away from the bars.
I’m not sure if it was the last beer finally wandering up and down my brain stem or perhaps I heard a couple of guys who saw the truck girl tits reminiscing. Either way, three blocks from home I changed my mind.
“Fuck it, I’m going to do it.”
And Acton immediately pointed, “There’s a stairwell… no wait, that alley.”
John followed me back. I stripped down and handed him my clothes. John handed me back my Converse. “You better wear these.” I put the shoes on.
Now, at this point, I want all streaking purists to just keep their shirts on… or off. Streaking is the act of running with your ass and frontal naked bits exposed. Don’t get all technical on me. Streaking, you can wear shoes. Especially Converse.
John said to give him a minute to run up the street so that he could watch. He bounded off with my clothes under his arm. That was an interesting minute. I stood there naked, arms crossed and jogging in place. I was almost waiting for someone taking a shortcut to turn the corner to see a naked guy in black Converse.
48… 49…. 50.. long enough.
I sprinted out of the alley, almost running into a couple.
“Hey! Holy shit!”
I ran across the brick street in a wide arc and down the side walk. At this point in the night, everyone is walking in the same direction, away from the bars. Groups of two, four and seven filled the side walk. I ran forward, slowing only to slip and dodge in between couples. As I broke through the crowds I’d shout, “Naked man coming through!” Shouts of, “Hey what are you… oh my God!” and laughter followed me down the street. It was pure joy.
I ducked down the alley by Acton’s apartment. I reached the back and climbed up the fire escape. Silent cops followed me, I was sure. In through the kitchen window and in a heap on the floor. I walked down the hallway and waited for Acton to come up. His laughing preceding.
Several friends sat in the front room and I did a quick lap through the room. Acton gave me back my clothes and I got dressed.
Everyone should go streaking at least once.
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