Oh NASA, What Will You Think of Next?

I know it's been FOREVER since I posted anything. There's a lot of ground to cover, but maybe some other time.

What really struck me as bizarre was an invention that NASA was working on to recycle urine on the space shuttle. I'm sorry, but I don't know if I could ever get over the knowledge that I was drinking something that used to be pee. Do you think that a wave of terror strikes the astronauts when they're filling their bottles from the tap? Or perhaps it's like my father told me they rationed water on the submarines when he served in the Navy. Keep in mind every ship my father served on is now a museum, but you could have unlimited shower time with seawater, but if you wanted to use purified water, it was wet down, turn off the water, soap up, rinse, exit. Maybe that's the case on the shuttle. If you want clean water, you can have a cup a day, but you can have unlimited ex-piss.

In an unrelated story, "water sport fetishists" were elated that they can get involved in the space aeronautics field without feeling like complete freaks. Come to think of it, they have been an under-represented minority on a lot of the manned space missions.

True Toughness Wears Aeropostale

I feel like I've got a lot of things to talk about. Maybe I'll have to break it up. I haven't posted in what seems like forever, but was motivated to by a "closet reader" who told me Sunday that she hadn't seen any posts from me in a while.

The thing that is sticking out to me most at the moment is a story I read about a nine-year-old kid in Bakersfield, CA, that saved a girl (12) and her dog from an attacking dog by putting him in a rear-naked choke that he learned in his jiu-jitsu school. First of all, how fucking brave is that kid? At nine, I probably would have crapped my pants and gone running home. I probably would have done something similar at nineteen! At least the pants crapping part.

What impresses me most about this is that the kid knew immediately that he should help this girl to keep her from getting killed. Then to jump in and subdue an attacking dog in a hold for a 20 minute period, according to the news story I read, is nothing short of incredible. This kid, Drew Heredia, is my new hero.

On the Yahoo message boards, there are all these douchebag meatheads talking about how his "technique must not have been all that great or the dog would have been dead immediately" and that really angers me. Did anyone stop to think that maybe he wanted to spare the dog's life and just subdue it until the authorities could come? Obviously if this kid at nine years old had the sense that he should rescue a young girl, did anyone stop to give him credit that he is a gentle soul who was just trying to stop an altercation from happening? If that is the case, then this kid has mastered the essence of jiu-jitsu in his two months of training. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is derived from Japanese jujutsu, which translates loosely as "the gentle art."

Speaking of dogs, I went to see Marley and Me this weekend. Wow. I'm pretty sure I bit a hole in my bottom lip trying to keep myself from openly weeping in the movie theater at the end of the movie.

****Spoiler alert*****

I knew the dog dies at the end, but I had no idea I would have to watch them put it to sleep. All I could think of was my little man and what it will be like when he eventually dies. Fortunately, he is just turning two on Friday, so we have some time left together. But, he should be kissing John Grogan's ring because he had a pretty solid weekend as a result of that movie. When I got home, I grabbed him and held him like he was made of gold. He got a new ball, some new rawhide chews, and some cookies.

So that's all for today. There are some other things on the horizon, such as the Ravens in the playoffs, the Fedor/Andrei Arlovski fight, and my snowboarding trip to West Virginia this weekend. Assuming I am not in full-body traction after the latter, I will hopefully have some good stories.

A Walking Stereotype

Here we have a rare weekend blog entry. I had to document the awkward hilarity from this morning before I forgot it.

I had made plans with Scotty Donahoo to go to the local shooting range to test drive my new Sig. I will admit that I chuckled to myself as I left for the gun range dressed in my John McCain shirt. True story, I also have a Bible in the back seat of my car. I guess this bitter white man is still clinging.

We go through two boxes of ammo each, and I have to say that I am thrilled with my purchase. Really smooth, easy trigger, good aim, etc. I did notice a distinct trend in my shooting in that most of my shots tended to sink low and left. Here is what I am talking about. You will notice that I am consistently hitting five point scores, but they're all in the lower left quadrant.



So, after shooting was complete, I decided to ask the guy who helped us what was causing my shots to pull in such a manner. He told me that I was most likely trying too hard to stop the recoil and moving the barrel down when I shot. He told me to take the unloaded gun and work on my trigger control when I was at home. His exact instructions were "if you have a bottle on the other side of the room, aim at that," or, pointing to my McCain shirt, "if you see someone on the TV you don't like, practice aiming at his face." I didn't know quite how to react to that. That's one of those times where I know it was a veiled attempt at humor, but holy shit. Scotty Donahoo and I shared quite a laugh over it in the car, but it was one of those almost uncomfortable "I can't believe what I just heard" laughs.

I guess the lesson learned today was that I am not nearly the crazy right winger I thought. Or at least not all the way down the scale. Wow.

Since I am posting, here are my picks for tonights winners at UFC 90:

Anderson Silva over Patrick Cote (Round 1-TKO)
Thiago Alves over Josh Koscheck (Round 3-TKO)
Fabricio Werdum over Junior dos Santos (boring match; decision)
Sean Sherk over Tyson Griffin (Round 2-TKO)
Gray Maynard over Rich Clementi (Round 3-Submission)

Still Clinging to My Guns and Religion

It seems almost divine that as I started typing this, the song "Telephone Line" by Electric Light Orchestra came on my iPod. Why is that divine you may ask? Because that song is the shit, that's why. The odds of it right now, based on the composition of my iPod, is 1 in 14,226.

I got an email from a reader earlier today asking why I hadn't posted anything in a while. I am just amazed that people read this. As for not posting, work has been a bit busy, and since I got relocated to a posh office overlooking the Harbor, I have felt as though I need to be a bit more on my game.

So, here's a question. Does it make me crazy and/or paranoid that I bought a handgun this week? This whole election has me worried. People are at a fever pitch right now and I am just convinced that we are in for some trouble. If John McCain wins the election, I think there will be riots in the inner-cities around the US. If Obama wins, which would be an absolute catastrophe, his rubber stamp liberal Congress will almost certainly challenge 2nd Amendment rights. Well, I am ahead of the curve on both and have a beautiful .40 caliber Sig Sauer P229 as my new roommate. I would be lying if I said I haven't held it and uttered some tough Charles Bronson line at least once a night since picking it up. Although, you can't coach blind vigilante justice. I have learned that over the course of my life. It's one of those things that just comes naturally.

While we're on the subject of Bronson, I hung out on Friday night with a girl who used to be a nanny for Alex Winter. Alex Winter is best known for his role as Bill S. Preston, Esquire, in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. However, I know him best as one of the 'creeps' in Death Wish 3. He was exquisite in that role. You know I read somewhere that Death Wish 3 is the "Citizen Kane of action films." You know where I read it? Right on this fucking blog. Although, I always thought Citizen Kane was a terrible movie, so I suppose that's a bad comparison. Midway through dessert with this girl, she also tells me that John Turturro used to live with her family. So, not only does she know Bill S. Preston, but she's cool with The Jesus, too. What's she going to bust out next? I used to tickle Warwick Davis?

I will do my best to post more regularly. There are some things we need to talk about, too. The collapse of Elite XC for one. My recent obsession with the Polyphonic Spree is another.

Inspiration, Move Me Brightly

So, I was talking to my brother-in-law earlier and he told me that he had his first cup of Starbucks today. Seeing as that he is almost 40, this was somewhat surprising to me. But, whatever, I don't remember him being a particularly big fan of coffee in the 20 years or so I've known him.

But, it was our conversation that yielded something that made me laugh harder than I've laughed in a while. He was talking about the type of drink, and said it had three pumps of mocha or something like that.

Immediately, my dirty mind is envisioning an interracial, coffee-shop themed porn movie entitled "Three Pumps of Mocha." I think it's got some legs. I don't know what the sequels can be. Maybe "Grinding the Ethiopian (Roast)" or "Cream in my African Red Bush." That's actually a flavor of Tazo tea; African Red Bush. Don't tell me that shit doesn't sound dirty.

At least I was able to make a funny and make myself laugh. I have felt like I'm spinning wheels recently. I think it's all the pre-election bullshit that is going on right now. It kind of consumes me, makes me irritable and then I don't care about anything else. All the name-calling and mudslinging and neither candidate is all that great. It frustrates me and makes my head hurt. You know, I read an article by Ron Paul the other day on CNN about the "bailout" of the financial industry. One of the greatest things I've ever read. How that man is not poised for a presidential landslide victory is beyond me. I guess it would make sense, and the fat cats in Washington won't have anything to do with it. Speaking of that, a GIGANTIC fuck you to Harry Reid. I tell you, if that son of a bitch was engulfed in flames, I wouldn't piss on him to put him out. That two-bit, backbiting weasel wants to adjourn Congress because "he doesn't know what to do" with the financial mess, and then sit and point fingers at Bush. Guess what assholes, you all knew about this. Hillary, who anyone who knows me knows I fucking despise as well, was talking a long time ago about the upcoming mortgage mess. But, it was at a small fundraiser and went completely unnoticed. There is blood on ALL of your hands. You have failed as leaders, failed every one of us who work for a living, and you sold us down the river for hundreds of thousands of dollars of lobbyist money and campaign donations from Fannie Mae (isn't that right Obama, Dodd and Kerry?) and AIG. Fuck you all. You have betrayed this country.

Wow, this post just took a bitter turn. Oh well, I'm going to take a painkiller and watch The Ultimate Fighter.

Talk About a Delinquent Blog Owner

I just realized that the last time I posted was right before I went to Africa. But, I get my site traffic, and I actually have visits from people; despite my not posting for almost two months.

Well, there is a lot to go over. I have over 50 pages of journal from Africa that I'm debating on whether or not I want to post it. I received some constructive criticism from a reader, who I will only refer to as Wes Goulet, that I should try to find other topics than my pathetic dating life and my propensity to surgery-requiring injuries.

So, as time is a little tight right now, I will put the onus on the few, the proud, my readers, to dictate the tone of the next couple weeks of posts. Do you want to hear about Africa? Do you want to hear about the four girls I went out with last weekend (true story)? Do you want insightful commentary on the upcoming UFC fights? Do you want my most embarrassing stories?

If I get no responses, which I am fully expecting, I will continue with business as usual.

Later bitches.

See You All Soon

It is unreal to even think it, but I am on the verge of leaving for Africa. I am cutting out of work in about an hour and will head up to New Jersey tonight and then fly out of JFK to Dubai in the morning.

At this point, I am drained. I haven't slept well in a while; I've got a mixture of percocet and malaria medicine running through my body; and I still have to lug 150 pounds of luggage 9,000 miles to the middle of nowhere Kenya.

If I have internet access, I will do what I can to post updates and let the people who read this know that I am at least alive and safe.

Hopefully, when I return, I will be wearing a pith helmet, a monocle, and a lion sash. Talk about classy.

One Year On

Today is kind of a weird day. It is the one year anniversary of my friend Chad's death. Like several things in my life at the moment, I can't believe it's been a year already, but in so many ways, I cannot believe that it has only been a year.

I still remember as clear as day seeing Chad for the first time at the viewing and then his funeral. I am pretty sure that was the last time I cried. I still get sad whenever I hear the theme music from "The Boondock Saints." I still remember showing that movie to Chad for the first time. While I'm not positive, I think that was when he came to my apartment for a weekend and we went to Night Shift (where he was convinced that these strippers were coming back to my place) and then this random Asian girl he knew came over. The next day was spent nursing a hangover and watching "The Boondock Saints." It was kind of like giving Hendrix his first guitar; showing Chad that movie.

At some point, I will probably dig out the piece I wrote about Chad right after I found out that he had died. I may post it, I may not. I think it's up on my MySpace account. I feel now like I want to reread it. I miss that kid.

But, I look at my life a year ago and I contrast it to today. It's amazing how things have changed. In the time since we lay Chad to rest, I have become a missionary; learned and competed in jiu-jitsu; gotten a new car; broken up with and subsequently stopped talking to Houston; also had failed relationships with Wedding Crashers (who I am going out with tonight, oddly enough), The Pharmacist, The Surgeon and Korea; re-done a room of my house and its exterior; turned 30; and increasingly isolated myself. My outlook has changed, my opinions have changed, I've got more gray hair, I'm much crankier about politics and the world (if that is possible), and I'm on the cusp of finally having a good foundation for my first book.

Life's a funny thing. Despite how much I've accomplished in a year, I can still safely say that I did not heed the lesson of Chad's premature demise and grab life by the proverbial balls. There are still so many things that I think, "Gee, I'd really like to do that some day." This next year for me will be one of adventure, doing what I want to do for a change.

Once more for you, Chad: "And shepherds we shall be, for thee my Lord for thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand; our feet may swiftly carry out Thy commands. So we shall flow a river to Thee and teeming with souls it shall ever be. In Nomini Patri et Fili Spiritus Sancti."

Closure

Lots of things have happened in the last 48 hours. Most notably: I need surgery on my shoulder and I ended things with The Surgeon.

I went yesterday morning for my MRI. I had a 7:00 AM appointment and had to be at the hospital by 6:30 to register and get to my room. Thankfully, some considerate neighbors across the street knew of my need to rise early, so they were kind enough to wake me with a LOUD domestic dispute at 3:47 in the morning. I was awakened to screams of "You don't know me, bitch" and other such kind phrases. I felt like opening the door and yelling, "You don't know ME because you would obviously know that I like to sleep at 3:47 in the morning." Regardless, I made my appointment on time.

Once I was in the MRI room and crammed into the opening of the machine, I had an actual mini panic attack. It was a weird flashback to when I was in 7th grade and my neighbor and I built an igloo in his front yard after a blizzard, which we later slept outside in. We had built a small tunnel off the main room that was supposed to lead to a separate room. To get to the other room to hollow out the inside, you had to slide on your back through this narrow snow tunnel. I remember going through it and feeling trapped and a sense of panic so I punched my way out of the tunnel (we did not end up building a two-room igloo). It was the same sensation when I was in the MRI machine this time. The last MRI that I had did not seem this traumatic. I eventually settled down and closed my eyes; pretending I was in a hammock in my backyard playing fetch with my dog while there was construction nearby.

After my horrific experience being stuck in a tube, I had to wait for almost two hours for my appointment with my surgeon. Quick aside: I read a first-person account of John McCain's time in a Vietnamese POW camp while I waited. Not only is that man one tough SOB, he's one of the most admirable men I've ever read about. He will be a fine president; even though I'm not in lockstep with his agenda. Regardless, he's still way more qualified than "The Empty Suit" Barack Obama. Carrying on: A resident came in to see me and did a battery of tests (many of which I did on myself and I self-diagnosed myself) and determined that I have a torn anterior labrum (same diagnosis as my self-diagnosis) in my shoulder. This is the same injury I sustained in my left shoulder, so at least I know what the surgery will feel like. It sucks that I won't be able to use my dominant arm for 4 to 6 weeks, especially given some scenery changes that might be coming down the pike for me. I got another shot of cortisone that actually seems to be giving me some relief. Those hurt so bad going in; so much pressure on the joint.

Last night, I went and got sushi with Nena at Sushi Hana in Towson. That place is a little bit awesome. We were quite the little piggies, but I will blame her for pushing us over the edge to full-scale gluttony. But, I vetted with her what to do with The Surgeon. I knew I had to quit running from it, and last night I had the talk with her.

The talk actually went pretty well. The strange thing is that my phone died right in the middle of starting to do it. So I had to call her back and be like, "Okay, sorry for the interruption. Right, now back to the breaking up." I just told her that I felt like we were at a point where it was time to make the decision to take it to the next level and that I didn't feel like there was a great fit for something long-term. I was sure to tell her that she brought a lot to the table, which she does, and she was really cool about it. She was like, "This is not the first time this has happened, and it may not be the last." It's weird because even though I was breaking up with her, I was doing it so awkwardly it was like she was reassuring me as I went through it. But, in any case, I feel a lot better having done it. Although, strangely, I felt a bit lonely when I woke up this morning; like I had lost something. I am not too worried about it; the feeling has faded.

That ups my failed relationship count in 2008 to 2. A girl that I have gone out with a couple times while dating The Surgeon will be back from Italy on Thursday and we're to meet up. Perhaps she's jockying to become #3. I hope not; she seems like a sweet girl. Plus, she looks like a mermaid.

Happy Bastille Day

Where to begin? Probably with a vague reference to a French holiday that is "tres stupide." It's been a while since I've updated this. I've reached a new pinnacle of craziness with a girl and I've also got a synopsis of my weekend full of "Weird" Al Yankovic. I'm not sure which is more entertaining and/or traumatic.

We'll start with craziness, because that is slightly more entertaining than Weird Al. So, let's get the back story down. I've been seeing The Surgeon for about a month now. It has been weird, though, because we have only had two one-on-one dates in that time. One was the first time we went out and one was dinner before we met up with my friends on another. The other times we were accompanied by her roommate and in several of the meetups, my friends. I guess the lack of one-on-one time masked how little I have to talk to this girl about. I don't know if it's because she's incredibly book smart, which usually translates to poor social skills, or if it's attributable to my rapidly being turned off by a girl who knows more about sports than I do.

So, as I was preparing to take my nephews to the Weird Al concert on Friday, I was trying to line up care for my dog. So The Surgeon volunteers to come by after she's done at work and let him out, which I actually think is pretty nice. That is until she adds, "that way I have a key to your house and I can go through all your private stuff." Okay. Gross. I wouldn't have taken it so seriously if she hadn't already admitted to having gone through my medicine cabinet and my linen closet on one of the first times she was at my house. I asked her what she was looking for and she responded, "there are a lot of dirty people in the world." Just to be a dick, I told her that I kept my Valtrex in the cabinet downstairs. (By the way, I must insert here that I was joking about the Valtrex and do not actually have genital herpes) So there's crazy points numbers 1 and 2.

Saturday, I had had a full day. Scotty Donahoo and I had gone to grab breakfast, headed to DC, came back and watched the Wladimir Klitschko boxing match. I was tired, not feeling too hot, and had a couple plans that I had tentatively committed to that I was supposed to go to later that evening. For some reason, I called The Surgeon to see how she was doing. I asked her what she was doing later in the evening and her response was, "absolutely nothing." Great, that's girl speak for "you better invite me out." So I told her that I wasn't feeling too hot and that I had some things I had committed to doing and that I'd catch up with her later. Her response was, "Well I guess I'll just sit and home and stare at your picture with misty eyes." Okay, at this point I'm imagining my dog in a pot on the stove. Are you serious? I mean, I'm flattered that someone digs me this much, but that to me is a psychotic thing to say. Regardless, she ends up at my house and it's uncomfortable, at best, between us. We watched the documentary "Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Prices" on OnDemand. (It's in the free movies, so do yourself a favor and watch it. You will never shop there again; which is something I haven't done in over 5 years) But there's crazy point #3.

I would solicit the input from Twink, Nena and Mrs. Meadows, who are the only girls I know who read this, but it's kind of a moot point. I know that I have to get rid of this girl. If you care to chime in with your interpretation, I would be interested in getting your take. It's kind of funny because I don't really know how to break up with girls. If I lose interest, I usually just stop calling or act like an asshole until she breaks up with me. But, too much time has passed and we've slept together, which kind of rules out stopping taking and/or returning calls. And I've dropped TONS of hints that I don't want to go out again, but she is not picking up the clue phone. I hate breaking up with girls.

So on a happier note, my weekend was chock full of Weird Al. I took my nephews to see him on Friday night and they had a blast. I would look over at them periodically throughout the show and they had wide eyes and beaming smiles. It was great to see. I guess this is why I know I'll be a good dad some day, but I saw those smiles and looks of childlike glee and it made every cent of the $180 the tickets cost worth it. I have seen a ton of shows in my day, and I will say that musically, his band might be the best I have ever seen.

Because I had gotten the tickets through the Weird Al fan club (fuck you, he's extremely creative), I got an email telling me I had been selected to go to a private "Artist Confidential" studio session at XM Satellite Radio studios on Saturday. I jumped at the chance and went down to DC. They opened with "Canadian Idiot;" a spoof of Green Day's "American Idiot." There was a Q&A session and the host, George Taylor Moore, has one of the greatest radio voices I've ever heard. People came from as far away as Tel Aviv, Israel, to see this session. Perhaps we should have Weird Al moderate the peace discussions in the Middle East.

So that was my weekend: a dichotomy of stalking. Me stalking Weird Al down the Eastern seaboard, and The Surgeon turning stalker-ific on me. Great.

Fireworks and Firearms

Well, it's official. I resigned from my jiu-jitsu school on Thursday. I had been fighting it for a while, but it got to the point where my shoulder has made it impossible to compete in any fashion. I am having trouble sleeping; I can't pick up my niece or even my dog without wincing; and I am in pain at pretty much all points during the day. This will only end with surgery and I am going next Tuesday to get an MRI to formally diagnose this and to get my THIRD cortisone shot in the joint since February. Surgery is going to be shitty because it is my dominant right arm and because I am already missing most of August from work to go to Africa. Plus, there may be some changes on the horizon for me which would make being in a sling a big pain in the dick.

The 4th of July weekend started off with a bang. Literally. Not the good kind of bang, but the kind of bang that involves my neighbor's 15-year-old driver, a minivan and the side of my car. I had a knock at my door and my neighbors are standing there and the mom says that they have some insurance information for me and that the daughter hit my car while parking. Unbelievable. I haven't even had my first oil change on that car and it already needs a new bumper. Sweet. Plus, the insurance agent won't return my call; and it is some fly-by-night insurance agency.

The rest of the weekend was pretty solid though. The Fish came down from Philadelphia and we had an impromptu party at my house on the 4th. I cooked for everyone and got to practice grilling vegetables. The Fish has a disease called PKU which basically means he can't digest protein and has to basically eat vegetables and pasta. One of the other attendees was also a vegetarian, so I grilled squash, asparagus and sweet potatoes. I mixed them with a blend of olive oil and thyme and they turned out pretty damn well. Better watch your job, Bobby Flay.

Saturday was the quintessential man's day. The Fish and I went to the the gun range and fired three boxes of ammunition; much to my shoulder's dismay. Not to brag, but I am a fucking wicked shot. I haven't seen shooting like that since Paul Kersey mowed down The Giggler in Death Wish 3 with his Wildey gun. Only in my case, the figurative Giggler was a faceless body target 25 feet away and my Wildey was a Sig Sauer P-229. The Fish is going into law enforcement, and the Sig is the standard issue gun. Whatever, he can go by the rules and I will just live my life by the code of blind vigilante justice.

Saturday evening was the Quinton "Rampage" Jackson vs. Forrest Griffin fight. I think I am in the same camp as everyone when I say that I imagined Forrest getting his ass handed to him by Rampage. I was certainly pulling for Forrest because I have never been a huge fan of "God's Street Soldier;" even though I absolutely loved seeing him beat Chuck Liddell.

The fight started and Rampage landed a couple solid shots to Forrest's face and it looked like it would be a quick match. Only, Forrest fought right back and landed a couple solid shots and then a wicked kick to Rampage's exposed lead leg. This tactic was basically the foundation of Forrest's attack for the remainder of the fight. He softened up Rampage's leg to the point where it weakened his striking ability because his speed was diminished and he wasn't able to pivot as effectively on the bad leg.

At a certain point in Round 2, I was convinced that Forrest would get a highlight-reel caliber stoppage on strikes. He had Rampage mounted, but couldn't get clear enough shots and Rampage continued to "intelligently defend" himself. It was right around this time that I was almost giddy with excitement that Forrest might win this fight.

The feeling I had watching this can only be described using an analogy to old school Nintendo. I remember playing Mike Tyson's Punch-Out as a kid and being able to beat Mike Tyson. But, when fighting Tyson, if you were not insanely vigilant the entire fight and got caught with one punch, it would be curtains for you. The feeling I used to have fighting Tyson was the feeling I had watching the Forrest/Rampage fight. I could clearly see that the guy I wanted to win was leading, but the opponent was one that could knock you the fuck out with one clean shot. The mixture of nerves and adrenaline is almost impossible to describe, but it made for great entertainment and salvaged an otherwise dreadful fight card (with apologies to Chris Lytle and Josh Koscheck for the entertaining bloodbath they delivered).

Mindless

Can anyone say "Jump the Shark?" Fresh from the "Thank God. Now I Can End My Hunger Strike" file comes news that they are apparently resurrecting the Beverly Hills, 90210 franchise on the CW. To that I say: finally. They are bringing back Brenda Walsh; most likely to be a raging bitch again to keep it within Shannen Doherty's acting range.

They are also bringing back Kelly Taylor as a guidance counselor at West Beverly High School. This is probably a good idea because anyone who gets trapped in a fire, gets hooked on diet pills, hooked on cocaine, goes to rehab, is stalked by a person from rehab, is shot, has amnesia, has a miscarriage, is date raped, has a traumatic home life complete with a drunk mother and a Jewish dentist step-father, joins a cult, then shoots her rapist while she feuds with Brenda and fucking Kelly Kapowski is certainly a leading candidate to help kids keep on the straight and narrow on the mean streets of Beverly Hills. To find a more qualified candidate for guidance counselor, you would probably have to go to Bayside High where Samuel "Screech" Powers was an ace guidance counselor and assistant to Mr. Belding for Saved By the Bell - The New Class. Does my love of mindless television know no end?

Speaking of mindless television, I have to say that the Tim and Eric Awesome Show is rocketing up my list of favorite mindless TV shows.

Some of the better skits usually involve comedian Zach Galifianakis.

Here is the Gravy Robbers training video. Gravy Robbers is a restaurant in which the wait-staff's mission is to steal as much gravy from customers as possible. What a brilliant concept. Not to mention, it will change your pronunciation of the word "gravy."

VIDEO REMOVED BECAUSE I GOT TIRED OF IT AUTO-STARTING EVERY TIME I OPENED THE PAGE.

Honey, Let's Sell the Children, Move to Zanzibar and Begin Taking Opium Rectally

That's for you, George Carlin. You will be missed. I will tell you this much, I'd gladly trade Carlos Mencia and Dane Cook to have you back.

On to the weekend that was. Walter and I went to Sonar on Friday to catch the Fishnet Stalkers. It was the drummer's and other guitar player's last show with the band. It was interesting to see the setup at Sonar because they had a half-pipe set up and kids were skateboarding through the set. Kind of a novel concept, but I realized in pretty short order that I do not care for skate kids; except McLovin' from my jiu-jitsu school who I ran into there. He's a pretty nice kid.

I am confused, however, by what appears to be a disturbing and utterly stupid new trend. Well, it's not all that new, but I think the hats with the brims completely flat are assinine. Even worse are when you see some scumbag/hoodlum/degenerate walking around with the tops of their ears tucked into said hat. What the fuck is that? Maybe if you were trying to hide an ear like this, it would be different:



Now that I've done my best to sound like a grouchy, out-of-touch old man, I think I need to take a minute to talk about the Amir Sadollah/CB Dollaway II match at the finale of TUF on Saturday night. Anyone who reads this blog, knows I think Dollaway is a whiny bitch. But, Saturday took his bitchiness to the next level. To tap, have the match called, and then act as though nothing happened while complaining vociferously is incredibly poor sportsmanship. Amir clearly had a deep armbar in and CB clearly tapped out. It wasn't a "I was trying to get my balance" tap; it was a full tap of about three taps on Amir's leg. To see a humble, respectable guy like Amir win it was a nice change from the epitome of douchiness Mac Danzig and guys like Travis Lutter before him.

Saturday was the night of an incredible coincidence. I went out with The Surgeon for the third time. She and I were supposed to grab dinner and then head to Boordy for the concert series there. But I got a text from my friends saying it was $17 to get in and over in an hour and that they'd meet us out. We met up at The Kent and my friend's wife kept saying how familiar she thought The Surgeon looked. After some brief conversation, it was determined that The Surgeon had examined my friend when she was in medical school; as my friend has a fairly rare heart condition. How weird is that? Goes to show how incredibly small this city is.

Well, that's all for me. I need to get out of here. I am going to jiu-jitsu tonight and try to work out my shoulders, which have been abnormally shitty recently. This may be a bad idea.

Scream For Me Baltimore

"Scream for me, Baltimore" was the mantra of Bruce Dickinson at last night's Iron Maiden concert at Merriweather. In what was billed as a Greatest Hits Tour, the show certainly lived up to its reputation.

In typical Maiden fashion, there was a highly involved stage set-up that invoked memories of the Power Slave tour. There was a sandstone wall across the whole stage with steps leading up both sides to platforms and a catwalk across the top. Dickinson, the youngest in the band at the age of 49, raced up and down these steps, and across the catwalk, with the energy of a man half his age. As a backdrop, various curtains painted in Maiden motif - ranging from The Trooper to Power Slave to Ed Hunter - and were shifted throughout the show; based on the song they were playing at the time.

They opened with a scorching version of "Aces High" and set the tone for the night. When the band launched into "The Trooper," Dickinson ascended the catwalk dressed in his finest Torrie jacket; waiving the Union Jack high. One of the highlights of the night was the epic "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," which, at over 13 minutes and with long solos, provided Dickinson a little respite from the energetic set. There were fog machines, the creaking sounds of a ship, and an ominious knell in the gloomy stage setting. Solos by the guitar triumvirate of Dave Murray, Adrian Smith and Janick Gers (who bears a striking resemblance to an older Skwisgaar Skwigelf from Adult Swim's "Metalocalypse")were righteous and not over-the-top; a theme prevalent in all of their offerings for the night.

Notorious for the use of stage props, Maiden didn't disappoint at all and spared no expense. A giant demon appeared stage right after the Vincent Price intro of "Number of the Beast" and was surrounded by flashpot pyrotechnics erupting in time with the "6-6-6, the number of the beast" chorus. There were fireworks, and explosions, and fog machines. During the "Hallowed Be Thy Name" encore, a 25 to 30 foot cyborg Ed Hunter puppet walked out on stage armed with a laser gun and walked amongst the band with an eery likeness to life. But, the pinnacle of the stage prop usage was the giant mummy Ed Hunter that appeared at the end of "Iron Maiden" to close the set before the encore. The curtains pulled aside and this mammoth mummy could be seen clawing at the band before finishing the set with a huge breath of sparks that shot across the stage.

All in all, the night was like being in a time machine and being vaulted back to 1984. The crowd did not disappoint in preserving the 1984 aesthetic with their sleeveless denim jackets, combat boots, black jeans and curly mops of long hair; just with few more grays and bald spots. In an encouraging sight, Dickinson called out the youth of the crowd at one point having anyone under age 26 raise their hands, to a huge response. With a large portion of the crowd not having been born at the time of the release of the debut album, one must wonder if that is what is keeping the band young. The gentlemen in Iron Maiden certainly do not act their age as they parade around the stage with youthful abandon and Dickinson hit vibratto high notes with operatic grandeur that would incite jealousy from a conservatory student. Whatever it is keeping them going, one can only hope it remains and will lead them through subsequent Greatest Hits tours.

Long Time No See

It's been a little while since I posted. Things have been insanely busy at work and at home.

So, I guess the big story is that I turned 30. It's not that big a deal to me, but it is one of those significant birthdays. I don't feel any different than I did at 25. If anything, I feel a lot better. I live a lot better, I make a lot more money, and my white hairs interspersed make me look very stately. And what did I do to celebrate this landmark birthday, you may be asking? I got a speeding ticket and had an adverse reaction to my Typhoid vaccination. I really rolled out the red carpet for myself.

The weekend was interesting. I went to a wedding of a good friend on Saturday. I was in the wedding as a reader. At the reception, I was seated between a girl I had known for most of my life who I had drunkenly nailed one night at an Octoberfest party some years back and a girl who would close out Saturday night blowing me in the passenger side of her Civic on the side of the road over a bridge over I-83. I sometimes wonder how I get myself into these situations.

Sunday was Father's Day and I had lunch with the whole family. I also received my birthday presents, of which the highlight was probably the CD "Hulk Rules" by Hulk Hogan and the Wrestling Boot Band. Trust me, it is every bit as bad as it sounds; but is probably the funniest CD I own. I also got a bunch of books to keep me company on my 20 hour flight to Africa.

I went out Sunday night with a girl I've recently started seeing (not the one from Saturday). Even better was that we met up to watch the Celtics/Lakers game. She bought me dinner and then we went back to her house to watch the rest of the game. Did I mention she's a general surgery resident at Hopkins and a cancer researcher? A cool, down-to-earth chick who is going to have significantly higher earning power than yours truly. Someone pinch me please. We are supposed to go out again on Friday.

Today yielded one of the funniest conversations between me and the girl on the other end of the line at my vet. Here is a synopsis:

Me: Hi, I need to bring my dog in. He's got a terrible rash on his chest and hives on his hind legs.
Vet Girl: Okay, can you bring him in today at 4:45?
Me: Of course. I really appreciate it.
Vet Girl: You used to date my friend Kelly.
Me: (dumbfounded) Oh?
Vet Girl: Yes. And once I thought about it, I realized that you and I had gone out a couple times.
Me: Yeah, it's a small world, isn't it? You ready for it to get a little smaller? I used to date the daughter of the owner of that hospital. He went to school with the doctor seeing my dog today.
Vet Girl: So, have you slept with my sister or any of my cousins, too?
Me: Uh, what are their names?

I swear this is as close to the actual conversation as I could recreate. I am not creative enough to make this up. It's a weird sensation to think that the person taking care of my dog has at some point, or at multiple points, had conversations about my penis. Oh what a tangled web we weave.

So that's it. I need to go fetch the little man and take him to the vet, and hopefully they get on with it quickly. I'm going to fucking Iron Maiden tonight. Awesome!

A Weekend Full of Ghosts

Can I start off by saying how much I hate the heat? This is bullshit. Three consecutive hundred degree days and there are still 14 or 15 days until summer. It should clear out today, though. At the very least, there should be some badass lightning storms.

On to the weekend. It was rather busy. Friday was a happy hour with folks from work. It was the first happy hour I've been to in almost two years. I felt bad leaving the pup in his crate for another hour, but it was good to get out. I met some folks that I've only known through email or the phone at work, so it was good to network. One seemed kind of douchey; kind of trying to be Johnny Hardcunt. Or so it came across.

After happy hour, I met up with Walter and got introduced to his new roommate. Seriously, I'd rather be broke than have to live with a guy like that to make ends meet. The guy is a 39-year-old mechanic that has two kids, and seriously will not shut the fuck up. I've known some people who are really talkative (some have put me in that category), but this kid was seriously idiotic. I've had more intelligent conversations with houseplants and retards. He kept waxing lyrical about Nickelback's prowess as a band, which gives a lot more creedence to my theories around judging people by the music they listen to. There are a handful of bands that I could list, and if you say you like them, I can usually deduce that we will not get along. Other actual conversations with this guy were about how "Pfizer was putting poisonous chemicals into bottled water and the Bush administration ignored it because they had appointed people to Pfizer" and listening to him brag about his $700 bong, new motorcycle, new television, how good he was at Guitar Hero, and his new motorcycle jacket that he had finally discovered a couple additional zippers. I give this two months, tops, before Walter boils over and throws him out. I'm being VERY generous with my estimation.

Saturday was a pretty productive day. I had breakfast with Scotty Donahoo and then we stopped by some new barber shop because I was starting to look pretty "woodsy" with my out-of-control hair and beard. There were TV screens everywhere, and on one of them was the episode of Tom & Jerry with Jerry's guitar-playing uncle who comes to visit and keeps using Tom's whiskers to replace his broken guitar strings. It reminds me so much of my friend The Irish Pitbull, who died last July. It seems unreal to me that it's been almost a year he's been gone.

Saturday afternoon, I met up with some guys to watch the UFC fights at Hooter's. I was pissed because Brandon Vera got robbed, but I was pleased to see Michael Bisping wreck shit all over this guy "Dooms" Day and was elated to see Thiago Alves knock Matt Hughes the fuck out. Matt Hughes is a great fighter, but I cannot stand his personality. I was really happy to see him on his back, bleeding, and unconscious. Alves is the shit.

Saturday night was my friend's bachelor party. We went to Max's on Broadway and then to the Gentleman's Gold Club. The Ghost of My Past reared his handsome head that night, too. I think it was probably because everyone I was with was beer snobs, and it started with a Modelo on this bus that drove us around all night and then a couple Shiner Bocks at Max's that went down a little too easily. By the time I got to the Gold Club, I was about 4 beers deep; or roughly the equivalent of my intake in 2008 so far. I had not been to a strip club since The Bull's bachelor party, and I didn't really miss it. Make no mistake, I dig seeing naked chicks as much as the next guy, maybe even more than the next guy, but strip clubs are such as waste of money. To save time in the future, I will probably just set fire to a couple hundred dollar bills. The funniest thing about strip clubs is you see the underbelly of marriage. They always say a guy is as faithful as his options, but it's interesting to see a guy who is, ostensibly, happily married with a couple kids professing his love for some stripper with a dragon tattooed down her hip. Nobody is cheating at the strip club, but it's just interesting to see the animalistic response of the prospects of some "strange." It reminded me of the South Park where Bebe grows tits and all the guys start barking anytime someone gets close to her. I did make friends with our waitress and picked up her number, but I doubt I will even make an attempt. I can't imagine my kids asking me one day about how I met mommy and the story even remotely involving the Gold Club.

Yesterday I did wake up with a hangover, but nothing truly debilitating. I also discovered one of the best songs I've heard in a while, just hiding out on my iPod. Among the more than 14,000 songs that are on my iPod, it's not surprising that I could miss a couple. The song is "Thirteen" by Ben Kweller. I listened to it on repeat for probably four or five cycles on my way home last night. It's kind of wussy, and for some reason, it made me strangely nostalgic for Houston. I do not miss her at all, but this song reminded me of her for some reason. It seems weird that it's been almost a year since we split.

Now it's on to brave the heat and go grab some lunch. I have a hunch I will not be very productive tonight. It's hard to be when it feels like Saudi Arabia outside.

A Rancorous Friday

What a crazy week it's been. I've been getting crushed at work, the stock market's gone crazy, the price of oil has skyrocketed even further, and I have effectively accomplished shit this week.

So, crude oil hit $139 a barrel today. I remember when there was a cataclysmic feel after Hurricane Katrina and oil hit $70 a barrel. For those who say that this isn't a bubble, look no further than the rationale for the jump being some analyst's prediction that oil would touch $150 by July 4. Seriously, I'm reminded of Abby Cohen and "strong buy at any price" for Yahoo back in 2000. In any case, I am reminded every time I fill up how glad I am to not have my Jeep anymore. The Subaru isn't totally fuel-efficient, but it's a lot easier to stomach a $50 fill-up versus the $80 fill-up that the Jeep would require.

From the files of "thank God someone finally said it," they announced today that the world's nations needed to invest $45 trillion to combat "global warming." What a bunch of unadulterated horseshit. It's bad enough that this junk science is already fueling food shortages, increased taxes, and increased environmental legislation, but now we have a price tag attached to Al Gore's foolishment. Seriously, assholes, how much more ridiculous can you get? The best part of all of this whole "global warming" debate is that since none of the doomsday scenarios have materialized, it is now being labeled "climate change." So basically, you're wasting billions of taxpayer money to fund studies that say that the weather changes over time. This is basically something that any 10-year-old can tell you. Remember, New York City used to be buried under glaciers and Greenland used to be a booming agrarian economy. Things change over time. Good God, people are complete sheep in the environmental whacko crowd.

It was announced this morning that Bob Dylan was backing Obama in the upcoming election. Well it's about fucking time that Bob Dylan weighed in. I was wondering how the electoral gears continued to turn without his valuable insight into the election. You think they actually understood what he was saying? Perhaps it was just a re-worked version of "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" that was misconstrued as an endorsement for Obama. Not a knock against Bob Dylan, he's a fucking genius, but I get so sick of the media picking up Hollywood's endorsements of Democrats and making it some big, grandiose story. Well, I hope Bob's royalty checks have dried up, because guess what Mr. Zimmerman (Dylan's real name: Robert Zimmerman, for those not in the know), your tax bill will likely double if this Marxist Obama gets elected. I don't think my country could possibly be that dumb, but we did sign on to 8 years with Clinton and 8 with W.

On this morning's Sportscenter, it was announced that Darren McFadden signed a 6-year, $60 million contract. This means that McFadden, who has never played a down in the NFL, makes more money than Frank Gore, LaDanian Tomlinson, Jamal Lewis, Willis McGahee, Clinton Portis, Edgerrin James, Stephen Jackson, Willie Parker, Joseph Addai, and pretty much every other back. The RBs making more: Larry Johnson and Reggie Bush; and guess what, Reggie Bush is fucking terrible. It's about time that the NFL implement a max salary for rookies to remove this bullshit of some wet-behind-the-ears kid who comes in and makes more than any other player on his team. For once, the NBA is actually doing something right! Make these kids hungry, make them scrap, make them earn the big payday. I'm sure Jake Long is a talented kid, but should he be making more than Alan Faneca, Flozell Adams, Matt Light, Jon Ogden, etc? What has he ever done, beside excel in the college game to warrant a large payday. Quit letting the agents run the game, Roger Goodell. Stop this horseshit and reward the veterans and make the rookies hungry.

This week's episode of The Ultimate Fighter made me wonder why the obvious favorite on the show, or at least in recent years, is always a complete douche. Last year it was Mac Danzig, who was a complete douche and this year, it's uber-cocky C.B. Dolloway. I hope Amir beats the piss out of Dolloway. If not, I'm sure Jesse Taylor will ruin him in the final. Or at least I hope. That is presuming that Taylor runs right through Tim Credeur. I like Tim a lot, he's a scrappy guy and has a great attitude, but I don't think he has the tools to take down Taylor. Speaking of Taylor and TUF douches, Jeremy May is lucky that he didn't get his shit wrecked this week. What an asshole that kid, Jeremy May, is to set out to try to get Taylor kicked off the show by getting him to hit him for calling him a "fucking Jew" or something like that. I hope with every fiber of my being that they put May on the TUF finale against somebody and he gets ruined. Now I know why my BJJ instructor got bypassed for inclusion in the show, despite making to the final selection round. It's because he's not a cocky douche. With the fights he's taking locally and all the training he's doing with the Migliarese brothers in Philly, I'm sure he'll be a force to be reckoned with in the future.

So that's enough pissing and moaning for a Friday. I've got a team happy hour in about 20 minutes and a bachelor party tomorrow that will involve me going to a strip club for the first time in probably two years. I just hope I don't get propositioned by some stripper with National Geographic-like tits to go to the basement of the strip club for $150 to do "anything and everything." That will have to be a future story. Have a good weekend.

The Fix Is In

What a great weekend for sports, for the most part.

Friday marked the resurrection of the Celtics/Lakers rivalry in the NBA Finals. I think this is going to be one of the better, and certainly one of the most watched, NBA Finals in recent years. Make no mistake about it, I am upset that the Spurs are not having a chance to continue to add titles to Tim Duncan's resume. For those wondering about my allegiance to San Antonio, I first met David Robinson when he was a junior at the Naval Academy. My old man, USNA '60, used to take me down to the games and we would meet up with the players after the games and we used to always go to the alumni banquet with the football team. I met some really great guys that have come through the Naval Academy; Roger Staubach, Napoleon McCallum, David Robinson, Coach Paul Johnson (now at Georgia Tech), and more recently WEC Light Heavyweight Champion Brian Stann, who was just a 2nd string LB when I saw him at Navy. That aside, I am very excited to see the Lakers/Celtics series. I think the Celtics have been coasting through the playoffs, and I would like to see them turn it on and get KG, Paul Pierce and Ray Allen a title. There are certain guys on LA that I enjoy watching as well (Derrick Fisher and Pau Gasol), but I cannot root for a team that has Kobe Bryant on it. Maybe it's because he raped a girl; or maybe it's because he wanted to bail on his teammates at the beginning of the season because they weren't winning; or maybe it's that I just don't like his smug attitude. In any case, go Celtics.

Saturday, I went to the Orioles/Red Sox game. I went with some friends from work, and it was hysterical watching the interaction of two beligerently drunk Baltimore boys talking shit to all the Boston fans at the game. I think the highlight was definitely this 13-year-old kid in front of us that bitched out one of my friends for cursing and making comments about girls' "hungry butts." I did get to see Manny Ramirez's 500th home run, and got some pictures of it on my iPhone. I need to extract them and see if they are worth saving at all.

Saturday night was also the debut of Elite XC MMA on CBS. I am sad that I missed the love of my life, Gina Carano, dismantle some girl. But, I also wanted to see the extremely over-hyped Kimbo Slice take on James "The Colossus" Thompson. What I saw were several things: 1. The worst fix I've ever seen in a fight; 2. The worst cauliflower ear I've ever seen in grappling; and 3. An embarrassing performance by someone who was supposed to resurrect and reinvent the sport.

To a degree, I understand the need for CBS and Elite XC to fix the fight. They both had invested millions into the fighters and the event, and received millions in advertising dollars from sponsors (seriously though, who takes seriously a MMA show sponsored by Burger King?) for what was billed as a sure-fire way to get in front of the coveted 18-34 male demographic (okay, now I see the BK sponsorship). Part of this is just stupid business practice by Elite XC. The announcers made it clear that Kimbo Slice was earning "well in excess of $1 million" for the fight. Really? BJ Penn, a bankable star, the UFC lightweight champion and winner of the headlining main event at the last pay-per-view, got $250K for winning his fight. And you mean Kimbo deserves over $1 million for his third MMA fight?

As for the fix, all I will say is this: If in any other fight a person demonstrated control through a leg-scissored right arm, a trapped left arm, had the opponent's head pinned against the cage, and was raining elbows on them, it would be stopped unequivocally. Additionally, if in any other fight a person was staggered with a couple solid blows to the face and the ref jumped in and called the match without the person ever A) going to the ground or B)ever being knocked out, there would be a mutiny. But then again, there haven't really been times where an organization's survival was dependent on the victory of an outmatched opponent; incidentally, whose ass was being handed to him by a guy who had lost seven of his last nine fights.

On the other hand, the sport of MMA had wind put back in its sail by a brilliant card by WEC last night. The Urijah Faber/Jens Pulver fight was probably the best lightweight fight I've ever seen. Five rounds of teeing off on each other with each one taking the best of the other. It was like an MMA version of Mickey Ward/Arturo Gatti (Version 1.0). At the end of the fight, though, Pulver's face closely resembled Sloth from The Goonies after absorbing tons of right hooks from Faber. But, the match emboddied the two fundamentals of jiu-jitsu/MMA: scrap and sportsmanship. It was great to see.

Finally, I'm sick of hearing all this cockiness about Big Brown and his "inevitable" Triple Crown. Fix your hoof, Barbaro, or you'll end up like Eight Belles; who is probably in the last batch of food I got for my dog. Big Brown: I liked you as a horse; I LOVE you as an adhesive.

Think About Your Dad. Wanna Meet That Dad.

First off, this is the greatest Sports Illustrated cover ever. The simple answer is: yes, they must.



This week has been absolutely crushing with work load. I am under a tight deadline for something due later today, but I need to flex my brain on something completely unrelated to the world of investments.

Recently, I was reintroduced to one of the greatest television shows ever: The Tim and Eric Awesome Show on Adult Swim. If you have not seen this show, go to Adult Swim's website and watch some clips. You may find it stupid or you may find it fantastic. I watch the show and wonder how high someone had to be to come up with some of the skits; "Gravy Robbers," the half bat/half owl toy for kids called B'Owl, Pierre's public service announcement about properly refrigerating meat, and John C. Reilly as Dr. Steven Brule. Let us also not forget David Liebe Hart and his puppet, Salame.



Watching the Pistons and the Celtics duke it out in the NBA Playoffs has made me strangely nostalgic for Bill Laimbeer. Unfortunately, he is coaching in the WNBA and was not available for comment. WNBA, Bill? You go from the nastiest, dirtiest player EVER to coaching a team in the WNBA. Is there anything more worthless than the WNBA? If I wanted to watch a game of bounce passes and layups, I would be a good uncle and go support my 10-year-old nephew as he played rec basketball. But seriously, how cool is it that all signs are pointing to a Lakers/Celtics final? This is making me strangely nostalgic for Sega Genesis.

The highlight of the day today was the one-two punch of REO Speedwagon into Styx on whatever radio station they were playing at the cafe where I had lunch. For those who see that and think I live a very sad life, you're probably correct.

In disappointing news, I found out that probably one of the greatest/cheesiest concerts will be happening the day I fly to Dubai. Get this: Motorhead, Judas Priest, Testament, and Heaven and Hell (featuring Ronnie James Dio). I don't know what would be better with that concert: the people or the music. I am always amazed at the number of dirtballs, scumbags, and overall degenerates that come out of the woodwork for metal shows. My only question is what these people do during the day? What do metalheads do when they're not rocking? Around my office and in the general area downtown here, I don't see too many fingerless gloves, sleeveless denim jackets, leather jackets with fringe on the arms, combat boots, or torn jeans; so it's pretty safe to say they don't work around here.

In closing, here is a nice picture of Lemmy. This is fantastic.

Survey Says

I got an interesting phone call last night. After The Fish and I spent about an hour bitching about how destructive a Barack Obama presidency would be, discussing the Real World Hollywood, making fun of how lame we are for even acknowledging the Real World Hollywood, and discussing what a bunch of scumbags the Kennedys are, my friend Merrill called me about her upcoming wedding. She asked me if I would read a passage at her wedding. Fortunately it's not one of those Wiccan weddings where you're at the altar buck-naked with a sickle, so I agreed. The piece I am to read is "On Guard" by Marge Piercy. I had suggested something by RATT frontman Stephen Pearcy, to go along with the last name theme. Merrill shot it down, unfortunately.

Wedding staple:



So sayeth Stephen Pearcy. Thanks be to Stephen Pearcy.

This week has been busier than I initially gave it credit for. But at least I have a long weekend to look forward to. I am super pumped for the UFC fights on Saturday night, and The Fish is coming into town for a night. I am slated for jiu-jitsu early Saturday morning, potentially the target range in the afternoon, and then the fights on Saturday night. Fighting, guns, and more fighting. Holy hell, I think I just pooped my pants at how awesome Saturday is going to be.

In additional news, a brief moment of loneliness thinking about all these people getting married made me succumb to the advertisers of eHarmony and fill out this questionnaire that was roughly twice as long as the paperwork for my mortgage for my "free" personality test. If you measure cost by opportunity cost, the free questionnaire probably cost me about $150 in other shit I could (should) have done. At least the test results are pretty accurate. Survey says: I am awesome, my personality is awesome, my sense of humor is awesome, and I think a box was checked saying I had rugged, but boyish, good looks. Quite a dichotomy, I know. But it's true. It's fucking true. Well apparently old Dr. Neil Clarke Warren, in all his cap-toothed glory, thinks I mesh best with these bucktoothed skanks with Bells Palsey and club feet. I think I'll save my membership money, Doctor. At least my awesomeness was certified by an independent arbiter. I can now refer to myself as "certifiably awesome" and be truthful in every possible way.

That's about all I have for today. I am pretty bored and disenchanted at work. Money kicks ass, but at a certain point, the fire just goes out. I hope it's just a rough patch; most days I do enjoy what I do. Maybe I just need to clear my head, take a day off, kick somebody's ass, shoot at inanimate objects, and then watch other people kick other peoples' asses. I think I feel better.

Bars Are Very Confusing Anymore

Before I get into anything else, I need to discuss something wonderful that I saw on Friday night. We all are familiar with the skill cranes that used to, and probably still do, populate arcades, bowling alleys, mini-golf courses, brothels, etc. I saw probably the most incredible version of the skill crane on Friday night. Instead of some poison, Made in China stuffed animal as a prize, you are trying to grab a live lobster. It is $2 to play and if you get the lobster, they will cook it for you. What a fantastic idea. I will say, though, that after $36, the novelty wore off and I felt like a complete shithead, since the lobster is only $20-something on the menu. This concoction was also situated right next to Big Buck Hunter. Geez, why not just ask me to set fire to a pile of money.

Shine up that Nobel Prize:



Also on Friday, I was reminded how different I have become. I don't get out to bars all that much anymore, and when I do, it is usually for an abbreviated stint. But, since it was a friend's birthday and I had volunteered to use my non-drinking powers for good and act as designated driver, I was in it for the long-haul. While I did enjoy the company of friends and spent a good bit of time chatting up this girl, I felt really out of place in the bar setting.

Since Maryland recently passed the smoking ban, it is nice to leave a bar and not reek of smoke. However, it is not nice that: A) you can no longer fart anonymously in a bar and B) the stench of smoke has been replaced by stale booze, vomit, and excessive cologne/perfume worn by the other patrons. In a way, the health risk and dry-cleaning bills were almost worth it to avoid that.

So, I know there is a gang epidemic in the next town over from my hometown. I know the demographics of the county have changed. But, my question is when it became cool to wear your hair like Carmine Gotti. That shit might fly in Sea Isle City or Wildwood or really anywhere else in New Jersey, but don't bring that into small-town Maryland. Holy shit you look dumb. The only thing that was missing was a gob of rub-on tan to make your face glow like an Oompa Loompa. I don't know what's worse: the cavalcade of "Keeping Up With the Gottis" look-alikes or the roided up Chaunceys that were all over the place being generally uncivilized and douchey.

Basically, on Friday night, I felt like Morgan Freeman in "The Shawshank Redemption;" post-parole. It's been so long since I've been in a bar that I'm confused as to how to dress, how others dress, what is cool and fashionable, and why the fuck you would leave the house with your hair looking like a Jersey scumbag. Fortunately, my night didn't end with a noose and an etching on the wall that said, "Red was here, too." Although, if the God-awful band would have played one more No Doubt cover, it just might have.

Horse Racing - The Sport of Kings?

This weekend is Preakness and I had someone earlier this week ask me if I was going. I went to Preakness exactly once, in 2002 I believe, but I will get into that later.

For anyone who is not familiar with Preakness or has never attended one, it is probably one of the most depraved, disgusting events in the United States. Apparently, there are horses there, too. As part of the Triple Crown, the Preakness is hands down the shittiest and most classless of all the races. To use a Biblical analogy with the Three Wisemen's gifts: the Kentucky Derby is gold as it is classy, refined, and prestigious; the Belmont Stakes is the myrrh as it is somewhat worthwhile as a commodity, though not nearly of the prominence of gold; and the Preakness is the frankincense as is it is basically useless and, for the most part, smells terrible.

For starters, Pimlico Racetrack is located in a pretty shitty part of Baltimore. There are some areas on the outskirts of Pimlico that are decent; a friend of mine lives about a mile from there and his neighborhood is nice enough. But, basically, the racetrack is surrounded by the projects. I believe the infield opens at around 8:00 AM, which is ridiculously early. As you walk to the racetrack, which seems to take FOREVER, you are constantly hounded by the local kids with stolen shopping carts offering to haul your beer for $10. I actually admire the entrepreneurship.

Once inside, it's like some sort of shanty-town and the debauchery begins. You walk across the track that has been graced by some of the greats of racing's history, and also the guy I went to high school with that jumped on the track and tried to punch the horse, and onto the grassy infield. Radio stations are set up, bands are playing, and absent from everyone's conscience is actual horse racing.

The time I went, we got to the infield by about 8:30 AM and immediately set up camp and started drinking. I had finished the 30 pack I brought by noon, and was literally deranged from the mixture of alcohol and the sun. There were contests on the radio station stage and there were girls flashing their tits EVERYWHERE -- and very rarely were they the kind you say, "Boy am I glad I got to see those." Probably the most annoying part of Preakness are the people who just throw full cans of beer into the crowd; a practice called "beer bombing." I don't think I got hit with any, but that's just really stupid. The port-o-pots are also horrific, when they're not being run across on top by a drunk reveler. They usually fill up by about 2:00 PM and afterward, a cesspool of piss and shit forms in their general vicinity. Without fail, some drunk chauncey always thinks it's cool to roll in the "mud." Hope you're current on your vaccines, buddy.

Probably the worst part of the time I went to Preakness was losing my voice completely, and then having a job interview the following Monday for a management position with an insurance company. Not only did I not get the job, but I didn't even get a rejection letter or phone call; which I have learned from my current firm is not all that rare. Thought it was a bit surprising, seeing as my sister lined me up with the interview. I lost my voice after climbing all over a collapsible picnic table that my group brought and leading the crowd around me in, of all things, Hacksaw Jim Duggan chants of "Hoooooo!" and "USA! USA! USA!" Oh the logic of a blind-drunk 23-year-old.

Another highlight of the day was the father of one of the guys in our group who came along and passed out in a lawnchair. We stacked stuff on him and poured water on him, and it was right around that time I found some random beer on the ground that was covered in dirt (probably a beer bomb). In my infinite wisdom, I picked it up and chugged it and got a mouthful of dirt along with the beer. I immediately began projectile vomiting all over the infield, which was immortalized on film; though I never received the pictures. I'm sure they'll surface one day if I run for political office.

So, congratulations Baltimore. You're the proud recipient of 100,000 deadbeats, degenerates, and drunks this weekend. I'm glad I'll be out of town.

In closing, this is the funniest thing to come out of Canada since...um...that funny thing that came out of Canada. This is comedian Jon LaJoie. Hysterical.

The Saga of Westchester

Apparently, there was a volcano erupting in Chile recently and the picture below was captured of a lightning storm in the middle of the eruption. I only include it because it is one of the best pictures I've ever seen.



Now on to other things. I was going to finish writing about the wedding in Philadelphia, but it's pretty pedestrian. I did meet a super badass girl, with whom I've traded a couple emails subsequently. But, I'm fully expecting it to go nowhere and just leave it as a cool girl at a wedding.

I traded a couple emails with The Bull yesterday since he was such a central theme to my tuxedo jackassery, and I thought I would share my favorite story featuring The Bull as a supporting actor in my post today. I am not quite sure when it was, but I would have to guess sometime in late fall 2005 when The Bull was living at my house.

Walter and I had gone to see Los Straitjackets at the 8X10 and proceeded to drink them out of their entire stock of Pabst, Natty Boh, Miller High Life and then Magic Hat once all the shitty stuff was gone. Needless to say, I was ripshit drunk when I left the show, but I was feeling like I still wanted to keep the party going. I called The Bull on my way home and told him to meet me outside and I'd pick him up to go to Padonia Station. I arrive home and just stop my car in the middle of the road and get out and start peeing in the middle of the street in front of my house. My other roommate at the time, Van, was out on the front porch smoking one of his horrible Black n' Milds. He yells to me, "What are you doing?" to which I respond at the top of my lungs, "Not peeing in the street." Mind you, this is about midnight and I'm sure there were some windows open. I guess my bullshit neighbors I have now are karma for me being such a lout to my previous neighbors.

So The Bull comes out and we go to Padonia Station, and he forcibly informs me that he's driving. Probably a good idea. I didn't have any business standing up, let alone being behind the wheel. Once we arrive at the Station, I immediately end up running into a group of people I had known from some time ago and try to make some inroads with this girl who was once super hot; but was really knocked down a few pegs by excessive drinking in college and general self-loathing. The years had not been kind, but a healthy drunken glow compensated nicely. My attention is diverted from this girl when one of her friends arrives and, I think, makes some sort of "Anchorman" quote. I'm immediately sucked in. We start chatting and playing drunk grab-ass, ultimately exchanging numbers and leaving for the night. At this point I have absolutely no clue what this girl's name is, so she is simply dubbed Westchester. She was entered into my phone as Westchester and remained Westchester for as long as I knew her. In any case, she and I text back and forth all night and set up a time to go out later the next week.

We go out a couple times and she's actually a really cool chick. Kind of a guy's girl, if that makes sense. Someone who digs sports and Will Ferrell movies, but is still attractive and feminine. She also was completely into me, which is why I feel so guilty about what an asshole I was a couple years on. Probably the funniest thing that happened in this relationship was the night of the dining room painting.

Somehow, I sucker The Bull into helping me paint my dining room on a Friday night. It was one of those projects that was just nagging me and I knew I didn't want to do it myself. So I text Westchester and ask her what she's up to that night. She, naively, responds "Nothing. You want to meet up?" to which I reply, "How would you feel about helping me paint my dining room?" For some reason, probably because she really was a sweet girl, she agrees to come over. I call her a bit later and ask her to bring beer. So she shows up with probably every beer that was in her fridge and she even stopped on the way to buy more. She jumps in and starts painting, and she, The Bull and I work from about 8:30 PM until about 1:00 AM. So we're outside grabbing a smoke at about 1:00 AM, and I ask her, "So, are you going home or are you trying to stay here?" She responds, "I guess I can go home," to which I respond "Oh, I was hoping you'd say that. I'm tired and don't want to have to entertain you." As I type this, I am horribly embarrassed for what a dick move that was.

So she leaves, and I come inside and look at the finished dining room. I see her areas and notice that she's gotten paint on my electric socket and has missed a couple spots. Upon seeing this, I begin complaining loudly to The Bull about her shoddy workmanship. How ungrateful.

If I saw this girl today, I would apologize up and down. She was probably one of the coolest all-around chicks I've ever dated and I completely ruined it. She gave me the benefit of the doubt way too many times. Perhaps my tendency to get fucked over by girls is karma coming to roost for poor little Westchester.

Karma. It's a bitch.

******Epilogue (For the benefit of Sisto)*******

So, the aftermath of this was pretty benign, for the most part. We talked a couple more times and I definitely nailed her a couple more times. It was about as good a setup as you could have. She would go to the bar with her friends and I would go to the bar with mine. She would call or text when leaving, or vice versa, and she'd be at my house when I got home. I'm still not sure whether or not it officially ended, but I do know that both of our names stopped showing up on caller ID.

The funny part of this is that I was ordering tickets on Ticketbastard a while after she and I stopped talking, and it had her information saved, including credit card, from the Mars Volta tickets she had bought for me. Yes, you heard that right--a girl, and a fairly good looking and normal one at that, bought me Mars Volta tickets and went with me (I believe this was our second or third date). The mischievous asshole in me wanted so badly to buy whatever it was I was buying with her credit card, but stealing was never really my thing; even if meant in jest. You know, that good-natured stealing.

Ironically, the last time I saw her was in Target. I was with my friend, Nena, who I think reads this blog. She will also probably laugh that her name is Nena. I rounded the corner into the DVD section with wanton disregard for whatever crapsack was standing there looking at the latest installment of the Madea series, and who emerges from the CD racks but Westchester. It was one of the more awkward run-ins I've had; at least because I felt so damn guilty for what a shithead I had been. Even worse is that Nena is much prettier than Westchester, and I'm sure she assumed I stopped calling her because I found someone prettier. Maybe not. Who knows?

Back in the Saddle: Part 1

After a strange week of ER visits and a trip to Philadelphia, I thought I would catch up on some of my writing.

I am presently reading a wonderful book called "A Fighter's Heart" by Sam Sheridan. Basically, a child of privilege goes from boarding school to the Merchant Marine Academy to Harvard. After graduation, he captains a yacht from Boston to Australia; making enough money to sustain himself in Australia. He then goes to Thailand to train muay Thai at the Fairtex Academy. After Thailand, he travels to other places learning fighting techniques of different disciplines; among others the Militich Camp in Iowa--which has produced many UFC stars including Matt Hughes and Tim Sylvia. The book is very well written, which is a nice change of pace for fighters' books. Matt Hughes' book is unfathomably painful to read. It sounds like the ramblings of a 10-year-old. Sam Sheridan demonstrates his Harvard education and puts together quite an interesting read.

So, it's been busy the last couple days. I got a bad case of cabin fever on Wednesday night and went to the mall and bought an iPhone. In typical fashion, they announced today (literally today) that they are putting out a new and improved model in June. Oh well. The phone is pretty badass, and it's nice to check my email and fantasy baseball scores from my bed in the morning.

Thursday, I went to Philadelphia for the rehearsal dinner for my friend Espy's wedding on Saturday. I wasn't sure what to expect, but we ended up having a great time. I still was pretty heavily dosed on medication, so I bagged it up early on Thursday night. I had trouble falling asleep, but that was probably just the narcotics. They do strange things to you.

Friday, I drove around Philly with Espy; checking out the Italian market that Rocky ran through in Rocky I and hitting up a traditional corner deli in South Philly. I am absolutely falling for the city of Philadelphia, but I would blow up if I moved there from all the good food. I met up with my best friend from college, The Fish, who lives up the hill from Espy. I rolled out from dinner to go to Day Dreams, some seedy strip joint right off 95 that is supposed to be awesome, but ended up just going to Espy's parents' place because he wasn't really feeling going out. Just as well. I haven't been to a strip club since probably mid-2006 at The Bull's bachelor party.

Saturday comes around and it's time to start getting ready for the wedding. Of course Men's Wearhouse fucked up my tuxedo. I have not had a single occasion in which everything fit properly in my tux. The shirt sleeves were too short in the shirt and jacket, despite what the guy in the store said and the vest was too small.

Being in a tuxedo reminded me of some of my greatest screw-ups that have come in tuxedos:

1. November 2006: The Bull's wedding. This was right around the time I quit drinking, but I certainly got after it at the wedding. The evening culminated with me riding a mechanical bull at some honky tonk in Pittsburgh, while still in my full tuxedo.

2. July 2004: Billy's wedding. No joke, I easily took down about 6 or 7 bottles of red wine. The evening culminated with me jumping into a large fountain at the reception site, much to the amusement of the crowd, the shame of Billy and his wife, and with much urging by The Bull. Supposedly photos exist, but I have yet to see any. At least photos don't exists of the purple vomit stain I left on my parents' back yard when I finally woke up about 11:00 AM and just leaned my head out of their sunroom to hurl in the backyard. In a word: classy.

3. May 2004: Scotty Donahoo's wedding. I was the best man, and gave a nice speech about how I told Scotty to not buy an expensive ring and how he should have just gotten her an oversized foam hand that says "You're #1" on it. Part of my speech featured me actually giving the bride an oversized foam hand. Somewhere, there is a picture of she and I together at the wedding and she has the foam hand on. Priceless. So that evening culminates with me slipping on carpet while carrying two large glasses of wine I conned out of the bartender because I was furious the bar was closing. I emerge from my fall covered in red wine, but that does not deter me from going out to Padonia Station afterward; still in my wine-soaked tuxedo. Ironically, The Bull is sitting on the other side of the bar and before he even knows it's me, is audibly heard saying, "Look at this jackass in the wine-soaked tux." It became even funnier when he realized it was me.

So basically, the moral of the story is that I was previously an irresponsible drunk when I donned a tuxedo. Espy's wedding would be different.

To be continued on account of my being tired of typing.

Health Scare 2008, Or Something Less Dramatic

For me, Monday night was spent in the ER with an IV in my elbow. I had pain in my abdomen that started Saturday morning, that I alluded to in Monday's post. Turns out my appendicitis was actually his less-evil cousin "epoploic appendigitis;" or benign swelling of the appendix. I was pleased that I didn't have to get emergency surgery, but I am a bit arsed that I still have a defective appendix in my body. Fingers crossed that this doesn't blow up again when I'm in a remote village in Kenya; regardless of how cool an airlift would be.

I checked myself into the ER at about 7:15 and did not even get triaged until about 8:00 or 8:30. I then waited another hour or so and they drew blood and put an IV in me. They were testing the blood for an elevated white cell count to see if my body was fighting infection and the IV was for the contrast dye for my CT scan. As it turns out, the location of the pain coupled with an elevated white cell count was probable cause for appendicitis, which necessitated the CT scan. They sent me back out to the waiting room with an IV in my left elbow for probably another 2 1/2 to 3 hours.

It was around 12:30 AM when I was finally taken back and put in a room; at which point I was pretty sure I was going to have emergency surgery. They put me on an IV drip of hydrating solution (I hadn't been able to drink anything for about 6 hours at this point) and antibiotics. They asked about the pain, and I said that I was okay as long as I didn't have to breathe or move. That prompted them to give me an injection of pure magic. I don't know what the painkiller was called, but holy shit, I was in heaven after my second dose. The nurse (who was incredibly good looking) told me it was ten times stronger than morphine. Dear Diary: Jackpot.

I was excited about finally getting some medical attention and was prepped for my CT scan. They gave me the contrast liquid to drink and I was thinking that I might actually be heading somewhere with treatment. After quickly chugging the liquid to keep things moving, the girl says to me, "Okay, well I'll be back for you in two hours after this has a chance to start working." Great. This was at 1:30 AM, so I was prepared for a long night.

I was finally discharged at about 5:00 AM and sent home with a prescription for 800 mg Ibuprofen and a batch of Percocet for the pain. I called my parents to see if they could come down and tend to my dog so I didn't have to go to bed at 5:30 and get up at 7:00 to feed him and let him out. I awakened to them downstairs, playing with the dog. My mother had organized my family room, cleaned my kitchen, done a load of laundry, and then proceeded to make me breakfast and lunch before taking me to get my prescriptions filled. I don't care if you're 5 or 55, there is nothing better than your parents, particularly your mother, taking care of you when you're sick.

So here I am Wednesday, preparing for this wedding in Philly that I am headed to tomorrow. My pain is subsiding and now all I want is to go to bed. I can feel this Percocet kicking in and it's a mixture of bliss and regret; because I have work that I need to do. Maybe a quick nap won't hurt.

Raise Your Hand If You're Mexican

Didn't think so. Today is another in a string of days that I find generally infuriating; bullshit holidays from other cultures that frat-boys and other assholes latch onto for no other reason than to get ripshit drunk. Who actually knows the roots of Cinco de Mayo? Well for those who don't have the inside scoop, this "holiday" commemorates a victory of the Mexican military over the French in the Battle of Puebla in 1862. So, let's get this straight: an annual cultural celebration in rememberance of a military victory over France. Well, perhaps I should start annual celebrations of the time I beat my 5 year old niece in Trivial Pursuit or that time I beat that Amish guy in a car race. Not to belittle the cultural significance of this to the Mexicans, but maybe beat someone like the Germans, the Mongols (stupid Mongolians), or the Russians, and we'll be in business.

Not a military stalwart:



Other random notes:

1. I think I may have appendicitis. Although, if I'm not sure if I have it, then I probably don't. All I know is that I have a horrible pain in my mid and lower abdomen on the right side. I called my doctor and in typical fashion they balked at my coming into the office and instead instructed me to go to the Emergency Room since that is where they'd send me anyway. Good job, guys. Now please spell Hippocratic Oath.

2. This weekend was pretty stellar. An old friend, Zia, was in from Colorado and it was great catching up with her; as well as some mutual friends with whom I had not spent much time. There was a house party (without Kid, Play, Bow-Legged Lou and B-Fine) on Friday night, with maybe 8 people that showed. Then I met up with Zia and Jackie on Saturday and went to The Book Thing, caught lunch at One World Cafe (where we sat next to John "Gomez Adams" Astin, a Charm City resident), and then we went back to my house to play with my dog for a bit. We all grabbed naps and met up for dinner at Grill Art in Hampden and went to Frazier's to catch a burlesque show. We ended up leaving Frazier's after about 30 minutes and going back to Jackie's house.

3. I gained a whole new respect for The Black Keys this weekend. The reason we left Frazier's after 30 minutes was because of an absolutely atrocious two-piece band. Holy crap these guys were bad. In a long list of shitty two-piece bands, these guys are the worst; worse than Local H, Death From Above 1979, Growing, and The Pulsars. Hearing this made me admire just how insanely good The Black Keys are as a two-piece.

4. On the way out from Frazier's, I walked right past this girl who used to work with me in college that I threw the high hard one to in the front seat of a Saturn in the parking lot outside where we worked. We passed like ships in the night. Those types of encounters always make me borderline uncomfortable, but strangely nostalgic of less complicated times where drinking and screwing were the top two priorities.

5. The anniversary for my parents was a great time and my speech absolutely slayed. As I said, if there's one thing I know how to do, it's charm a room of old people. Regardless, the event was a success and my parents had the time of their life; which was all we were really hoping for. 40 years. I couldn't commit to smoking cigarettes for more than 10 years; and those are addictive.

Friday I'm in (fill in emotion)

You know, I want really hard to have a chip on my shoulder right now. I'm pissed off royally about my job and I feel I have had my career damaged as a result of the bitching of others and irresponsible attribution of that bitching by another. My boss, who I have written about previously as being the coolest boss I've had, has essentially thrown up his hands with my colleagues and told us to go fend for ourselves. Great. Now we have no buy-in from management. It's a debacle, at best, and I'm furious about it.

However, I must temper my anger with what has been a really solid week. I reconnected with an old friend on Tuesday, got free tickets to the Orioles game on Wednesday (and got to see them get annihilated), and went to the WTMD First Thursday concert last night. Met up with a friend of mine and a whole bunch of his friends and then we all went to the Mid-Town Yacht Club afterward.

As for the weekend, an old friend is making her much anticipated return to Baltimore. A bunch of us are meeting up tonight for a party, then she and I are supposed to go hit The Book Thing in the morning and find some miscellaneous jackassery to get into over the course of the day. Sunday is the official 40th wedding anniversary party for my parents, and I still need to prepare my speech. I'm sure it will slay. It there's one thing I can do, it's charm a room full of old people.

In an unrelated note, the rumors about John Travolta's sexuality have been confirmed; or at least his mustache is really trying to out him. Or, perhaps, he is portraying Glenn Hughes (the biker from the Village People) in some sort of bio-pic. Seriously, John, the wife and kids aren't fooling anyone.

Up Yours, Verizon

It's been insanely busy at work. I usually can find time, or rationalize why I should find time, to do stuff like write in this blog.

Working in the corporate world, I must say that there is nothing that amuses me more than when a corporation completely screws the pooch on something and looks like an asshole in front of customers. A great example is when my firm was hosting a conference call for our clients on one of our products and the dial-in number that was sent to, literally, thousands of firm clients was a link to a sex-talk line. It's not as funny in that instance because it could potentially affect me, because it's my company, but it was still pretty funny when I imagined all these stuffed-shirt clients getting an earful from a sexy woman's voice on the other end of the line. Although, in actuality, it was probably some 300 pound woman in her apartment; like most phone sex operators.

As far as blunders go, Verizon has moved to the front of my list of recent additions to stupid mistakes. I remember reading about FIOS in a tech blog a long time ago and thinking how cool it would be to get it installed in my house. Then a colleague of mine got FIOS and was as giddy as a Japanese schoolgirl when it was installed. I tried to see if my house was eligible, and it was not yet in my neighborhood. Perhaps my neighborhood's "working class" reputation lowered it in the priority chain at Verizon. Fast forward a couple months (which puts us at about two weeks ago) and I come home to find a flyer on my front door saying FIOS is now available in my neighborhood. I forget about it until yesterday when I see a commercial on TV. I call the number listed on the commercial and guess what, "You have reached a non-working number at Verizon." Really, assholes? You're going to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars for a television ad campaign and not even give a working phone number. So, I find the flyer that was on my door and call the number on the back of it and guess what, "We're closed now. Please call back at another time." Glad you want to appropriately staff a sales team to sell a product that you sunk several billions into installing. Apparently the "FI" in FIOS stands for "Fucking Incompetent."

As I was typing this, I was actually able to get through to the company after failed attempts using two numbers (given by the company) and the website which instructed me that service was not available in my area, despite the flyer on my door instructing me that it was. The woman who helped me was very nice, and surprisingly American. After 16 minutes on the phone, I found out that only internet and phone (which, who the hell under the age of 35 uses a land phone anyway?) are available. The woman told me that I'd have to "just keep trying back to see when everything was available." Of course. Let me block some time on my Outlook calendar.

Incidentally, the 300 pound phone sex operator reminds me of a pretty good story. The year 2001 was when I first really started using the internet. AOL was all the rage, and I used to get random IMs that would come through from people who would browse your screen profile and message you based on common interests; or just being drunk and/or lonely. So I get an IM this one night from some girl, I think her name was Sarah. We end up talking over the course of a couple days. She's a student at the local music conservatory and lives downtown and wanted to hang out. I figured why not; I had just graduated from college and was just taking a month off to decompress.

So we meet up, and mind you this was before the days of widespread digital camera use in order to share photos, and I see that this girl is disgusting. Not cankles and a club-foot disgusting, but still pretty butt-ugly. But, I can't very well shreik and peel wheels out of there; though in hindsight that would have been a good plan. So we go somewhere and have a painful and awkward conversation, when all of a sudden, she looks at her watch and is like, "I need to get to work." By this time it's like 1:00 AM on a Wednesday, and I was a bit perplexed as to the nature of her work. So I inquire. Big mistake. She was a phone sex operator. So, to summarize, I was picked up online by a hideous music student who I was too nice to reject to her face who turned out to be a phone sex operator. Awesome. Wouldn't mama be proud.

Have I Heard Of It? I'm Using It Right Now

Despite my best efforts to make it upstairs last night and actually sleep in a bed for a change, I of course fell asleep on the sofa trying to watch South Park. I will say the one this week with Cartman and Butters sneaking out of a field trip was hysterical. I've been to those corny places with historic actors and the South Park spin on it was, of course, brilliant. The downside to falling asleep to Comedy Central is the terrible infomercials that run all night.

I usually am a sucker for infomercials. If I'm channel-surfing and I see an informercial, I'm usually a deer in headlights. I don't know what it is about the Little Giant, the Magic Bullet, Joy Mangano's Rolly Kit, or America's favorite chef Tony Notaro that enthralls me, but I'm usually down for watching. However, the worst, and I mean the WORST, infomercial is for ExtenZe; which of course was running at about 4:30 this morning when I started drifting in and out of sleep. ExtenZe is an herbal supplement that is designed to "enhance a certain part of the male body." Well, being a man, I can safely say that I have a bunch of parts. I get the vague allusion to my penis, but come on, how gullible are people. But, the worst is the completely contrived "man on the street" interviews that they offer as evidence as to why you should buy these stupid pills.

Interview 1: A bunch of frat-boy looking guys playing basketball by the beach. A hot girl with a microphone approaches and asks them if they've ever heard of ExtenZe. "I'm using it right now" is the immediate response from one of the guys in the group. The girl looks naughtily at him and asks about his experience and how quickly it "worked." He indicates that it worked within the first 24 hours and that he feels a lot bigger "down there."

So basically, this guy has admitted in front of a hot girl and all of his buddies, who will presumably rip him mercilessly, that he has a tiny dick and is taking vitamins to make it bigger. Good job buddy. I think chicks would more readily bang the guy from the Valtrex commercial or the incontinence pad print ad campaign. Way to throw the cockblock on yourself for the $50 they gave you for the ad appearance. Not only are you advertising a small unit, but you're also advertising to the world that you think a bunch of herbs will actually make a part of your body grow. You, sir, are a complete disgrace and should be put to sleep. I hope that Admiral's Feast at Red Lobster that paycheck bought you was worth it.

Fast forward to a busy street in Anytown, USA. Couples are walking down the street, holding hands, gazing into the dreamy eyes of their partner, when all of a sudden a microphone is shoved in their face and they're asked if they've heard of ExtenZe.

Interview 2: Some guy who looks like he probably played A LOT of Dungeons and Dragons in high school with some unfuckable hag on his arm. "Have you heard of ExtenZe?" they ask. "I'm using it right now," is his awkward response; which he delivers with the conviction of someone answering the question, "For $1000, can I punch your wife in the tit?" With shame in his voice, he informs us that it makes him feel like more of a man and that his troll wife is pleased with the results. Great job, ExtenZe. You've made a nerd and his disgusting wife happy with your magic penis growing pills.

Interview 3: A black dude and his girl. ExtenZe is clearly an equal opportunity pill. It's just not for the gangly and the nerdy. Or perhaps it's to say that the magical powers of ExtenZe circumvent even the oldest stereotypes.

Bottom line, I cannot believe that people are so dumb as to think a pill can grow you a new penis. It's also amazing to me the demographic that is being targeted here. I can imagine that strategy meeting. "Okay folks, we're looking to prey upon the insecurities of needle-dicked insomniacs." It's ridiculous. I guess P.T. Barnum was right; there is a sucker born every minute. But then again, I hear old Mr. Barnum needed ExtenZe to raise his "tent."

As a fun sidebar, this reminds me of the only thing I remember from 10th grade US History. It was told to us that if you rearranged the letters in the name of the former Vice President, Spiro Agnew, you could spell "grow a penis." With public education like that, thank God my parents could afford a private college.

Philosophical Friday

Bullfight critics ranked in rows

Crowd the enormous Plaza full.

But only one is there who knows

And he's the man who fights the bull.

I read this in the book I started the other night "A Fighter's Heart" by Sam Sheridan and found it rather wise. Apparently, this is a quote that John F. Kennedy used to carry in his wallet. I have never been a fan of a Kennedy, so this was news to me. In any case, this is such an appropriate saying for so much of life. Your life will always be filled with critics and people who want to armchair quarterback your life for you; but ultimately, the only one who truly understands the situation is you yourself.

Another week has flown by. I at least feel like I accomplished some things this week. I met up with an old friend on Monday; I got a good training session in on Wednesday, and still have the sore nose and busted lip to prove it; and I got my lawn all taken care of last night. I also have been using my bodly like a pin cushion this past week; having gotten vaccines for polio, hepatitis A and B, yellow fever, tetanus, andMMR. I am almost done, though, and they last for 5 years or more. So, if I decide to dedicate more time to Africa, I at least will be able to go without worrying too much about indigenous diseases. I am having lunch today with a colleague who went on a similar trip to Africa last year. It will be interesting to get his perspective.