I just found a piece of paper behind my desk that had the following things written on it:

Tape

Dooding (which I assume was supposed to be doodling)

County Music (which I imagine was supposed to say country music, but at least I didn't spell it cunty music)

Spinning Records

Singing

Paper Weights

There seems to be somewhat of a theme with these items, and then paper weight really threw me off. If anyone can tell me what in HELL these items have in common, and what may have been my motivation for making such a list, it would be greatly appreciated.

The Urban Sombrero

Caution: I'm really sorry if anyone is offended by this post, because I'll admit, it's a little racy. Mom, if you're reading this one, proceed with caution, and please forgive me.

Between being a dork in high school and college, and being in a long-term relationship, for many, many years, I was not too entrenched in the dating game for a long, long period of time. About three years ago up until the present time, I have found myself meeting a lot more women. I've settled down to where I'm only getting together with people I really like, but I had a bit of a selfish phase, which in my mind was well-deserved given the circumstances, where I was taking gals home of all shapes, sizes, and with varying degrees of sanity, intelligence, and overall respectability.

One of the most noteworthy things I noticed in my observations is that three commonalities kept popping up with these gals:

1. The belly button piercing.

2. The tattoo on the lower back, a.k.a. the "tramp stamp."*

3. The shaved, (ahem!). Excuse me.

When you're newly single, any one of these elements is really exiting, and all three is super-duper, but after a while it gets to be a little monotonous and contrived, like, "Okay, shirt off, there's the piercing. Spin her around to take the bra off, cause I'm drunk and it's easier that way, and sure enough, a tramp stamp." Then I'd see number three, and I'd lose my train of thought. I guess just about any time you're in the room with one of those, you really can't complain.

ANYWAY, I got talking to a friend of mine about the big three, and we decided we needed a funny term for that special lady who possesses all three distinctions, and I have my good friend and former roommate to thank for coming up with "The Urban Sombrero." It is actually a term used on Seinfeld for a type of hat, but we've really made the term all our own. You're free to use it . . .

So, next time you're at the bar, if a young lady bends over ever-so-slightly, and out pops a tramp stamp, think to yourself: 'I wonder if she just has that one element, does she have the respectable, or not so respectable, two out of three, or has she achieved the coveted status of "The Urban Sombrero?"'

* The Doctor does not believe any of his readers are tramps if they have a tramp stamp, since it's merely a term, and not a true sign of a tramp or any trampiness at all.

Lando Calrissian: Cloud City Entrepaneur or Everyday Cock-Blocker?

Empire Strikes Back came on HBO today. Let me get this out of the way, and then I'll get to the topic at hand. Remember When Han Solo was about to be frozen in carbonite, Chewbacca was freaking out about it, and Han has to calm "Chewy", his BFF, down, and he tells him to take care of the Princess? Now it's possible that I'm overly emotional from drinking three days in a row, which I admit does happen to me sometimes, but I was fighting back tears so as not to get busted blubbering by my roomies during that scene. That is equal parts nerd and pussy, wouldn't you say?

Anyway, Lando gets a lot of heat by Star Wars fans for turning over Han Solo, his long-time friend, to the Empire, which led to Han getting frozen in carbonite. However, Lando had little choice in the matter, and he does redeem himself in later scenes, and again and again in Return of the Jedi, the next installment in the Star Wars Saga. What Lando should get more flack about is his outright, unabashed, cock-blocking. The second Lando meets Princess Leia, he starts playing mack daddy on her. Never was there a conversation like, "Hey, this chick, is she with you?" No! He immediately says, "Hello, what do we have here?" I'll tell you what we have here, Lando: Blatant, intergalactic cock-blocking. Even after he sees Han holding hands, and it was clear they were an item, Lando still lays down his pimp-daddy vibe on her.

He's been called a scoundrel, he's been called a traitor, but here at The Gancer, the good doctor is going on record and saying that Lando is a blocker of cocks from his long, blue cape to his Colt 45.

Roomie Update

Some of you may know that I live with four other dudes, so I thought you all might get some insight into The Gancer by learning about who he lives with.

Master Bedroom (Upstairs): He works with computers. I'm not sure why this guy moved from the suburbs to the city, since he rarely leaves the apartment, or even his room for that matter, but he's a really nice guy. I will say, however, that he is slightly more outgoing than his black, very skiddish cat, who has never ventured downstairs.

Bedroom Adjacent to Mine (Upstairs): He's also in computers. This guy has been mentioned in a couple of previous blogs, and to be honest, I could easily update a blog daily that would be just about him. Last night I thought I was going to have a snow day at my job, so I drank a bottle of wine. Much to my dismay, I had to go into work with a whopper headache. Bedroom Adjacent to Mine drank half a handle of jack, woke up earlier than me, and he felt fine. I worry about him sometimes, and I wish he'd make some lifestyle changes, and lighten up on the explosive anger, but he's a loveable guy and a good friend.

Downstairs Bedroom: He went to any Ivy League school and now works for a publishing firm. Currently, he is really excited about a manuscript he's reading about murderous, hedonistic, sex-crazed wearwolves. I like him because he's a good guy, but I also like him because he has a quasi-girlfriend who's always cooking marvelous dishes, that we occaisionally get to part take in, like the badass shepheard's pie she made on Sunday.

Downstairs Double Door Bedroom: He recently moved here from California, and he now works downtown as a recruiter/head hunter. Great guy to hang out with, but I'm having to face the harsh reality that, despite the fact that he's younger than me, he's like the big brother I never had, kind of like Wayne on The Wonder Years, in that he's flipping better than me at everything from basketball to volleyball, both of which I'm painfully reminded of every week, since I play on teams with him, and his skills even exceed mine in the area of crossword puzzles. Come on?!!?

Well, you now a little about all five of us, since if you've read more than an entry or two, you know, perhaps a little more than you'd like to, about the misfortunes, mishaps, and misdemeanors that have shaped who The Gancer is today. An added bonus is I can post these descriptions on Craig's List to give prospective roomies some insight. Perhaps not . . .

The Iguana Story

When I was in Mexico a few years back, I met this guy named Brett from Indiana, who is one of the funniest guys, both intentionally and unintentionally, I've ever met. In fact, he provided me with a few of the expressions on my funniest expressions post, AND he gave me The Iguana Story, which I'm about to share with you, my beloved seven readers.

While he and I were sipping on our miami vice's, a mixture of strawberry dacquari and pina colada swirled together (you simply must try one of these), with his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a spider moving suddenly, and he wigged out. I asked him what was wrong, and with his southern drawl he responded, "I don't like fuckin' spiders. I hate when, like, you see somethin', and then it moves all of a sudden . . ." He then launched into the iguana story, to illustrate his point, and for that I am eternally grateful:

I had a pet iguana once, and when I was buying somethin' for it at the pet store, this dude working there was doin' like a demonstration, lettin' one of um' crawl all over him. Just as he's sayin' what docile creatures they are, or whatever, the thing bites into his neck, and blood spurts out everywhere. It was fuckin' messed up! I knew what I had to do: I had to get rid of my iguana, or suffer the same fate as the pet-store-dude. I read somewhere that if you just turn um' loose in cold temperatures, they die in a coupla' hours. So, I drove out miles away to an open field and turned the son bitch loose. About a month later I open up my gym bag to find an iguana in there, snarlin' and a' hissin' at me! I have never been so a'scared in my whole life. I quickly grabbed my book bag full of text books, and beat the motherfucker to death."

Well, that was The Iguana Story. It's been in the blog can for about a year now, and it seemed like a good time tell it. I swear to God, Brett was shaken up just telling the story. How did that thing find its way all the way back home and into his gym bag? I'm "a'scared" now too thinking about it! Well, seven readers, I hope that this Saturday evening finds you with your beers cold and your gym bags iguana-free.

Sincerely,

The Gancer

Football Enduced Depressions and the Drunk Dials That Accompany Them

The Bears losing the Super Bowl yesterday made me horribly depressed. I got a little cell phone happy too, as these statistics would indicate:

I called 3 ex-girlfriends and one ex-wife.

I then called my sister's husband and told him what a shit I think he is. His latest and greatest move was to bring his kids to his homewrecking girlfriend's house only a month or two into being separated, because that won't fuck with the kids' heads, right? I'm fuzzy on what exactly I said on his voicemail, but I remember saying, "I think you're a shit."

Now, if the Chicago Bears could have got as many first downs as I made dumb phone calls, we would be having a victory parade on Michigan Avenue tomorrow.

The guilt I had about this series of ill-advised calls inspired me to come up with the following brilliant idea: A cell phone that operates like those court ordered cars, so it won't work unless you blow an alcohol free breath into it.

What do you, my seven readers, think about this notion?