Mrs. Noisewater and I are going to miss some things about this apartment.  Hearing the drunks congregating in our alley having loud conversations filled with "WOOS!" is not one of them.  This often wakes us up out of a dead sleep, and then they hang out by the dumpsters and we can make out every single word they say.  I never could figure out why they would want to smell garbage while they converse, but then the other night we could gather from their conversation that they were doing cocaine.  Lovely!  As I have said in previous posts, rather than telling them to shut the heck up, like some of my neighbors have done, I prefer to just interject, chiming into the middle of their conversation.  They suddenly hear from above, "Is that pretty good coke?"  The problem is that they would probably want to talk about that all night with me, so I would have to add something creepy like "Can I come down there in my pajamas and do a bump?  And then maybe you guys can come upstairs with me and cuddle?"

Anyway, one thing I am going to miss in this hood is the middle aged Black man on the block who takes excessively meticulous care of his sky blue circa 1991 BMW.  The thing is dented all over the closer you look at it, which is no surprise because he parks it on the street in a busy section of Chicago - a great way to get dinged.  He is down there when it's cold out warming up the engine while he fusses over cleaning the interior or checking the oil, but I have never seen him actually go anywhere.  Sometimes I will see it parked in a slightly different spot, suggesting that he has taken it for a spin, but it's always returned to the same side of the street.  It's not so much that I'll miss him, it's that I'll never figure out his story/solve this mystery.

In case I don't get a chance to talk to my favorite OCD neighbor to get an explanation, something I will be doing if I see him again before I go, would any of you like to wager a guess at why he behaves this way with his "beemer?"

"Herpes Simplex 2: Part 1."

(The title doesn't mean there will be more parts to this story.  I just thought it was a funny title, like "Rambo: First Blood Part 2.  Let me know what you think, readers.)

Joanie and Jon are enjoying steaks fresh off the grill, seated at the dining room table in their modest two bedroom ranch style house that they rent, with their one-year-old daughter sound asleep in the next room.

"So, how was work, babe?" Asks Joanie, smiling lovingly, as she refills Jon's wine glass."

"Thanks.  It was okay.  The doctor visit wasn't as good though.  Got some kind of bad news, I guess."

"Oh no!  What is it?" Asks Joanie, setting her fork down, wiping her mouth and turning to give him her full attention.

"He dropped the H-Bomb on my ass."

Joanie furrows her brow trying to figure out just what in the hell that meant.

"I got the herpes, babe."

Joanie abruptly stands up, puts her hands on both sides of her head, makes a face of hers that Jon knows all too well as pure anguish and begins to pace the around their narrow dining room.

"Hey, relax, it's not a big deal" says Jon, trying to calm her down, but it wasn't working.

"But it is.  It's completely my fault.  I know the exact time where I gave it to you.  I sort of felt an outbreak coming on but thought maybe I was just itchy down there because I didn't wear undies that day and my jeans were rubbing me funny."

Jon starts to laugh, "It's totally fine" he said, continuing to cut and take bites of his steak.

"Are you kidding!?  It's a huge deal.  I've infected you.  Yuck.  I'm so gross.  And now you have it for life too!  Why aren't you mad at me!"

"Why would I be mad?" Jon asks, slugging back the rest of his wine.

Joanie is now even more visibly upset "Because not only did I give it to you, but I did so recklessly, taking a chance like that only to give you the "h-bomb," as you so grossly put it.

"Hey," Jon says, "I'm allowed to make jokes like that with you now.  We're herp buddies.  For life."

Joanie, "Stop messing around!  You always make jokes instead of say how you feel, but if you're mad, I wish you'd just tell me.  Because I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself.  I know I was a wreck when I got it.  You maybe just haven't allowed it all to sink in quite yet."

"Listen, babe" as Jon grabs her by the hand, "I knew one day you would likely give me this thing.  I was going to get it sooner or later.  Who really cares?  I don't plan on going anywhere or being with anyone else."

Joanie persisted,"But you don't know that!  Would if you found yourself single and stuck with a lifelong STD?  You would curse my name for the remainder of your days."

"Nah, I'd just sign up for herpdate.com and meet some insane, horny herpes chicks.  Hahaha.  I'm sorry.  But seriously, to be honest, I freaked out for a minute in the doctor's office, but by the time I got to the car, I was like: I got herpes for life.  And I got Joanie for life.  And I have our beautiful daughter for life.  And it's okay.  It's more than okay.  It's perfect.  I love you, Joanie."

Joanie cried and threw her arms around him, and after the crying had subsided and he had kissed away the last of her tears, they made completely risk free love on the floor, as to not wake their daughter because their crappy bed always creaked loudly.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Perverted Signs

Mrs. Noisewater and I were driving home after having dinner with my parents in my home town when I saw a sign by a local church that read this:

Of course I got out of the car to get a picture of this for Facebook and the blog!

Now, I know this church has tried to be funny in the past.  For instance, I remember when "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" came out they had a sign that "Satan Is the Real Phatom Menace."  How ominous!  But this one about Easter and cumming seems like a bit much.  Is it possible they meant how often we "come" to church?  Even then, wouldn't someone, think about the other, more dirty, use of the word?  I mean, I know some church folks can be a little naive, but come on, people!

This reminds me of the time my mom left work for the night, leaving an intern on his last day of work in charge of changing the sign out front.  Then she had to field one hundred calls the next morning about why the library wanted everyone to "Honk If You're Horny."

Do I speak for all of us when I say "Beep! Beep!?"

"Did Someone Just Skip My Song?"

So I'm out drinking the other night and loading up the jukebox with songs with that application where you can pick songs from your phone.  It's great fun to not have to leave your friends to stand by the jukebox, and that way everyone can brainstorm songs together and pick them as a team.  So when we heard the first few thundering bass notes to our first song, "Ace of Spades" by Motorhead, we were very pumped and I was head banging as such.  Then before Lemmy can get through his hoarse voiced,  bellowing first verse, I hear the song being skipped and look up to see one of the bar maidens suspiciously setting down a remote.



I calmly walked over to the bar and said, "Did someone just skip my song?"

To which she said, "Yeah, that was awful."

I told her it's Motorhead and probably not for everyone, but I was excited to hear it.  I added that it would have been over in 2 and a half minutes, and surely she could have just waited that out.  Just then the other, much cooler, bar maiden handed me a dollar while not as cool bartender asked me if they had any other better songs?  I explained that they did have lots of other songs but they all sound: Just.  Like.  That one.

I told her she would hate them all equally and this was the only one other people in the bar were likely to know.

I had to add "And you skipped my song and stuck us with this Rascal Flats crap?"  All the while I stood there with my returned dollar bill in my hand, unsure if it had resolved the situation.

The cooler bartender said I looked familiar, and I said that I have been in there a number of times and I'm a pretty good customer.  Just then I heard the country song get skipped, and I heard the beginning of "Give It To Me Baby" by Rick James - it was my next song.  I smiled ear-to-ear, and they both laughed as I danced my way back to my table.



Then my friends and I laughed our asses off seeing Rascal Flatts guy getting hopping mad about his awful Rascall Flatts song getting skipped.

It's always more funny when it happens to someone else.

A Friend I Will Miss and Another I Avoid

A Friend I Will Miss

I got a really good friend, one of the guys I officiated a wedding for as Reverend Ken, and he suddenly announced he is moving away in three weeks.  It's really sad, and I feel like I wasn't given enough notice.  If you told me a few months, sure, but three weeks?  Sorry, but my man-love heart needs a little time to process these things.  I tried to be happy for him when he told a few of us the other night, but I couldn't.  And then I made him sad by being sad.  Eventually I just gave up trying to feign happiness and I posted this video on his Facebook wall.



I thought the clip would be good for a laugh, but I ended up crying.  Guess it was good for a cry too.  I know.  A man crying over a Star Trek clip might be the nerdiest thing ever, but it happened and I'm better for it.  I needed to get the crying out of my system, and Kirk and Spok helped me out to those ends.  Those devilish, space traveling, pointy eared (one of them), bastards . . .

And Another I Avoid

This other friend of mine I have been playing volleyball with for years, and he makes everyone miserable by telling everyone what to do and how they messed something up.  He has a thick accent and his command of the English language isn't too good either.  He often times ends his description of how he thought you should have returned the last serve with "does that make sense?"  And it never makes sense.  The thing is, he is easily the worst player of all of us, yet he always tells people how to play, which makes it all the more difficult to stomach his lectures.  I always have to do some affirmations on my way to the court like "Okay, he is going to be terrible.  Just nod your head and be positive.  Move on to the next point and don't yell at him."  Sometimes it works, and on rare instances, usually when I'm hungover and emotional, I do end up yelling at him.  And then I'm disappointed in myself because it doesn't do any good.  

He isn't much better in social gatherings either.  His jokes are often as misunderstood as his volleyball analysis, and he will try to make wise cracks about people that never quite work.  This makes it sound like he is a jerk, but that isn't quite it.  He is just a little off.  It's no longer cultural, and he can't use that as an excuse anymore.  He has been in the country a long time now.  He is just kind of weird. 

So some of the volleyball friends are meeting up to watch NCAA games, and I actually asked if this dude is going to be there.  I felt really bad about asking that, but here is the thing: I really value my weekends, and if that dude will be there describing how the little people on the television should have executed that inbounds play and I have to keep taking pees I barely have to take and get beers I don't need just to get away, that will detract from the loveliness of my oh so important Saturday afternoon.  

I just got the word that he will, in fact, be there.  Just like on the way to the court, on the way to the bar I will do my affirmations: "I can do this.  Be nice to him.  He really isn't that bad . . ."

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Anybody have friends like the first one?  How about the second one?  Any tips on how to handle the second one because I'm about out of ideas.  

Do you all have a Costco in your area?  If you don't know what it is, it's one of those giant stores where you need a membership to go in there, and then you buy things in huge bulk amounts so that it takes you months to finish it.  That way you get things like 30 cents off, but your pantry fills up and there are boxes all over your living room.  It's great!

While shopping there last night, I stopped into the washroom to take a pee, and a guy in a Costco uniform asked if I didn't mind peeing in a giant jar.  I thought it a little strange, but I do enjoy peeing in strange places.  So I saddled up to a jar that must have been a foot and a half wide and two and a half feet tall.  The guy in the uniform was sealing some off and stacking jars onto giant pallets.  I asked what they were going to do with all of the huge jars of urine.  He said that he can't say much about it due to the secrecy, but the bottom line is that they like things in big containers in Costco.  He said it would all make perfect sense some day and that I should just keep peeing.

Don't believe me?  Follow this link for more information.