Saturday, January 31, 2015

The other night I met a friend of mine out for an adult pizza party with adult beverages, and I excused myself to use the little boys' room to wash my hands.  After getting done washing my hands I was thinking . . .

"Shit, just got done washing my hands, but now I gotta pee.  Terrible.  Okay, let's get it done.  Okay, done.  Do I really need to wash my hands if I just washed them a second ago?  Yeah, I do because I just handled my pecker.  You can't walk out there with dirty-dick hands and start man-handling all that pizza like a damn savage.  What's wrong with you, Ken?  Okay, we'll just wash 'em again."

It was then that I realized I wasn't thinking that stuff.  I had said it all out loud.  And there was a closed stall with shoes down there who belonged to a guy who heard my whole hand washing and penis touching conversation with myself.

Quit touching yourself, Blog Buddies, and get commenting.  How is everyone doing this fine evening?  

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Dr. Ken, Mrs. Noisewater, and Pau: The Oneness

I have been writing on this blog for a long time now.  Around 10 years.  Who I was when I started was a suddenly single young man (but pretty much a boy) fresh off a divorce.  There are entries about my single days on here that are sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing, but always me.  No matter how much I have evolved and grown up over these years, it's still me.  And the roller coaster of my career changes are almost as nutty as the dating saga.  And yes, a lot of drunken tales of lunacy.

Then one day I decided to grow up.  I decided to make Mrs. Noisewater formally Mrs. Noisewater.

The ring was burning a hole in my pocket like Frodo walking through Middle Earth as we waded through the crowds in the Lincoln Park Zoo Lights.  Turns out Europeans must love lights and captive animals.  Sorry if you're European, but some of those folks can be a little pushy and shovey in a crowd.  We were both getting aggravated, and anger is not a good emotion to go on when one pops the question.

Then as we walked towards North Pond (a great little gourmet restaurant in the middle of the park), I thought somewhere en route I could do the deed.  Just as I was considering it, Mrs. pointed out that it was dark, swampy, and smelly.  She was right.  The Dagobah System* hardly has the right conditions for romance, so we forged ahead.
Anyone smell bat guano?
We were around a half hour early for our reservations, and she said we should just go in and have a bottle of wine at the bar while we wait.  I noticed that outside the restaurant there was a perfect skyline view overlooking the pond with some benches, so I said we should just sit down for a minute and enjoy the night and the view for a moment.  This is when she knew something was up because I wanted to do something like that rather than drink wine.

Essentially what I told her is that what I dig most about her is that she not only puts up with my weirdness, but she likes it.  She enjoys my company and we're both laughing all the time.  I then looked her in the eye, got one one knee, finally got that ring out of my pocket, and asked her if she was willing to spend the rest of her life with a nut like me.  She cried, said yes, and we eventually made our way inside.

The meal was awesome just like it was when we went at the same time last year (the day after Christmas - our relatively new tradition).  When we were getting ready to leave, Mrs. Noisewater pointed out that Pau Gasol (one of my favorite Chicago Bulls players) was sitting near the exit.  I decided I had to say something to him but not bother him and mess up his evening that he was having with a lady of his own.  I walked by, stopped by his table momentarily to say discreetly, "Hey Pau, keep it up.  Go Bulls.  Keep it up."  He smiled, gave me a fist pump, and I headed out of there high on life.  How could this day get any better?

Pau was surprised to see me that night.
I then surprised Mrs. Noisewater with an impromptu engagement party that I arranged with many of our good friends at a nice neighborhood bar down the street that has lots of peoples' dogs in there all the time for some reason.  We had some of our closest friends congratulating us, toasting us, and we were petting random peoples' adorable dogs.  What more can you ask for?

I know I have slowed writing production down a lot lately, but don't worry, folks.  I will NOT be that guy that finds love and then hangs up their blog.  I have seen that too many times, and I refuse to be that guy.  I want you all here with me when I move into another chapter of my life.  Thanks, everyone for being with me over the last decade.  It's been quite a ride.
*That was my second nerdy reference.  Deal with it.  I'm a grown-ass nerd now.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

I was out with an old friend recently to see Dean Ween at a tiny Lincoln Park bar, and you know when someone mentions something assuming you already knew this monumentally huge bit of information?  So your mind is blown, your heart sinks, and you have to interrupt the person and ask that they back up and repeat that part to be sure you heard it right.  I don't see this friend often, and I see the peripheral friends in that circle even less.  I guess he assumed that I knew that Pimp was dead. 

Pimp is our good friend Brad's little brother who was named Pimp because he wore green shoes one day.  It didn't take a lot to get a lasting nickname back then.  Apparently  a group of friends went out to Oregon to visit another guy Norm (another nickname) who lived out there.  Norm decided to take everyone hiking.  There was a little bridge that everyone crossed.  Everyone but Pimp.  Just as he was about to cross, an avalanche/mud slide or something crashed down, swept him up, took him down, and killed him. 

Those shoes may have looked like these.
I was crushed when I heard he was dead, and then I was even more devastated when I heard how.  What a freak accident and a violent end to one of the nicest guys I've ever known.  Norm feels horrible because he asked that they come out and visit him and took them on the ill-fated hiking excursion, but he in no way could have known this would happen.  It's hard to imagine everyone watching that avalanche come down and see their friend die, for Brad to watch his only brother die, and all of them rendered completely helpless to stop it. 

Pimp never drank a drop of liquor or beer.  We would all be hanging out in their basement drinking our faces off, shooting pool, playing cards, and listening to music.  All the while Pimp hung out with us drunk idiots and never had a bad word to say about anyone.  He was such a good dude.  He looked like C. Thomas Howell only slightly goofier looking in an endearing way.  One day he brought a girl out, she was really damn pretty, and we were all impressed.  He ended up marrying her.  They were both really quiet and nice folks.  I remember him going off to school to be an architect, and that was his line of work until his untimely end.  He was a really solid fucking dude.  

I decided not to go with a pic from "Soul Man."
Pimp, you will be missed, old friend.  My first drink tonight is for you, and if I had some green shoes, I would be putting them on right now.

Your Friend,

 Doctor Kenneth Noisewater  


Thursday, January 08, 2015

Kirk just got done with a rigorous workout, and while he usually isn't big on smoothies, he was dying for something with peanut butter in it.  When an attractive tight-bodied woman came up to the counter, he asked her "Can you make me something with peanut butter in it?"  She laughed and asked if there was anything else he might like in there.  He just sat down and said "I don't know.  Maybe a banana?  Surprise me." 

After paying for his drink and having a few sips, the girl at the counter came by to ask him "Aren't you a little curious what else I put in there?"

"Not really," he said.  "I trust you."

It was at that moment that another employee of the gym came by to ask if he had any phone messages.  He was a Black man with enormous muscles everywhere and long dreadlocks. "No," she said "but I did get another call from you here late last night." 

"That wasn't me," said dread locked man incredulously.  "I don't have time to be making phone calls like that."

"I know it was you.  Just stop it."  She was growing more angry the more he he was denying it.

"What is this caller saying?"

She paused before talking about the phone call because it was a little embarrassing for her, very embarrassing for him, and a little awkward for Kirk who was still at the counter sipping his mystery banana concoction.  But hey, dreadlocks wanted to go down this road . . .

"You asked if I worked out at the gym as well as working here.  And then you asked if my feet stunk at the end of my workouts.  And I know it was you, so just stop it and we won't have to talk about this weird ass shit ever again."

"Haha.  That's funny, but it wasn't me.  See you around."  And with that, dreadlocked guy headed off towards the free weights.

Coming up from a slurp off his straw and without looking up, Kirk said to her "Oh, that was totally him."

"Right!  I'm positive it is, but how do you know?"

"First off, he just said that he doesn't have time to make those calls.  If he didn't do it, he would just say no.  He wouldn't be making excuses."

"Very true," she said.  "What else?"

"Well," Kirk elaborated, "he then said that the call was funny.  Even if he didn't make the call, it was really sick and gross, like an obscene phone call type of thing.  That isn't funny, especially if you were there late and working alone.  I mean, if the dude is into feat, fine.  But you don't have to be all creepy about it.  Feet aren't my thing, and actually, I'm kind of surprised they are his.  Given his amazing physique, I had him pegged as an ass or leg man - some body part that can be accentuated through hard work and building lots of muscle."

"You're a wise man," she said.

"I'm not usually this intuitive" he said.  "It must be something in your amazing smoothie recipe.  Thanks."

Kirk tossed his empty cup into the waste basket, said goodbye, and headed out the door knowing he was now on the case of the rastafarian obscene feet phone caller.  He knew he had his man.  It was just a matter of proving it.