Time Traveling Concert Goers Serve Their Own Selfish Rock Purposes

I had a dream last night where my good friend, HLP*, and I were transported back to various times in history. What an amazing opportunity! We could have saved the Kennedy brothers from being assassinated, stopped the world wars that cost the world so many lives, and maybe even smacked the AIDS monkey in the head with a crowbar.** But instead the first thing that occurred to us that we could do for the good of mankind went something like this, "Holy shit! We can travel through time seeing all kinds of legendary rock bands!"

HLP and I were discussing what shows we had been to during out time travels. One of us saw Black Sabbath with Ozzy Osbourne in the 1970's, and on another night in the 1970's we saw Blue Oyster Cult. Seeing B.O.C. is not that exciting of an opportunity, but that is all we could find playing that night. And they didn't even play "Don't Fear the Reaper!" Now that I think about it, HLP and I could have been yelling out for them to play that song when it hadn't even been written yet. Trippy, right?

We found our potential Holy Grail when we skimmed through the newspaper to to see that Jimi Hendrix was playing that night! This must be what the Ziggy of our rock and roll "Quantum Leap" has been wanting us to see. It was all so clear now! The only problem was that it was sold out. First we tried to sneak through the front door, but the doorman busted us and kicked us to the curb. We then found a way to get in through the back door. This led us to the backstage area, but from there there was no way to get to where we could see the stage. We decided to hide behind some folding tables where we could hear the show perfectly and see Jimi playing from time to time when he walked by a door with a window on it. 

At one point Jimi happened to glance through the window and looked right at me. I didn't know what else to do, so I just smiled and waved. Mr. Hendrix stopped playing at this point and said, "Hold on a minute. We got a couple white boys*** back here." I thought for sure our goose (or geese) was cooked, but he asked the crowd if we should be let into the show. The crowd responded with an uproarious applause, and we came out and saluted the crowd to a standing ovation. HLP and I found some seats, but people kept arriving and kicking us out (we had no tickets, if you'll recall). Some seats that I sat in I had to leave even before anyone got there because my knees were hitting the head of the person in front of me. I found it odd at the time that some seats had more leg room than others, but maybe it was like that in the early 1970's. I'll never know because I can't really time travel.

Sometimes you just find that perfect Google Image.

With all the time I spent worrying if I would be thrown out, if a ticket-holding patron would arrive to take my seat, or if my knees would graze somebody's ear and piss them off, I realized that I wasn't paying much attention to why I was there: Jimi. Fucking. Hendrix. I will say that dream-time-traveling Kenneth was impressed with his playing, but Jimi didn't play one single, solitary song I had ever heard before.  

So, what does it all mean? Are the rock gods inside my insane brain trying to tell me something?

- Maybe I should just enjoy the moment more and not worry so much about little details?

- Perhaps it's a telling story about how I'm too overly concerned with rock music?

- Help me out, Seven Readers. Maybe there is a hidden meaning that I'm missing?

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*This acronym stands for Heterosexual Life Partner. He has been a good buddy of mine since junior high, all through this blog's inception, and right up until now. We text one another just about every day about sports and music, so I would say life partner still applies.

**I'm sorry if any animal lovers are offended by this. Believe me when I say that it wouldn't be easy because I find monkeys so adorable. But I would hypothetically smash that little guy's infected nose right into the back of his disease-ridden skull for the good of mankind. But he would get a pass if Zeppelin or someone else awesome was playing that night.

***We weren't the least bit offended when he said "white boys" because he delivered it with no malice at all, and in fact, a great deal of warmth. Dream Jimi was extremely kind and gracious. He was everything I imagined him to be, but I just wish he played some songs that I knew! I mean, I have heard his whole catalog, so from what reservoir was he digging through for that night's deep cuts? I'll have to ask Dream Jimi if I ever have the pleasure of meeting him again, and while I'm at it I'll thank him for letting me and my "white boy" friend into the show.

The other day just about the only thing I had to do for the entire day was put a baby crib together. How long could that really take? Well, little did you know I got a C- in Industrial Arts in Junior High, and I suck at this sort of thing. If there is anything that could have been done wrong, I did it wrong. Two different times I figured out way too late that I had put something on backwards and had to take apart just about everything to get it put on right. Believe it or not, I woke up all sore the next day from sitting on the floor in awkward positions screwing screws into stubborn bolts. 

This was my first real dad task, and I'm not going to say it was a complete failure. Sure, there were a lot of bumps in the road and a lot of swearing, but I stuck with it and got it done. I think it was a metaphor for what parenting is going to be like from what I hear from my friends: You have to figure it out as you go, you're going to suck at it at times, but you just stick with it and stay positive. And they'll be lots of extra parts. Okay, that makes no sense. I suck at carpentry and metaphors. 

I ran the Chicago Rock and Roll Half Marathon last weekend. I have figured out that halves are plenty for me. No more full ones because those destroy perfectly good bodies. My good buddy, Night Train, and I run around 10 miles once every weekend, and it's been great for keeping weight off and gives us time to recover. Also, that way you don't get sick of running when it's just once a week. The race went really well for us, and they had live music along the way. They also had rock impersonators, and I tested the Blues Brothers guys and said to them as I ran by "Orange whip . . . Orange whip . . .," I was very pleased and impressed that they both responded with "Three orange whips!" and did the proper hand motion. The Elvis impersonator looked very hot, sweaty, and hungover, so I didn't engage him with any fun pop quizzes. He looked busy concentrating on not throwing up on himself. 

Hot yoga has been a great way for me to recover from running way too far and taking entirely too long to assemble things with seemingly simple instructions. Usually I'm just about the worst yogi (that's what they call yoga participants) in the class, and that's fine. You have to be willing to be the suckiest guy in the room before you can get better at anything. I'll tell you right now that I'm in decent shape but can't touch my toes. Not even close. Slowly I'm getting more flexible, and I always leave feeling refreshed and thinking with a clear head. However, yesterday right when the class ended, some country music kicked in and continued for at least four songs while I was in the locker room. I would prefer they play any innocuous new age wind chime music music that just blends into the background. That's fine and expected. But, I can't relax when I'm listening to a song about some guys drinking a six pack of beer in the back of a pick-up truck. Unless I'm right there in the back of that truck with them. Country makes me angry, and I can't tune that crap out. 

Always good to have a spotter

When I was in high school I left my alarm clock-radio alarm (I'm old) on the other end of the room and had it set on the country station. That way I knew I wouldn't lie in bed and listen to the music because I knew I would have to run across the room to turn it off or slowly lose my mind. So, it's been a long history of hating country music. I was thinking of leaving a complaint with the yoga studio, but I'll just complain to you guys instead because that's what I've always done.

So running, volleyball, and yoga have been about it as far as exercise goes lately, and I have been losing some muscle tone. I have been avoiding doing any kind of weight training due to an elbow problem, but today the elbow felt pretty good so I pumped some (really light-weight) iron. You know that debate kids have on the playground where they say "My dad could beat up your dad?" Well, what I don't want is some kid saying that to Kenny Jr. and poor Kenny is left saying, "You're probably right. My dad has pipe cleaner arms and can't even screw together simple wooden structures with directions that even a chimp can follow. He's hardly a man at all, but he can do a downward facing dog in his hot yoga class that will make your head spin!" That won't score him any points at all out there on that playground. 

No segue at all here, but I was at work not too long ago, and a coworker said, "Kenneth, I saw on Facebook that we have a mutual friend." She said the friend's name, and the name meant nothing to me. I looked it up, and it is a blog buddy. She was saying what a great dude he is, and it made me happy to hear that. I said he is an excellent writer, and she said that he helped everyone write their term papers in college. This pleased me too for some reason. I was proud of this dude I have never met. Then I had to explain to this coworker that I had never met him, and I'm a grown-ass man with pen pals. 

One blog buddy I have met is SO@24, and I was reminded recently of the time we first met in L.A., and for reasons I can't remember, we recreated the suggestive cover art from Hall and Oates' 1982 release, "H20." I thought of this because I went to an outdoor Hall & Oates show last night on a very hot and humid Chicago night with my sister, her boyfriend, and my very pregnant and sweaty wife. Believe it or not, we were actually just as sweaty as Daryl Hall and John Oates were in the picture! 

(Hall & Oates)

(Dr. Ken and SO@24. We should have got sweatier or just spritzed water on our faces. It will always be one of my biggest regrets.)

There has been no real rhyme or reason to where this post has been headed, and I'll just end it here. Go ahead and leave a comment related to any of the scatter shot of topics I have run down in this rambling stream of consciousness, or just say hello to your insane pen pal buddy from Chicago. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to admire the glorious crib that big daddy built with his own. bare. hands! 

You Asked and Ken Answered!

A little while back I asked you, my beloved readers, to ask me some personal questions so that you can get to know your favorite blogger a little better. I was blown away by all the responses filling up my inbox. It looks like you really want to know more about what makes me tick, and that is very flattering. I chose some of the most interesting ones and put some serious thought into my responses. I hope you enjoy . . .

Okay, I'm full of shit. I never actually asked that you guys ask any questions because there are only like 7 of you that read, tops. Truth be told, I just scrolled around the internet for interesting questions to ask myself because I had no blog topic ideas today. So, now I do have a topic, but it's kind of a crummy one. Whatever, we will make the best of it here at The Gancer. Away we go . . .

1. What do you do if you can’t sleep at night? Do you count sheep? Toss and Turn? Try to get up and do something productive?

I usually read, but when I'm in between books or need a break from reading I play the name game in my head. For example, I'll pick a topic such as "heavy metal bands," and then I'll name a band for every letter of the alphabet. Usually by the time I get to N or so, I'm out cold. My dad also told me that when you are having trouble sleeping, get up to go pee even if you don't have to. That works sometimes too. Thanks for the pee pee trick, dad! You're the best. Also, it sometimes helps when I try to sync my breathing up to someone else's. Now that my wife is pregnant she is snoring like a snow blower (sorry to announce that to all seven of my readers, honey. You're still beautiful!) so it's really easy to get the timing of her breathing down given the volume of the snoring. Pretty soon we're both sound asleep, only she is far louder than me (Sorry again, darling. You're still the sex pot of my dreams).



2. Who performs the most random acts of kindness out of everyone you know?

That would have to go to my good buddy, Night Train. I went to a concert with him the other night, and we were partying in the parking lot with three random middle aged weirdos who were a little rough around the edges. When we walked by they said, "Hey, come hang out with us!" Odd that they wanted new friends so badly, right? We had written on our white styrofoam cooler full of beer that we were selling one concert ticket for face value that came with a free adult beverage. One of our new friends who invited us to hang out took it upon herself to help sell one of the tickets. She seemed to have trouble getting through any sentence without saying "motherfucker," and she didn't make exceptions even when it came to her sales approach. I for one wouldn't want to imply that someone had intercourse with their own mother as part of a first impression, but she had a style all her own. Someone would come around the corner and she would say, "Hey, motherfucker! We got a ticket here for sale, motherfucker!"*

*You see, MF'er appears in both sentences She never missed a chance.

(In case you don't know what a styrofoam cooler looks like)

We were all a little embarrassed by our new friend and were doubting the fact that she could help sell the spare ticket. As a matter of fact, we were convinced she was scaring the shit out of any "motherfuckers" who came near us. Nigh Train never doubted her for a minute, and he even offered her a $20 commission on any leads she brought in that led to a sale. Sure enough, she found someone who paid full price. After the transaction was complete and Night Train paid crazy lady her commission, he noticed that the customer had paid $20 too much. So, he ran after him to give him the money. Then it dawned on him that he forgot to get his free beer, so he ran him down to give him that as well. Night Train is just a solid dude, and that is all there is to it.

3. What are the top three qualities that draw you to someone new?

      3. Not selfish. The person cares about others, and the person actually listens to what others say - doesn't just wait for his/her turn to talk.

     2. An interesting conversationalist. If we've been conversing for the first time and over 5 minutes have elapsed without us extending things beyond the weather, what we do for jobs, where we live, and how many kids we have, then it's just not going to work out for us as new friends.

     1. Funny. It really helps if you're funny. Even if you're not actually saying funny stuff, it helps if you laugh at the super funny stuff that I'm saying to you.
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How about you, Seven Readers? Do you want to answer any of these questions or just comment upon my wildly (mildly) entertaining responses?

Each of these men is either selfless (Andre), a good conversationalist (Wilt), and funny (Arnold). Wilt would have to be a decent conversationalist to bed 10,000 women, or whatever.

The Litter Box Bar League

A friend called me up and said he needed one more team to sign up for a volleyball league that takes place on a sand volleyball court outside of a bar in Chicago on Wednesday nights. I threw a team together and showed up that first Wednesday and couldn't believe that it was even worse than you would expect a court outside of a bar would be. At first I was pissed that I had committed my friends and I to playing in an unsanitary and unsafe environment once a week, but slowly all of these quirks have grown on me. I took some pictures to help you get a sense of just how crazy this whole thing is because I don't think you would believe me unless you saw it for yourself. 

Here is the court. It is a bunch of sand poured into a giant plywood box, which is why we started calling it Litter Box Volleyball. The net permanently droops in the center, and there is no way to adjust it. You get the volleyballs from the bar before your game, and many of the balls have bite marks in them. Why, you may ask? Because when the ball goes over that wall you see pictured, it lands in a Doggy Daycare. When that happens, the ball either flies over the fence back to us right away and we say thank you to the staff, or it mysteriously flies back over 45 minutes later, or it never comes back at all and becomes a permanent chew toy for the doggies. Because this disrupts the game and because the balls are expensive, whoever is deemed at fault for having the ball get into the jaws of the hounds has to take an immediate shot of room temperature Malort, which is just about the grossest liquor you'll ever have. 

The sand is not nearly deep enough, and in some spots there will be two inches of sand with concrete underneath. I dove a couple of weeks ago and cut my knee up really bad. One of the Litter Box veterans then told me, "Oh yeah, don't dive." Don't dive? I can't help it. I just react and go if I see a ball about to hit the sand on my side. Right when it was just about healed from a week or two before, I dove again and opened the cut right back up, which is what you see above. 

So you got the DoggyDaycare on one side line, the other side line is a street, and then on one end line you have two very smelly dumpsters, as you see pictured above. It's smells terrible on that end of the court, so dumpster side always serves first. Seems fair. If someone spikes one past you that doesn't get stopped by a dumpster, then someone has to run down the street barefoot to fetch the ball. Sometimes it sort of veers down the street and just rolls forever downhill. This is why I have found that when I'm holding down the dumpster side, it's good to keep my flip-flops handy so that I can slip those on and run down the street more swiftly and safely.

On the other end line you have the back wall of the bar, and there is an apartment above the bar. Sometimes the ball will hit the satellite dish, knocking out the transmission on the NASCAR event viewed by the regulars in the tavern, or it will land on the upstairs tenant's porch. The guy up there has visitors that come by very briefly and leave, there are some strange chemical smells coming out of there, and other signs that make us think maybe he runs a "business" out of there. But would he take such a risk with all these yuppies in his backyard drinking beers and playing volleyballs in his backyard? Maybe so because the other night he had not problem drawing attention to himself by hopping on his bicycle/motor cycle, cranked up that engine, and went around the block to fetch two tallboys of Icehouse beers. It looks to me like this is what we called a "mini bike" as kids, only this one has an engine attached to a bicycle so he has the option of pedaling as well. It was loud too, let me tell you! A five city block radius is always aware when this dude is making a beer run.  

There is one little nook where a ball can go down this alley as well. There are rusty nails everywhere,  so this is also a good opportunity to slip on your sandals before venturing in. Tetanus shots should be given out as readily as Malort shots around this joint. I'm serious. 

We usually drink buckets of beer outside by the shabby court, but on one rainy night my friend and I noticed the fine array of beef jerky flavors prominently displayed behind the bar. In case you can't read them, the flavors from left to right are as follows: Jerk This, Tickle My Teriyaki, Pepper My Cornhole, Blowout Cajun Jerky, Fire In the Hole, and Hot Habanero. You'll notice that's my hand throwing out a pair of scissors because I was thinking it would be a fun game to play paper, rock, scissors and the loser has to try the jerky of the winners choosing. If a guy had already Doggy Daycared a few balls that evening and earned a few Malorts, some Pepper My Cornhole jerky could really push him over the edge to have a reversal of fortune, or at the very least have a very, very rough Thursday ahead of him.

What do you guys think of Litter Box Volleyball? Anyone want to sub in next Wednesday? Anyone play in any goofy leagues of any kind this summer that you want to share with us in the comments?

So I'm married with our first baby on the way, but did you guys know that I was married once before? It's true. I was actually married for a whopping 8 months before my wife at the time decided that she should start sleeping with a Chicago Cop. At the time I was totally devastated, but now I would like to thank that man. Not only does he risk his life every day, but he got me out of a horrible marriage. She and I couldn't be more wrong for each other, so he did us both a favor. He did my wife, and he did me a favor.  It's weird because at the time I was so messed up about it that I hated all cops as a result, but now I would shake his hand and thank him from the bottom of my heart. 

But back when that whole thing was going down with the ex, I was an absolute mess. I was losing weight and couldn't sleep. One friend saw me and said I looked like death. Thanks! He was right. I almost laughed, but I couldn't. I'm a man who loves comedy, but nothing could make me laugh at the time. "Da Ali G Show" was new on HBO during that time, and he was the only guy who could get me laughing. This was a major revelation. If I could start laughing again, I could be myself again. Ali G, Bruno, and Borat became my therapists.

The second part of the puzzle was meeting other women, and I couldn't even think about that. I was fixated on my failed marriage and my depression. I moved out of our apartment downtown and back with my parents in the suburbs. My parents are wonderful people, but I was losing my mind and had to get the hell out of there. I would work and sleep all week in the burbs and then pack up a backpack to stay back in Chicago all weekend with friends. I would try to talk to women, but I was not in a good place. They don't want to talk to the sullen brooding guy. When you get dumped and you're young and stupid, you don't think you'll ever meet anyone again. Then one night an amazingly hot Asian Indian chick struck up a conversation with me, and I got her number. I don't think anything tangible came of that, but it gave me the confidence I needed. I remember when I packed up my car with my handful of belongings to move back into the city, I thought to myself that I would meet plenty of women and would be just fine. I remember gazing at the skyline on my drive in, and it was the first time I was really optimistic. My thinking at the time was: This will be a new chapter in your life, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. 

I went out to the burbs yesterday to visit my dad because my mom is out of town for the week, and driving back to the city on the very same highway that I did so many years ago, I saw the skyline and was reminded how I felt that day. Moments like that are why this is my favorite city in the world and why Chicago's skyline has been at the top of this blog for so long. Thanks for listening, friends. Ali G and Associates were relieved of their duties of their duties as therapists in 2005. That role has been filled by you, seven readers. Thanks for listening, and have yourself a super-duper weekend. 

3 Quick Items . . .

1. Being a Hater: I was out to dinner with my sister and her kids, and would you believe my oldest nephew is going off to college in the fall? I can hardly believe it myself. My sister was saying how he hates random things that no one else hates, like Matt Damon, and he is just like me in that respect. I got to thinking that of all the things I would like to pass onto him or have him emulate, being a hater is not one of them. Then it occurred to me that if I wouldn't want anyone I care about to be a hater, then just why in the heck do I think and act in such a way? It was an eye opener for sure.

2. Ikea: But can I just hate on one more thing? Ikea. Boy do I hate going to that place. It's enormous, and you have to walk through the whole place to find what you want. Then sometimes you're looking for the name of something, and it's in Swedish, you're looking for something called Ummergolongousmnaou with all those little Motley Crue dots over the vowels, and all those crazy long words look the same. Then you make a note of the bin location to find them in the giant warehouse by the check out area. Why don't they just have little computers where you can search for the stuff, put them all in your electronic cart, and then print out a list of all the stuff you want with the corresponding warehouse locations? Well, guess those greedy Swedes want me to find other stuff to buy. Well, I won't! Well, maybe a meatball and a Mountain Dew. But that's it. Then I have to go home and snap together their shoddy particle board crap furniture, and they always give me extra pieces!* God, do I ever hate Ikea!

3. The Demise of the Walk of Shame: Remember when you hooked up with someone, woke up the next morning in a strange house with a strange person, and you had no idea what part of town you were in? So you walked out the door, tried to get your bearings, you looked around for what train or bus to take or where you might catch a cab. Oh, the excitement! But even better, oh the laughs we had spotting someone who clearly had their clothes on from the night before, her high heels and mini skirt at 10AM on a Sunday, and the look of embarrassment on her face. That was fun, right? Well, now with Uber, she orders up her ride from the dude's apartment and steps right into a car. We only have that brief 15 second window of the house door to the car door to spot a modern day walk of shame, and I saw one last Saturday before my buddy and I started our jog. Funny, because we both knew it was a walk of shame and realized we hadn't seen one in a while, and Uber is why.

That's all I got today, friends. Have yourselves a tremendous weekend, and try not to hate, even when it's funny.

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*That was a joke. I know there are only extra pieces because I'm bad at figuring things out, even with instructions.

Updates, Some Written On the Wall

I saw this picture inside a Port-O-Potty the other day. Hey, what do you call Port-O-Johns in your neck of the woods? I know a guy from St. Louis who informed me that everyone out there calls them Johnny On the Spots.

Back in the day you had to call for a good time. Now you just text. I don't think "Jenny (867-5309)" would have been a hit had Tommy Tutone been advising people to text Jenny for a good time. Come to think of it, why in the heck was that a hit to begin with?



Mrs. Noisewater is still pregnant with our first kiddo, and we're around 6 months along. I think this kid is hyperactive like me because he/she is kicking the bejesus out of her - right in the colon! I feel bad if I passed my AD/HD onto this poor little person. Or maybe he's just anxious to come out, and he's trying to kick his way out? Early would be fine, actually, because the poor girl is going to be pregnant as hell through the heart of a hot, muggy, Chicago summer. Come on out early, Star Scream! (That's a running joke between Mr. Shife and I)

I've been running around 10 miles every weekend. I did a little over 11 today, and I feel great. It's good to get back into running because it really does clear my head. There was a race going on, and I was trying to high five people when they were running in the opposite direction of me. Hardly anyone wanted any part of it. Strange. They all looked too worried about their times to get a high five. But I love a high five on race day. Different strokes, I suppose. Different strokes for boring folks.

I was at work the other day and asked a little kid what the crummiest thing to happen to him was all school year. He thought for a minute and decided it would be the day he got hit in the penis six times with a soccer ball. This is awesome for a number of reasons.

1. I love that he knew the exact number of instances.
2. Most kids would say they were hit in the balls, but he opted for penis.
3. I like that he didn't swear. He went with the biological term.
4. He had a slight lisp, so he said "penith."

See you later, Seven Readers. And may soccer balls be nowhere near your private parts.

"Where's the Next Block?"

I came across some $20 tickets to see Kevin Nealon at a cool venue in Chicago, so Mrs. Noisewater and I couldn't pass that up last Sunday evening. I love thast late 1980's cast of SNL, and Kevin is in my all time top 5 along with Phil Hartman (also from that era), Dan Akroyd, and 2 other cast members at four and five. I guess what I like about those three is that they're team players and terrific actors. They let everyone get their laughs and don't take over a scene, but by fitting into a sketch so seamlessly with their character, they subtly steal the scene to a careful observer. One other thing Kevin never did is break character by intentionally cracking up laughing and breaking the fourth wall. And while Nealon remained very aloof and silly with his topics and avoiding taking an actual stance or getting political in any way through out his set, he did point out that he never broke character because he was a professional. I thought that was awesome that he came out and said that because Jimmy Fallon and Horatio Sans giggling through a sketch like a couple of nit wits all the time just really pissed me off. 

Just watch him in the infamous Chip and Dales sketch. Nealon keeps a straight face while he has to act like it was a tough decision to choose between him and the chiseled Patrick Swayze character. And you know what's really sad? He pointed out that everyone in that sketch is now dead except for him and Mike Myers. Swayze, Hooks, Farley, and Hartman all died tragically and prematurely. 

So that about covers why Kevin is funny. What I'm more here to tell you about today is the drunk that sat next to us. Remember, this is a Sunday evening and a quiet winery spot, and right when we're wondering who we will be sharing our table with, an inebriated 20-something fella stumbles his way in with his date who didn't appear drunk at all. Mrs. Noisewater and I are sitting at one end of the table for four, and Drunk Guy says he can't believe they sat us like that and suggests that we sit across from our dates. I thought this was odd, but what the hell. Maybe he was onto something, right? So we made the switch. 

Drunk Guy was telling us all the spots in the city that he likes to see comedians, which I thought was strange because he talked through all the comedy. When I gradually phased him out when he tried to talk to me, he moved onto the table next to him. We thought maybe he knew those people, but he actually just met them in the lobby and thought he would continue to annoy them during show time for the sake of continuity. Drunk Guy also got up to pee a number of times, which I can speak from experience can be the case when you drink a lot, and by his third or fourth trip he was growing into full blown shit-canned drunk status, bumping into everyone on his way through the aisles. 

Late into Nealon's set, Drunk Guy leaned in to apologize to me, and he asked that I let his date know that that he was just fine and didn't annoy me too badly. This seemed like something I would have a hard time convincing anyone, considering he annoyed just about everyone within 30 feet of him, so one would assume that anyone sharing a table with him would be irate with his behavior (especially considering that some may be assuming that we knew the guy). Well, I never got the chance to smooth things over with his date because she had enough of him and left him there. When he attempted to go chase after her, security grabbed him and escorted him out. The management offered us a free round of drinks the next time we came out (because unlike Drunk Guy, we weren't on a Sunday Funday mission quite on his level by that point of the evening). 

Then while we're in the lobby calling up our Uber, we see Drunk Guy trying to get back into the venue and get thrown out again! He starts to light up a cigarette, and the bouncer says, "Get outa' here! Go smoke on the next block!" And this is when I knew Drunk Guy was completely obliterated because his response made no sense at all. He said, "Where's the next block?" I tried to help him out because in his drunk mind I had been his biggest supporter that night. I advised him, "The next block is the next block that way. Or that way. Either way, you really have to get out of here fast." 

People who are having kids these days want to watch Youtube a lot. And since those types of people need to watch videos to figure things out, a lot of them click on weekly videos of what pregnancy is like every seven days. When you watch one of these clips you hear about all the changes a woman goes through at that time, but what I take away most is what the energetic female hostess leads with each and every time: what sized fruit or vegetable he/she is at that point.  And to be honest, after a while they start running out of fruits and vegetables that you and I have ever cooked with or even heard of.

It's not what parts of the little person has formed: the fingernails, toes, and elbows that are morphing over time, but how big a piece of produce is that little bastard. That's what we want to know. But I'm a child of the 1980's with a terrible diet, so what do I care about Asian pears and rutabegas? No! You got to give it to me in terms that I understand; Just how big an action figure are we talking here? Is he the size of Snake Eyes or is he a fully formed Devastator?

And come to think of it, Snake Eyes Noisewater has a nice ring to it . . . 

Yes. My wife's pregnant, and that's why I've not been blogging at all. I got a lot of big questions. Where am I going to get the money to raise this kiddo? And how big is this baby in terms of childhood toys? It's all a mystery and an adventure . . .

Stealing the Missing Bases In My Dreams

I had a really vivid dream the other night where I was a professional baseball player in the midst of a heated game. I had gotten on first and was excited about stealing second. Did I mention I was Black? I'm a white dude, in case you didn't know.

I got off to a big lead, and as the pitcher went into his stretch, I got a great jump towards second. I had it stolen easy, but as I got to where the base should have been, the bag was nowhere to be found! I had beaten the throw by a mile and was frantically looking around for the base when I was tagged by the shortstop. When the umpire called me out, I was absolutely irate and hopping up and down.

The umpires got together for a long deliberation, during which time I was pleading my case to anyone who would listen. I remember discussing the matter with a Japanese teammate through his interpreter. I let him know that I was a born base stealer and it's how I made my living, and to deny me of the tangible base to take, they were denying me of my God given right! The two Japanese men seemed to agree with me based on the looks of disapproval on their faces. I can still picture them shaking their heads in disgust and disbelief about my situation.

I saw that the umpires looked to be wrapping up their discussion, so I said to my manager that if he didn't plan on arguing to the point of getting thrown out of the game, I was going to. He assured me that it was his plan to do so, but when I asked him what kind of theatrics he would be displaying during his potential upcoming tantrum, I wasn't impressed with what he had in mind. I suggested he try pulling up the second base they had just put in as well as all three other bases before being dragged off the field to demonstrate what little respect these umpires had for the bases and the rules of baseball in general. He acted as if he was considering it, but I got the feeling he was sticking to a low-key fit that in no way was elevating himself to the passion that the situation demanded.

Sure enough, the umps called me out, and my manager did his best to honor me by getting thrown out of the game, as promised, but it really did seem lackluster compared to the performance I could give. It just seemed to me that Skip didn't share the same passion that I had. I turned my hat around, rolled up my sleeves, and got ready to dig up out those bases and toss them all over the place for all the base swipers, all my teammates (especially the Japanese ones), and for anyone who has felt injustice at the hands of corrupt authority figures.

This is when I woke up. Still white. And broke.

The Man Dilator

I just had an idea.

They say that child birth is one of the most excruciating experiences a human being can experience. It has been said that if the human brain could perfectly remember pain, then no one would get pregnant a second time on purpose.

I was trying to think how men could better empathize with their partners, and I have come up with the notion of a testicle squeezing device that would clamp down harder in accordance with the howls that the woman lets out during the labor. Now, this contraption would have to be tested to make sure the squeezing wouldn't cause any permanent testicular damage - just enough to really hurt. I don't believe in animal experimentation, so maybe some broke college students could sign up to have their nuts squeezed to oblivion for a little extra beer money.

As soon as it has been thoroughly tested and the lawsuits by those annoying high voiced college kids have been settled up, thousands of men could plug in their Man Dilators, hold their lover's hand, and the two of them could go through the whole beautiful nightmare experience together. When it's finally over and their baby comes out, the two of them will be so relieved that the pain is over!

"We got a new baby boy!"

Yes, and more importantly, the clamps of death will come off my nuts!"

And he will be thinking, "Let's never do this again," so a byproduct of this could be a means of population control. You want to sire eight kids to show what a badass you are? Well, let's see what kind of tough guy you really are when you feel those first few squeezes.

What do you think, Seven Readers? Does this idea have legs, or have I lost my damn mind again?

Wait, should it be the same general idea only the device gradually stretches the man's butt hole? Would that be more congruent?

I rode a Chicago bus yesterday to get up to the United Center for the Black Sabbath show last night, and somewhere around Milwaukee Avenue an older Mexican American fellow climbed aboard with his shoe shine box. He sat there rubbing his hands and wincing as if his hands were very much cold, in pain, or likely both. A woman seated next to must have noticed this as I did and offered him some gloves. You should have seen the look of surprise and appreciation on his face. It was a very tender moment of generosity to observe.

The glove giving gal was thin, looked to be in her late 40's or early 50's, was wearing a John Lennon type Army coat, had really short blond hair, and she had kind of a "butchy" demeanor, for lack of a better word. Actually, after the fact it dawned on me that she looked and acted a lot like like the actress, Jane Lynch, the boss in 40-Year-Old Virgin and the lesbian dog trainer in Best In Show.

"Hey, sport! Want some gloves?"

Shoe shining guy's English was not great, but that didn't stop glove-giver from telling him a bunch of information. After giving him the big and bulky gloves, she showed him the slimmer ones that she was wearing and said "These are for gun handling," and "These are for handling guns" - in case he didn't hear the first time. She said she was a retired cop and for some reason told a story about her and some other officers arresting a drug dealer. Apparently the dealer shot her partner and during the exchange giant bags of "china white" exploded everywhere and exposure to the drug led to her to being laid up in a hospital for 10 days, regularly hallucinating all through out her stay (which doesn't sound all bad).

(A good time. If you have a lot of free time in your immediate future)

Wow.

What started a nice moment of a woman performing an act of kindness for a random senior citizen quickly escalated into a crazy violent crime adventure story straight out of "Scarface." I did not see that coming at all, but you do have to expect the unexpected when you hop on a Chicago bus.

Be kind to others, readers. And watch out for accidental ingestian of dangerous amounts of "China white," whatever the hell that is. 

Babies Spinning Plates? Yeah, I Lost My Mind.

I was out to dinner with some friends who I haven't seen in a long time, and to be honest, I barely know their wives. Some of them I hadn't even met before that night. That's how long it had been - they had met women, gotten married, and had children since last I had seen them in person. I think the last time I saw these buddies of mine was the last time I published a blog on this site. That was a joke.

The night was like this. Only in color and with slightly more casual attire.

I was kind of struggling with conversation to make because a couple of the guys that I really wanted to catch up with were way on the other end of a table of around 12 people. One couple was simultaneously checking their baby monitors on their phones as they sat down. I don't have kids yet, so I guess I can't say that I won't do the same thing, but isn't that being a little paranoid? I mean, what could you possibly see on that screen that would freak you out enough to rush home or to the telephone? I asked if the baby was doing anything cool on the screen, like juggling, or maybe spinning some plates like on an old Ed Sullivan Show. I thought that was hilarious, just picturing a baby running back and forth keeping four or five plates spinning in his little crib with that standard plate spinning song heard in the clip below. Everyone spun plates to that song, right? Then I was saying it would be a real pisser if they saw their baby doing something miraculous like that on their phone and couldn't record it. Nobody would believe them.

Nobody thought that was funny. Why am I so damned weird?


(That's the song.)


(And that's a guy spinning plates on the Ed Sullivan Show. Don't know how in the hell I couldn't find a guy spinning plates to the actual song. I guess just play them both and hit mute on the second one if you want the full effect. Ah, to hell with it.)

Then some of the wives were talking about those damned "Housewives" shows where those crazy ladies demonstrate that they haven't evolved passed middle school and are mean and caddy and gossipy about one another. There are loads of respectable mothers out there that are more deserving of their own show to be a representative of a non psycho homemaker, and what's more, some of the women on the show have their own businesses. So they shouldn't they be offended to be called housewives?

Anyway, someone was talking about the God awful British one, and I just blurted out, "Oh, she is the worst. She used to be like the voice of reason on that show, but now she is meaner than all of them. She pries and asks deeply personal questions of everyone, and then uses that info against them. And she never admits she's wrong, which I especially hate." I realized that I had said too much. I had tipped them all off that I am a man that actually watches that crap. My wife will have it on, and I get sucked into it, proving that if I want to waste time - I will force myself to get interested in just about anything. And I have been wasting way too much time lately.

Here she is. She has miniature horses and swans and shit, and she's terrible.

When I blurted out how much I knew about a specific housewife and it was evident how passionate I was about hating her so, it was hilarious to all the women on my end of the table. I made them laugh on accident. The plate spinning babies wasn't at all funny, but I got a laugh one way or another.

What Does It Say About Me That THESE Are the Video Games That I Like?

I have a friend who works at an arcade bar where they serve beers, so it's not hard for him to talk me into visiting his work place. After going around to see which games to play, I noticed that I seem to always gravitate towards Tapper and N.A.R.C. What alarms me is that these are the two games that most involve beer and drugs.

In Tapper (1983) you control a bartender pouring beers and passing them down three or four long bars to advancing customers. If a customer makes it all the way to the end of the bar without getting a drink, they pick you up and throw you down the bar (costing you a life). Also, if they send an empty glass down the bar before you can catch it, that also results in a lost life. It's a fast paced strategy game, but I'm always wondering why this doesn't staff more bartenders? I also start wondering why there isn't any security up in there? It seems like a scary place to work when a customer can whip your ass for not getting a drink out fast enough.

Believe it or not, this game was sponsered by Budweiser, there is a Budweiser sign on the side of the game and hanging up on the wall of the video game bar, and at one point they say "This Bud's for you!" I used to play this game at a family pizza place as a little kid, and even then I thought it was amazing that I could put in a quarter and be a bartender!



If you thought Tapper was nuts you have got to play N.A.R.C. (1988). In this shoot-em-up classic you control special agents looking to bring down Mr. Big, the nation's biggest drug dealer. Along the way you arrest a number of suspects, but usually you shoot them with a machine gun or blow them to hell with a rocket launcher. There are times in the game where you will blow something up and bags of cocaine will fly everywhere, at which time you scoop them up. At the end of each level it shows how many busts you made, confirmed kills you racked up, and how many drugs you confiscated.  One level there are guys heaving giant seringes at you, and then in another there are steroid abusing guys picking up dumpsters and chucking them at you. This game really put the "war" in the whole "War On Drugs" thing that was going on in the 1980's. It's a blast!



Boy, I'm getting excited just talking about these two classics. I may be paying my friend another visit really soon. See you around, blog buddies. 

"If only I had one of grandpa's swords . . ."

My wife's grandfather told an interesting story over breakfast the morning after Thanksgiving. I go out to northern California to be with her family ever year, and it's always good to see grandpa. He is well into his 80's, fought in World War II, and he is one of the only guys still around who can say they were at Normandy. He is also the proud owner of one of the most impressive antique weapons collections known to man. As a matter of fact, Charlie Watts once came over to his house to buy one of his swords. Grandpa isn't a fan of rock music so he wasn't as excited about that visit as I would have been. All he remembers about Charlie is how dirty his fingernails were.


Anyway, grandpa is offered bacon and said that he better not after he had bacon with the family a year ago and drove home. Apparently the bacon was causing a serious need to get to the bathroom for the last few miles of his ride (he still drives!), and in his rush to get to the toilet upon opening the door, he accidentally kicked the trip wire he had set up and released tear gas all over him and all through out the house. Grandpa is big on keeping his home and the weapons collection tightly secured and evidently engineered the whole trip wire tear gas thing. He said that he couldn't leave the house because he still had that urgent call from nature, and he then had to sit there and finish his business, just enduring the pain with his eyes burning. He truly is from the "Greatest Generation." I would have cried and screamed loud enough for all my neighbors to hear, and they would all step outside to see what the commotion was all about just in time to see me pooping the bushes. And still crying.

What is funny is that Mrs. Noisewater's dad, grandpa's step-son, was quick to point out that this wasn't the first time that grandpa had set off his own tear gas bomb upon himself. Maybe he has an immunity built up so that he can fight off a would be intruder through the haze and eye burning? Who knows.

In any event, here's hoping your next "movement" is in a cozy and comfortable spot free of any chemical weaponry.

Starchild

I played paintball one time and one time only for a bachelor party a number of years ago, and the one thing I learned is this: Firepower matters. Our group used the rental guns which released paintball capsules kind of fast. I guess it could have been considered semi automatic. We had to play against other random people outside of our group who brought their fully automatic weapons. There really is no comparison.

One guy was wearing a hockey jersey that said "Starchild" on the back, and this dude's weapon sprayed everywhere. And I mean everywhere. When this guy lit you up, you looked like someone took one of those paint rollers and covered you head to toe, not missing a single inch. Star Child was a shorter Caucasian man who looked not unlike Wayne from "Wayne's World," which shouldn't come as a surprise considering this was in Suburban Illinois not too far from Wayne's home of Aurora. ]

I have some questions that I never got answered. 

1. How much do you suppose a weapon of that caliber costs?

2. Where is the sport in just holding down a trigger and hosing down the entire room?

3. Was that the top of the line back then, and how far has paintball technology advanced since Star Child's hey day (which was around 2001)? I seriously can't imagine a more dominant weapon on the market.

4. Just why in the hell does he call himself Starchild? Is it a reference to Parliament/Funkadelic, Paul Stanley from Kiss, "2001: A Space Odyssey" or none of the above? Or maybe just his own thing, like it came to him in a paintball dream of some kind . . .

This diaper dandy?

This KISS'ing bandit?

Or this adorable rascal with his consciousness? Or maybe a reference NOT from the 1970's like all of mine.

5. Do you think he has an entire star fleet of star children by now? Have I put way too much thought into this? I highly doubt Starchild has had a day recently where he wondered where the guy is that ducked down too fast to avoid a paintball from across the room, hit his rear end on a pipe, badly bruised his own ass, and had to sit the rest of the day out.

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If you have answers to any of these questions or just want to say hello, blow me up like a Starchild buckshot in the comments. 

Man Night

I have some friends coming over in a bit for one of our Man Nights (no wives, kids, or girlfriends aloud). After spinning records and sampling a few craft beers at my place, we're going to go down the street to a nice restaurant that I've been meaning to try. Going to dinner with just dudes was not something I did in my twenties. Back then the dinner might be a slice of pizza chased down with something in the neighborhood of 30 beers. As a matter of fact, if 20's Ken just heard 30's Ken's nerdy agenda for the night, he would makes an excuse to blow off 30's Ken and never call him again.

However, right about now, being with a collection of some of the best friends I've ever had with great music and tasty beer sounds perfect. Here is some of the stuff that will be going down so that you, my beloved readers, can feel like you're here with us. For the virtual version of the party, all are welcome (women, children, and members of the animal kingdom included).

I got this on hand. It's one of my favorite beers ever. This is not my house in the pic. I can prove it because Mrs. Noisewater and I have no fireplace. We would like one, but not as much as we would like a dishwasher.

And let's not forget the vinyl that will be spinning:

Bought this one for $0.99 over a year ago, and I haven't found the occasion to throw it on. The soundtrack to a buddy cop show is the perfect accompinanet to a buddy's night, I think. And Crocket and Tubbs would surely agree. 

I haven't played Vol 4 or Masters of Reality in a helluva long time, so I decided to just play them both. Maybe what I'll do is pick the best side of each, and play each of those sides. That's a diplomatic and time efficient solution. Thanks for pointing me in that direction, beloved readers.

I have a warped version of Santana's first album that is TWICE as bad as this one, and the thing is that despite the fact that the needle raises over an inch up and down as it spins, it plays perfectly! There are some jams on this one, such as "Jingo," but mostly I just want to show my buddies how it wobbles away and plays just fine. Looks like the less warped record in this picture is a Beatles one based on the big apple, don't you think?

I do enjoy a good cheese spread, and hopefully they offer a good one at the fancy-pants restaurant tonight. Someone told me recently that cheese has addictive qualities like drugs. I for sure suffer from this affliction because if there is a fancy cheese in the fridge, I will go to town on it when I come home drunk or during the day when I'm not even hungry. I may have a problem, but tonight I'm going to feed the cheese beast what he wants, and that's a lovely Gruyere, or whatever the fuck.

Then we will go to a few bars and possibly end up at the infamous Liars Club. At that point all classiness will come to a screeching halt, and we will be reverting back to the 20's versions of ourselves, dancing our faces off to goofy stuff like Britney Spears immediately followed by moshing around to Suicidal Tendencies. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time my buddy was taking a pee there and felt something dripping on his bare feet (he was wearing flip-flops)? It was his own pee dripping through a hole in the urinal. Now, you know a place has a certain cache' if we continue to go back there when there are disgusting health code violations such as that. I wouldn't try their cheese tray, let's put it that way.

Thanks for joining the party, readers. Hope you are also having a fantastic weekend.

I had my 20 year reunion on Saturday night and learned a few things . . .

1. I was way better at remembering the names and faces of the men than the women. This is largely due to the fact that I had crippling shyness and horrible self-esteem in high school, and as a result didn't talk to girls. As a matter of fact, I didn't go to one school dance, didn't make time with any ladies, didn't have a girlfriend . . . none of that good stuff.

This isn't something I think about very often because I made up for lost time and dated enough women in my twenty's and thirties, but it's something I was unexpectedly sad about at the reunion and during a pretty awful hangover the next day. I'm not a dwell on the past type of guy - more of a let's look forward type - but there is just something pretty shocking about talking to close to 100 people that I had no relationship with back then. They had all those parties, played on all the teams, and had all those old times to talk about . . . All I could think about were all those miserable years I spent so scared to be embarrassed somehow that I spent the whole day in hiding, avoiding human contact. I just got through the school day in hiding until I could get home to my Metallica and Ozzy c.d.'s.

2. Just like at our 10 year, we took pictures of groups of people who went to certain grade schools and junior high schools together. It was those grade school people that I most wanted to see and hit it off with most that night. There's just more history: More times of people pissing their pants and eating paste and shit. I can't explain it.

3. One guy who was really quiet back in school showed up at around 8PM completely hammered. He has a drinking problem, and that's something that I know about pretty well from his younger brother. We were cracking up watching him corner people in the most awkward conversations ever, and at one point he unleashed a whiskey fart that cleared out the one whole half of the bar. Maybe, like me, he was having some crappy feelings coming back up and anxiety about seeing and talking to people so he drank even more than usual. Poor guy.

4. Speaking of drinking, it was kind of fascinating to stay and watch which classmates stuck around late into the night and kept boozing. I made a mix of songs from 1991 to 1995 to plug into the stereo system at the bar, and I got a lot of compliments on it. I had around five hours of music listed alphabetical according to song title. I remember asking for my iPod back around midnight to head to the after hours bar with "Waterfalls" by TLC playing, so the mix was just about over. Some of the classmates at the bar had told me they had kids at home, and one of the hardest partying ladies had four boys. Everyone was cool and a lot of fun.

I really should have given people more of a chance back in high school because that was a bar full of great folks. Except for the guy who was excited to show me that he had a business card with his picture on it and said I should come stay with him next time I'm in the area in his 10,000 square foot Victorian mansion. I'm guessing/exaggerating the square footage figure, but he for sure said Victorian mansion. He was kind of nerdy back then, and now he is an over confident nerd. I wanted to let him know, "It's okay, man. Everyone is cool and grown up now. No one will make fun of you. Come, let's get a beer at the bar together and listen to "In the Meantime" by Space Hog." You too, readers, should grab a beer and hit play on that one.

Maria and the Dragon

I had lunch with my good friend, Gung Ho, the other day, and we got talking about a time the two of us were at a strip club together. No, neither of us go to those types of places regularly, but it was a bachelor party. One of the dancers had a seat next to us and we proceeded to have a fun, lively, and drunken discussion. She said her name was Maria. One of us asked "Why Maria?" and she said it's her mother's name. Gung Ho was astonished and said, "You use your mother's name for your stripper name?!" I was already dying laughing, but then it got funnier. And sadder.

It was quite a while ago, but I think Maria looked something like this.

Maria told us that she was new to Chicago and liked it so far. She said she got out of Los Angeles because she was "chasing the dragon" out there and needed a new setting. Neither of us had any idea what in the hell she meant by that so she had to clarify that she was addicted to heroin. Gung Ho said, "Wow, heroin, huh? You ever miss it?" This instantly changed the mood. Maria became forlorn, looked off to the distance, and to neither one of us in particular admitted, "All the time. Excuse me." With that, she got up from the table, walked into the back room, and we didn't see her again the rest of the night.

I said, "Gung Ho, I think you just caused a relapse!"

To this he put forward, "Maria was going to chase that dragon tonight with or without our little talk."

He may be right. 

Poor thing. 

Hot For Professor

I was playing volleyball and drinking some beers with friends on the beach the other day, and one buddy said he wanted to wrap it up soon because he had his first day of the semester in the morning.  This guy is over thirty, waits tables, and he is working towards finishing his undergraduate degree.  He wasn't so concerned about being rested to get a good start in his classes but because he wanted to make a good impression on his hot female professor.  How does he know she is attractive?  Well, apparently there is a website where people rate their teachers on all of the more important aspects related to their job but also they get a chili pepper if they are deemed "hot" by enough students.  Can you believe this?

A couple of women we play volleyball with came over to sit out a game while we were having a beer and discussing our friend's first day of class.  I like making sure everyone is up to speed so I said, "Hey, girls.  If you're just joining us, Bob here is trying to bed his professor tomorrow morning."  I like Bob because he wasn't at all embarrassed and filled them in on the whole chili pepper thing.  The girls said that he needs to bring her an apple.  I said he should sandwich it with an apple at the beginning of class and offering to clean her blackboards at the end.  He pointed out that no professor has used a blackboard in like 10 years.  They all laughed and that got the steady "goof on someone" onslaught off of him and onto me for a while.  We all get it for a portion of the day, and it's all in good fun.

I texted him recently to ask if La Senora Caliente was worthy of the chili pepper rating, and apparently she is.  He said he wants to tell me all about it over a beer when next we meet, and I'm greatly looking forward to it.

In other news, here is a cool song I heard on Sirius radio the other day.  It's called "A.C.D.C." from 1972 by Sweet, the guys who brought us "Fox On the Run" and "Ballroom Blitz."  It's really ahead of its time if you ask me, because it's about a guy dating a bisexual girl who fools around with tons of women.  Rivers Cuomo from Weezer would write "Pink Triangle," another terrific song, years and years later about falling in love with a lesbian.  At least I thought it was about a bisexual chick, but then in the second verse they sing "you aught to see her ding-a-ling . . . In any event, "A.C.D.C." has been on my head all day today.  It's a terrific sleazy, pop, punk, glam, hard rock song impossible to pin down into any specific category.  Give it a listen.

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And I give you all, my favorite readers a chili pepper rating of your own.  Make that two chili's.