Groomsmen or Boozemen?

In their tuxes, on the walk to the church for their good friend's wedding, a conversation somewhat like this went down . . .

Gancy: I'd like to not be a vision of drunken buffoonery at this wedding.
Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP): You mean like the one where you ended up doing your date in her car in the parking lot of the hotel, only to open the car door and barf naked.
Gancy: Yeah, something short of that. I thought at the time it was my civic duty as a groomsman to set a grueling pace for the other guests, like an out of control pace car of fun.
HLP: And now . . .
Gancy: Now I'm 31.
HLP: Yeah me too. Did I tell you that at the last wedding I stood up in I grabbed the microphone and sang what I later learned was a horrible rendition of That Loving Feeling by the Righteous Brothers, only the Top Gun version?
Gancy: "She lost it," huh?

HLP: Yes. "I hate it when she does that." What's worse is that it was supposed to be a sing-along, like in the movie, but I wouldn't relinquish the mic. I guarded it with my life. I even did the "Baby, baby, I get down on my knees for you-ou" like the Black guy. What was his name again?
Gancy: Sundown
HLP: Really? God, that's racist. Anyway, I'm with you. Let's go classy this time.
Gancy: Yes, like gentlemen. Just because it's open bar, doesn't mean it's open season for shots, double fisting, and doing the electric slide with our ties wrapped around our heads.
HLP: So, tonight we're gentlemen? Shake on it?
Gancy: Done

Shake hands they did, but only one of them held up his end of the bargain.

HLP was a class act, in comparison, but Gancer got blind drunk, jumped into the center of a dance circle, did a ripping air guitar version of the solo from Let's Go Crazy by Prince, and in the process, at just the right moment of his performance, much to any guest who saw its simultaneous disgust and amazement, with his picking hand, somehow shot the base of his wine glass across the room without cutting himself.

Okay, next wedding it's class all the way for this guy.

Ozzy, the Bus, the Rockstar On the Bus, and the Sad Bodybuilder Woman On the Bus

Ozzy at last!

I went to see Ozzy Osbourne live for the first time. I have seen him play in Black Sabbath (his band based out of Birmingham, England before going solo, in case any of you don't know of the band who created heavy metal) twice, but I had never seen just Ozzy before. Now that I have, the only remaining and surviving huge bucket list guy is Sir Paul McCartney (a guy from Liverpool, another working class England town, called The Beatles, in case you know absolute jack squat about rock music). It's a little frustrating that 9 out of 10 times when I told people that I was off to see Ozzy their first response was a statement something like this:

1. "Can he still sing?"
2. "Will you be able to understand what the hell he is saying?"
3. "Do they have to drag his old bones out and prop up his mortal remains?"

When in reality:

1. Yes. He sounded just fine to me.
2. Ozzy is actually far more coherent when he sings. It is kind of like if you have ever known someone who stutters but does not do so at all when he or she sings. Ozzy has always seemed more comfortable on stage being Ozzy than when he is walking about being John Osbourne. It is like a lot of comedians who are so confident and quick witted on stage but then do not know what in the heck to say at a cocktail party. Also, the Ozzy most people know was from a reality show called "The Osbournes" where he was stumbling about and had a hard time forming sentences. This is because he was falling back into his drug addictions and was at a pretty much all time low during that period. Pull up just about any other video of him, and he is very charming and downright hilarious. Intentionally funny, that is. Not a caricature of himself that he was marketed as after that damn show. But to be honest I could not understand him very well last night, but I think it was the echoing sound of the shitty suburban venue. And okay fine, maybe a little bit because he is Ozzy.
3. No. I saw no one propping him up. Yes, he looks a little old when he paces back and forth a little hunched over, but for the most part you see that exuberance and that way an audience is never quite loud enough for him and see that youthful excitement in his eyes. "I can't fucking hear you!" he says over-and-over. Mrs. Noisewater joked, "Maybe he really can't hear them anymore." Okay, that's pretty funny. I'll admit.

Wow, that was a much longer rant than I intended it to be, but I just get defensive about Ozzy because he has been a part of my life for so long. It was similar with Harry Caray when he was calling games for the Cubs into his twilight years after a major stroke with splashes of dementia and Budweiser. When people made fun of him I would tell them that he was not always this old and he is an institution of the Cubs and baseball as a whole. He is a God damn Hall of Famer. He called games from a fan's perspective, which was innovative in its own right. I honest to god do not think people separate the man himself from Will Ferrell's intentionally over exaggerated impression. When people picked on him, they might as well have been hurling insults at my grandfather and it's the same with my grandpa Ozzy. Shit, another rant. Let's move forward with the actual tale I wanted to tell here.

One of my oldest and dearest friends who has been popping up in this blog since its inception, Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP), and I took a free party bus running out of a heavy metal Chicago bar to get to the pain in the ass venue deep into the suburbs. The giant yellow school bus finally pulled up to the bar very late with all of us standing outside with no explanation from staff. Checking our wristbands as we climbed aboard was an extremely muscular and powerfully drunk woman in a tight-fitting shirt showing all her hard work at the gym. She for sure was twice as strong as me physically and had muscles in her face that I'm not sure how to get, but there was a sadness and vulnerability about her. She was stumbling up and down the aisles trying to remember people's orders and then stumbling back to the front of the bus to fetch the beers out of the cooler. Swaying back and forth leafing through change in her fanny pack, she told us that it was her dog's birthday. Without any of us asking any follow up questions she lowered her head and revealed, "She died in my arms today" and started weeping uncontrollably. A woman said something to the effect of, "I'm so sorry" and muscular bus bartender dove into her for a well developed upper body strength, vice grip hug. Whoever was next to that customer must have said "me too" because our mourning libations distributor burrowed into that customer for yet another deep hug.

This is not an actual picture of bus bartender. This is, in fact, Nicole Bass , an unfortunately deceased regular on The Howard Stern Show.

This was why the pour woman was so schnockered-drunk. She was in a state mourning. HLP and I were shocked that she showed up to work in her mental state. Luckily for her she has a job with a very lax policy on drinking. And weed smoking. She was offering free hits off her bowl. "Anyone need anymore beer? Or weed?" she would say. When the bus pulled up to the amphitheater she said, "The show doesn't start for a little while so you're free to stay aboard for a while. There's still plenty of beer and weed." She seemed like she needed some friends, but HLP and I had a date with Ozzy. When I wasn't sure if my sister was going to make it do to some severe back pain she was experiencing, HLP suggested we could sell or even give the extra ticket to the bus bartender, but then we realized she would be standing next to us all night crying. We had already checked the setlist and "Bark At the Moon" would be the very first song. Those canine related words were bound to send her into more crying or perhaps even suicide watch. She was best left on the bus looking after our beer and weed. 

This is the album cover that prompted a handy man my parents hired when I was a teenager to say, "Did you know your son is listening to Satanic music?" My mom, always the devout atheist, nodded politely and then laughed her ass of when she shut the door.

Oh, as it turns out joining us on the fun bus was the lead singer and songwriter of a fairly popular Chicago area band that enjoyed some national exposure in the late nineties and beyond. I will not say who it was to protect his anonymity, but HLP, being one of his biggest fans, was gushing a little over him. We were tickled that despite being a fairly successful rocker, he was riding the free bar bus like the rest of us. The rock star was very kind on the ride in like in a "I'll be nice enough to you where you don't tell people I was a big dick when you tell the story" kind of way." Then on the ride home he was nice in a "We should totally hang out sometime. Shit, I love everyone!" kind of way. He and his much younger and quite striking blond rocker-chick girlfriend were very well buzzed. She told us that right at the end of the show she was rather politely thrown out of the venue for peeing in the men's room. This has to be done sometimes when the line in the men's room is long. Someone must have snitched, but who? That has never bothered me. We are all God's creatures (if you believe in that sort of thing) doing what naturally has to occur when you pour way too much beer down your throat. Why should the female species have to wait longer to do so? It's an unfair and potentially harmful policy. 

This album cover used to scare and gross me out as a kid. What in the hell did he just take a bloody bite out of?

Rock star guy and I bonded slightly (in my mind) over hating Bruce Springsteen and hating the fact that Ozzy played nothing off of his second album, "Diary of a Madman," the final of two masterpiece records with Randy Rhoads, the late guitar prodigy taken from the world far too young by a coked up bus driver who fancied himself a single engine plane pilot who crashed the plane into the damn bus. Little known fact, I wanted to name my son Rhoads until I learned that Tom Morello, lead guitarist of Rage Against the Machine had stolen my idea, and I stay stolen regardless of the fact that he thought of it first. In any event, rock star guy and I were singing a number of those songs we had wished we heard on the ride home. And we sang all the songs that came on the radio as if they were all the best things on earth even though they were very similar songs to the ones we heard on the way in when we were far less buzzed and were engaging in polite and much more quiet conversations. 

Rock star guy and his girlfriend were talking about making a trip to the Liars Club (the spot where HLP called home and our favorite place on earth for so many years in our late 20's and roughly all of our 30's) later that evening, but HLP and I now have wives and kids at home who would prefer us to not be like the walking dead the following day. Rock star guy is a little older than us, to be honest, but he can get away with acting like a rock star because his job is actually: rock star. Plus it is probably best that we stopped glomming onto him and his girlfriend and allowed them to enjoy one another. Their relationship looked very fresh and exciting for them and the added company of two drunk-daddy fans would likely have worn thin for them after the bus ride was over if it hadn't already. 

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Okay, rock stars. Hope you have enjoyed this story. I do realize it was an extremely lengthy post with many a digression, but I think when the writer and storyteller in me lies dormant for so long, a stored up monster ejaculate of words is bound to be the result. Keep rocking and barking at the moon, my deer blog buddies. 

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.

I had REALLY low expectations for New Year's Eve last night. My group of friends couldn't agree on what to do, most settled for events all across the city, which left me and HLP (Heterosexual Life Partner) stuck going to a house party in which the guest list consisted of couple 1, couple 2, and me and HLP, essentially making us the third couple, which I'd say seals our HLP status. When we told everyone about the party we were going to, everyone was like, 'why in the hell are you going to that?' - to which we had no legitimate response.

We didn't get any more excited about this event when we learned that we also had to buy all the booze for the party, and after our purchase we found it impossible to find a cab. Just when we were considering waiting for a bus, a guy driving a limousine across the street asked if we wanted a ride. Fuck yeah we want an unexpected ride in a limo on New Year's Eve! Sure, it smelled of body odor, but it was a limousine nonetheless. The guy scared us a little when he was talking about how drinking and driving has been a bad combination for him in the past, since it has led to numerous incidents of hitting parked cars, which in turn led to his insurance company deeming him "uninsureable." Did I mention he sounded drunk as he was telling us this? When we told him where we going that evening, even the drunken limo guy we had never met before, but were falling in love with a little bit, said "Why would a couple of red blooded studs like yourselves go to that?"

Well, it's true that we wanted to at least put ourselves in a position to meet some available women desperately scanning the room at 11:50 for a guy to swap spit with, but I am very glad we went to a nice, intimate gathering with good friends. We had a great meal, we had some great conversation, followed by some REALLY drunken conversation, which was in turn followed by even drunker sing-alongs of Air Supply's Even the Nights Are Better, Wham's Careless Whisper, which I remember singing with the host the previous time I was at his abode, Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, and a dance off to Bell Biv Devoe's Poison. As midnight approached we all decided we should be in a public place when 2007 became the new thing to write on checks.

We all stumbled into the bar, and I noticed that my HLP had paired off with someone, leaving me the lone guy with no girl on his arm with midnight lurking right around the corner. What I DID have was a lengthy dialoge with a couple of loquacious, middle-aged queens. They gave me a chocolate bar, which I put in the back pocket of my jeans, which I slept in, and it splattered all over the inside of the pocket. I'd make a joke now about packing fudge, but that would just be insensitive.

Well, it really wasn't all that bad not having anyone to kiss at midnight. On the whole, I'd say Valentines day and Christmas, mostly Christmas, are more depressing holidays, since, for me, New Year's Eve is only depressing for about a half hour. I have my 30th birthday ready to rear its ugly head in less than a week, and I think that's going to be the real pisser, but one helluva party.

Happy New Year's, seven readers! Here's hoping you too spent your evening having a great time with great friends.

The Costa Rican Go Go House

Sorry about the long blogging absence, Seven Readers, but I was getting settled back in after my trip to beautiful Costa Rica. Myself, LSD (Law School Dropout), and two other couples stayed in a house, formerly owned by one of the Go Go's, right in the jungle and just off the beach, and we had the craziest caretaker-lady ever, which is what I want to tell you about.


She was waiting on the front porch when we got there for what she told us was 5 hours, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. She was a pleasant enough looking woman if not a little weathered and haggard, but it was nice that she went right in for hugs, even rubbing HLP's (Heterosexual Life Partner) wife's pregnant belly immediately upon meeting her.

She then began her tour of the place, which was extensive and intense, bordering on meth-infused, complete with far too in depth instructions of which light switches did what. She went on to make the bold claim that we were guaranteed to see monkeys, sloths, and pumas right outside the place. She also said that you could go down by the river/waterfall and see shrimps at night, that is if we packed our infrared goggles. I'm afraid we did not have the foresight for that.

Not only did this woman say we'd see fun animals, but there was a guestbook full of entries of people saying how many critters they saw. We saw no animals we couldn't have seen variations of in Chicago. One time while on a hike, a monkey tried to pee on HLP, but he barely got a good look at him. Other friends of ours saw a sloth while zip lining, but we missed that one too. Some other friends of ours said they were having breakfast outside by their hotel, and a bunch of howler monkeys could be seen and heard just going bananas and ape-shit all over the damn place. We searched high and low for fun animals, and these monkeys were just coming over to their damn breakfast nook to perform. Totally unfair.


The tenants in the guestbook said that "Sammy the Sloth" came to visit them every morning, and more than one entry spoke of the monkeys that showed them their babies, like they were dangling them over a balcony like Michael Jackson or hoisting them up like Simba in Lion King. What animal waves their babies out for a bigger species to eat? Pretty selfish, like, "Eat this little fucker and let us go. Cool?"


One night I thought for sure I heard monkeys, so I put on my slippers, went outside, and frantically circled the whole veranda . . . nothing. LSD said I was beginning to slip into Monkey Madness. I was. She also said that the guestbook and the caretaker made it sound like the monkeys would want to be our friends, but they didn't. The little pricks. Caretaker-lady said that when you look outside in the morning, you'd see anywhere from 5 to 100 monkeys. What? 5 sounds perfect to me, but 100 sounds more like a hostile takeover like in "Planet of the Apes."


HLP thought of the perfect entry for us in the infamous guestbook, and it was as follows:

We didn't see a God damned thing.
-Chicago, 2011.

I really do hate all those monkey-seeing jerks . . .

Former Roomy Wow's Me With Hook-Up

It had been a couple of months since I had been to the Liar's Club (my favorite Chicago bar), and the minute I set foot in the joint I felt like my chi was centered and my cholesterol was somehow lowered.

My good friend, HLP (Heterosexual Life Partner) had spent the entire day at a Cubs game with his friend's girlfriend and her friend. He had made the mistake of mentioning that he thought the friend was cute once, and ever since this couple has been forcing this girl on him like they are desperately trying to breed a couple Siberian Huskies for the Iditarod. I'm sure you know a couple yourself who seems to think all is not right with the world until everyone is paired off like them, so that they have lots of couples to get together with and play Pictionary, or do whatever it is sets of couples do these days. Although he's not into her too much, Friend of Girlfriend is very into HLP, so she was coming onto him all day. This will play a factor later . . .

So I'm watching HLP hitting it off with a random girl at the bar, but there were two major road blocks.

1) She had a friend with her. No problem right? He is with a great friend (The Gancer) who could run interference for him. However, she was a HEAVY friend. I have jumped on many grenades for buddies, but tonight was my first night in Liar's Club in two months, so running interfence on this gal would have prevented me from fully enjoying the experience. His prayers were answered when I noticed Heavy Friend was leaving! So he's good right? Wrong. Enter road block 2.

2) Just then Friend of Girlfriend made a final play to win Roomy's heart. She was knowingly, outright, full-on C-blocking, but I guess she figured she had to go for broke.

Long story short, Friend of Girlfriend finally threw in the towel, he made out with the random, and got her number. I got a call from him this morning and he asked me if I caught her name. Problem. I came up with a solution to this dilmea, which I happen to think is brilliant. What he has to do is call her on a work day at a time that she is almost certainly working, like at 10:00 AM. That's his best chance to catch the voice mail, where she will almost certainly give her name. If she picks up, well, then I guess he just says, "Hey, you!" or "Hey, pretty." or "Hey, homegirl." or "Hey, Mulva . . ."

Best Man No-no's

I'm going to be giving a Best Man speech at HLP's* wedding in a couple of weeks, and I've put together a list of things not to say in a speech.

- Don't spend too much time talking about how close you and the groom are. Just a couple quick words about how you know one another, not an "I love this guy, man" type of thing.

- If you have a story to tell about the groom, make it one - just one. Also, don't tell ones that are too embarrassing and mean. I went to one not too long ago where I was really pissed because the guy told around three stories all highlighting why the groom, who I think is a terrific guy, is absent minded.

- Don't ever, ever talk about the bachelor party. Even saying, "I'm not going to talk about the bachelor party is saying too much.

- Don't try to be too funny. This isn't your big break into comedy, it's just a time to say a few nice words about the bride and groom. And don't laugh at your own jokes.

- Keep it short. Anything over five minutes is too long.

- Don't forget to thank everyone who helped make the night possible.

- Only one toast, not two or three.

- I know it's nerve racking to talk in front of hundreds of people, and I know it's an open bar, but don't get too drunk. I'd say a three drink maximum before the speech is a good rule of thumb.

Any other good rules I should abide by that I've forgotten? Let me know before I unknowingly break one that you think I should stick to. Thanks!

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*HLP = Heterosexual Life Partner

This Morning, Merle Haggard's "Momma Cried" Came on My iPod . . .

. . . and I thought of a regular male barfly at a bar I used to go to every few weekends called Carol's Pub in the far North side of Chicago, an all night country bar, which at the time, had live country music with no cover. We used to go there if we had struck out with the ladies at the 2AM establishments.

It was great back then because you could sit down at a table, order up a pitcher of Busch light (we had iron clad stomachs back then) and dance with mostly sub par but sometimes diamond in the rough girls. The beauty of it is, you really didn't have to know how to dance! I mean, if you did, that's a plus, but mostly if you just twirl them around a few times, and show them a good time, sometimes you could twirl them right out the door! I know, that sounds sleazy, but I'm getting back into single Dr. Ken phase here . . .

So there was this guy who would always go there alone, always had on a stocking hat, was of an age around thirty, I'd say, with a trustworthy face, and there was a time that he was telling myself an Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP) how he wanted to hear "Momma Cried" by Merle Haggard because it was one of the only songs that would make him cry. I believe he would be brought to tears because he seemed like a bit of a loser, so I'm sure he could relate to a song about disappointing his mother, but I will say he was a lovable loser. HLP and I often like to recall the time that he was dancing out there by his lonesome and said to the two of us, "Are you gonna' come out here and waggle with me?" When do you hear the word waggle outside of calling plays on John Madden Football on your Sega Genesis game system?



How about you, seven readers? Do you have a favorite bar fly? If not, which song makes you cry?

Hit Me Up!

I haven't posted in a while, but here is the thing, I usually wait until I get at least one comment before going to the next one.  Eventually, I had to face the facts that no one cared to comment on Kerry King in Japan or platonic man love.  Now, you would think that would deter me from the topics that yielded zero results, but along comes another man-love post.  Just read the parenthesis if you care to know what in the heck we are talking about in these texts:

Doctor Ken: I am thumping you 16 to 7. (That is a fantasy football score.  I am so rarely winning so thought I would live it up until Sunday).  How is the in-law Thanksgiving?  Buffalo dip? (His wife makes this unbelievable buffalo dip and when she brings it, the container is practically licked clean and nothing else is even close to being done).

HLP: Just got under way: Forgot to make the dip.  How was Thanksgiving/Roadhouse? (I was texting him on Thanksgiving how I was flipping between football and Roadhouse and how I never felt like such a man)

Doctor Ken: That was going swimmingly until my dad demanded football only.  And right before the throat rip! (In "Roadhouse," Swayze, portraying a bad ass bouncer,  rips out the throat of an unruly bar patron.)

Doctor Ken (again): "Who is Mike Jones!"  That just came on.  Great disc.  So many vodka Redbulls back then, like we were subject of some diabolical science experiment. (Back when we were roommates we would listen to a lot of Built To Spill before going out.  There was one disc by this brilliant Idaho band that we got an early leak of where to keep it from being a full on bootleg before the release, the bootleggers would throw in some rapper named Mike Jones pipe in with boisterous "Who is Mike Jones?" every few minutes, usually right at an epic part.  This was annoying for the first few listens, but now he and I actually prefer it that way.)

HLP: "Hit me up!  281 . . ."  That vodka Redbull period took years off of my life expectancy.  (Mike Jones would often leave his phone number in his songs for fans to hit him up, as it were, as you can observe below.)



Doctor Ken: Hahaha.  Yes.  Our hearts are even more pissed off than our livers. (This is when people first started ordering drinks with alcohol and energy drinks, and we thought, because they made us feel so good, that we should just drink them all night.  We only figured out later that you should just have one, maybe two, through out the course of the night when you start to get sleepy.  When you knock those back all night, when you come home, your whole body is super tired except for your heart which has serious palpitations all night long). 

That concludes this texting conversation.  Hope you enjoyed it.  Hey, readers, do you have a friend who makes you laugh out loud consistently when you get a text?

Something occurred to me yesterday as a hairy guy rubbed my back . . .

. . . and that is this: Once you zone out, the sex of the masseuse does not matter. Sure, the first few minutes of a dude lathering me up in lotion was a little off putting. Yes, when he'd really dig into my pressure points, he'd let out a heavy breath, and that was a little gross. However, he let me bring a CD, so by track three of Radiohead's The Bends, I was in my own little world.

I should explain. This was my Polish immigrant landlord giving me a rub down. Just kidding. Actually, it was a complimentary massage I got after my last session of physical therapy for my pinkie.

So, what else is going on with The Gancer besides deep tissue, homoerotic massages?

1. I'm teaching again, and loving it again.
2. I'm still trying to write whenever I can. I'm really pleased with how my Goofy Rock Names piece came out.
3. This summer I'm going to try to ride my bike and play volleyball* for more hours than I drink.
4. I've been dating the same gal for almost half a year.
5. I went to the Liar's Club last night. The Naked Guy was there, and I really wanted some friends, who were first-timers, to see him flop around for a bit. To get him to do the naked dance, one needs to request his song. It wasn't looking good, because there was some guest DJ who only played techno shit. I tried to put in a request with him, but he pretended not to notice me while he fiddled with his knobs and played shit song after shit song. My buddy said the music sounded like it was made by a robot who had to go to rehab for being a sucky robot. I said to Naked Guy, "Hey, Naked Guy. You going to get good and naked this evening?" To which he replied, "I don't think they have a techno version of my song," his song being It's Getting Hot in Herre by Nelly. Alas, there would be no nakedness.

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*I had to offset the other picture with this one, so everyone can enjoy a butt, except Morrissey, who's asexual, but he doesn't read anymore. The picture reminds me of an Asian Indian gal who was always in the same league that my buddy, HLP, and I played in. When she'd get ready to return opposing serves, she'd bend over, and her rear end would pop up ever so slightly. HLP would say, "she's presenting." I swear we weren't perving on her, much, because everyone would notice this, boys and girls alike.

I just did some yoga with HLP's wife, and instead of going to the gym next door as planned, she talked me into getting pizza and going back to HLP's place, where we found Steven Seagal's Marked for Death to be on the plasma.

Let me tell you a few awesome/terrible things about this film . . .

1. The bad guy in the film is a Jamaican drug lord named Screwface with scary eyes, and Steven goes after this guy, breaking like 20 Jamaican arms in the process.

2. Seagal is so chubby, moves so slow, walks around like he has a stick up his ass, and he somehow can beat up a room full of people in his movies.

3. The soundtrack is actually really good with some great reggae songs by Jimmy Cliff and Peter Tosh, along with some random old school rap songs by Young MC and Tone Loc.

4. So, after chopping the head off of the bad guy, Seagal and his cronies bring the head to show a bunch of other baddies, only to have Jamaican Drug Lord Guy show up with his head still attached, somehow. He has a twin brother! So, Seagal has a sword fight with him, cutting his forehead pretty good, pops his thumbs through his eyes, gives him a Wrestlemania back breaker, and throws him through a wall, down an elevator shaft, to be skewered on a pole like so much Jamaican jerk chicken. His one liner? "I hope they're not triplets," or something like that. Terrible!

5. One infamous mistake in the film involves a car chase through Chicago where there are palm trees along the street. Huh? I've lived here all my life, and rarely do I see those.

The bottom line is this: If I could kick as much butt as Seagal, I'd opt for pizza over the gym just about every night, and I'd rock my gut and pony tail whilst busting arms.

Percy

I went out yesterday for St. Patty's Day with HLP and Jumper, and we ended up at Duffy's, a bar that used to be our hangout when we were the age of the people who still go there.  Sometimes we get feeling drunk and all powerful and invincible and think we need to go back to our old school spots.  Yes, we felt like the chaperones in that joint, but we still had fun.

There used to be a middle aged Black guy at Duffy's who was always wearing a giant white fur coat.  I thought for sure he was a pimp, but Jumper talked to him all the time and got a business card from him.  Turns out he sold those awesome coats, or maybe that was just his front for the IRS and he really was a pimp-daddy.  Who knows.

I got wondering what happened to old Percy, so straight away I asked our waitress, and she said "Who the fuck is Percy?"  I wasn't going to quit there.  I asked a few more folks, and no one had any clue what I was talking about.  I was on the case now, canvassing the joint for information like Columbo.  Jumper Houdini'd out of the bar suddenly, so now it was up to HLP and myself to find Percy's whereabouts.  I thought I had a good lead when I saw a 40-something looking guy who was there by himself trying to mack on the dance floor.  He said he comes in there all the time, and he looked to be around Percy's age, but even he didn't know our furry friend.  Damn it! 

If you have any information leading to tracking down Percy, I'm offering a reward, maybe a fur coat or a vodka Red Bull, but not top shelf, we're talking well here. 

"Thanks, Chad. I'll Take It From Here."

For whatever reason, everyone I talked to was not pumped about Halloween weekend this year. No one knew what costume they were going to wear, what party/bar they were going to, or even what kind of candy they were going to give the kids (cyanide or razor blade based). Unlike these ill-prepared and underwhelmed dead-beats, not only did I have plans for Friday and Saturday, but I had a separate costume for each night. As it turns out, the weekend proved to be everything I hoped it would be and more, and I'd like to share with you some of the details.

Friday
The Costume: On this night I was Brett Michaels from Poison. I had on a black wife beater, dark jeans, black eye liner, a tacky, rock star belt, a blond, rather convincing, wig, a do-rag, and I even researched his tattoos, and had my talented roommate draw them on me.
Venue: My Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP), who was dressed as Jim Morrison from the bloated era, and I went to Subterranean to see a bunch of bands dressing and playing like other bands, but really good bands like The Misfits, Neutral Milk Hotel, Guided By Voices, Flaming Lips, Blondie, and Badfinger.

It's kind of fun to get your rock on when you are dressed as rock stars, but what an unlikely pair of rockers to be hanging out, right? I don't see Brett and Jim having much in common, but on this night they got along famously.

We then went to The Liar's Club where we danced with a big group of girls who looked to be way too hot to be coming from a book club, all of which were married, which we didn't bother looking into until it was last call. Jim was tired, so was Brett, but Brett still wanted to meet up with some friends doing late-night karaoke at The Hidden Cove, a shit-hole so far up north it might as well be in Wisconsin. Brett was blind drunk, but still managed to perform a rousing rendition of Photograph by one of his competeters, Def Leppard, even with the teleprompter out! That is the stuff karaoke legends are made of. Look what you've done to this rock n' roll crown, Brett. Look what you've done . . .

Saturday
Costume: Ghostbuster costumes that HLP and I ordered online. The jumpsuits were a little more yellow than they should have been, and the proton pack and gun were inflatable.
Venue: A party in a remote suburb TWO HOURS west of Chicago.

We were committed to go to this thing, because we feel bad for our friend who moved so far away, but as the day approached, the evite only had like 10 confirmed guests. This was frustrating, because the Saturday before Halloween is the best bar night in the city. Period. Every girl is dressed like a slut, and it's so easy to talk to people, because it's just a matter of saying, "Hey there, Slutty Girlscout. I'll take two boxes of thin mints, if you know what I mean." I actually don't know what that means, and neither did she, but who gives a shit. You get the point.

We made the two hour drive, it took about that long to blow up our proton packs, and I think I got a hernia from the strain of the process. The hernia didn't improve when I slipped on the one-size-fits all, Ghostbusters jumpsuit, that didn't have a 6'2" guy in mind when they made the thing, because it pushed my ball-bag up into my naval. Anyway, the party was small, but the thing about The Host (the same guy from this post) is that any time he's drinking he's partying like it's his last, and he has a maniacle, and yes that's the word for it, laugh that bumps everyone around him up to a party-level of defcom 5. He had a smoke machine and a mix of music that reportedly took him "weeks" to complete with maniacle, once again, the right word, interludes of recordings of his own voice.

However, The Host's wife didn't share her spouse's ability to look past the piss-poor turn-out, and she decided that we needed go to a bar to salvage the evening. Now, my expectations were pretty low for a bar in a city so far from Chicago that it really can't even be considered a suburb, but I will say that this bar was bumping! Not only that, but you could get a round of vodka redbulls for like twelve bucks. To a broke, booze-hound Chicagoan, that's like looting.

There were two gay dudes with us dressed as Roman soldiers, so we had a pair of centurions and a pair of Ghostbusters getting busy on the dance floor, which must have looked hilarious in a bar where only one third of the people were dressed up. I kept having a girl, dressed as Marilyn Monroe whom I hadn't said a word to, come up to me, grind on me for a brief while, and leave. I said to one of the Centurions, much to his amusement, that she was a contingency plan in case all else failed.

So, all else failed, and I found myself having a drunken discussion with Marilyn at the end of the night. She said that I was going home with her, and who am I to argue with her? I think I may have agreed to get rid of some ghosts in her apartment, but I'm not sure, as I was pretty drunk at the time (see the aforementioned vodka-redbull prices). So, we're back at her place, we do our thing, in most every room of her place, and I awake the next day to the sound of sea gulls. I wandered into the living room to investigate this sound, naked, because I was in no hurry to wear my only clothing item available to me, the ball-squishing jumpsuit. On my way to her back door, behind which was the source of the seagull noises, I saw a note that read as follows: "Gancer, went to pick up my son. Be right back."

Dumbfounded, flabbergasted, and discombobulated, I walked to go look at the water and sea gulls and process the recent events. As I was scratching my head and naked ass, I was thinking to myself:

Did she mention a son last night?
What body of water is this?
I suppose it could be the Mississippi as far west as we are.
Hell, it could be the Pacific Ocean. Hahahha. That wasn't bad . . .

Just then the door opened, and I thought, "Oh, shit! I can't have this poor kid come home to see a naked man looking out the back door!" So, I covered my junk, and ran to the bedroom to get my jumpsuit. She and Chad, her son, who looked to be around 1, were nice enough to drive me home, and here is the whole reason I was excited about writing this blog. I know, it's been a long one, and I've come a long way for this one detail, but I think it's worth it. When we pulled up to my buddy's house, as I'm saying my goodbyes to a woman who looked far better as Marilyn Monroe and through eyes operating by means of a brain addled by way too many cheap energy drink-based cocktails, I reached to the back seat of the car to fetch my gear, which is when I saw young Chad chewing on my inflatable, proton pack. There is something that is simoultaneously funny and pathetic about that moment, and it will probably be an image that will always stay with me. I said, "Thanks, Chad. I'll take it from here."

Kisses To My Favorite Bar

My latest post is at The Liars Club, a Chicago based blog that myself and a few other bloggers contribute towards. Please come by, because readership over there is poor, mostly due to inconsistent posting by all four members, who seem to have drinking, bunsen burners, baseball, and DJ Major Dad, respectively, as their priorities.

The Liar's Club got its name from the best bar in Chicago. It is a watering hole that will always hold a special place in my heart, as well as my liver. I haven't been there in a while, mostly because I've been dating someone seriously for the past four months and so has the Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP)*. It just isn't a good place to take the lady for a cocktail, and it doesn't work as a guys with girlfriends' night out spot, because the music is cranked to such a deafening level, that you can't converse, catch up, etc.** The one time I did bring my girlfriend in there, I almost said to one staff member, pointing to the girlfriend, "This is why you guys haven't been seeing me around lately."

Here's one more bazaar tidbit that speaks to my love affair with that bar: Every time I drive by it, if I happen to get off at the Fullerton exit when the Armitage one is backed up, I do the thing Sammy Sosa did after catching fly balls, kissing two fingers, touching them to my chest, and pointing towards the dirty, LC facade.

span style="font-weight:bold;">*The other day, HLP said to me, "Imagine if just one of us were dating someone for this long? How miserable would that other guy be?" We both had a laugh, because, sadly, it's true.
**If the bar doesn't work well in either of these functions, then I guess you can sort of fill in the blanks as to what capacity it did function for us, and don't say for wooing each other, because I acknowledge that it sort of reads like that.

For Old Time's Sake

If you look back at some of my posts a few years back, you will likely come across a blog about me going out drinking, talking loud and drawing a crowd because I did that a lot in those days. Now that I have a serious girlfriend and have grown up a bit, I don't often do that anymore, nor do I write about it.

But, last night was a celebration for St. Patrick's Day and Gancey Girlfriend's birhday, and as a result, it was a throwback to my latent frat boy period. You have to understand, St. Patty's Saturday in Chicago is just insane. People fill up the bars at 9AM. We were slackers, starting our boozing around 1:30PM. My plan was to drink one whiskey on the rocks an hour, and just sip it slowly, so that I could pace myself for the long haul. At around 4PM, Gancey Girlfriend pulled me aside to let me know that it wasn't working out because I was already kind of lit. I made the switch to beer, and I'm not going to tell you that it slowed me down any.

Whenever you go out in big groups, there are always bar changes where folks get split up. We did this a few times, and one time, just as we got to a bar, we got a text that the girls had already gone to a different one so that they could dance. Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP)* said, "Jeez, this is like Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego!

It was the dancing bar where things got a little hazy and crazy.** For whatever reason, this bar which shall remain nameless seems to lead the nation in asshole guys hitting on other guys' girlfriends because it was going down left-and-right. I had to intervene with one guy who apparently, I didn't see this, balled up his fist like he was threatening to punch Gancey Girlfriend. What astounded me is that when I said, "Yeah, that's my girlfriend, so you can go away now," he didn't. He kept saying stuff to me that I either can't remember or couldn't hear, and I kept saying increasingly louder and more frustrated, "Just go away!" He eventually did, and he was thrown out.

What seemed like moments later, but it could have been hours later, another butthole was chatting up my lady while she was clear to him that she didn't want him around. I saw his arm go around her wais, and I just lost it. I talked to him, and basically had the same conversation I had with the last guy, only this one was worse compounded by these 2 simple facts:
1. I had just had this conversation with another a-hole, so I was really frustrated
2. This guy was twice the doucher that the last guy was.

It was a conversation about like this:

Dr. Ken: Sir, that's my lady, so this would be an excellent time for you to fuck off.
Doucher: (something rude with a mean, rude face)
Dr. Ken: Just go away.
Doucher: (Still being rude despite the fact that he's in the wrong.
Dr. Ken: What is it with these people? GO AWAY!!
Doucher: (Still being a turd, saying something assholish, despite the fact that, again, this guy doesn't have a leg to stand on)
Dr. Ken: Just go away
Doucher: Turd, turd, turd. I'm a turd.
Dr. Ken: Just go away
Doucher: Call me Turd Furgusen***
Dr. Ken: Let's step outside
Doucher: Sure.

Now, let me remind you that Dr. Ken's fighting record is 0-0-0. I have never been in a fight, nor do I have any idea how to fight. If I got in a scrap, I'd probably try some mixed martial arts moves that I saw on Spike the night before, and I'd undoubtably take an ass whipping that would likely lead to drinking through a straw and some reconstructive surgery on my big Swedish face. The second I said the words "let's step outside," I thought to myself, "Why the hell did I just say that? I don't know thing one about fighting," but I wouldn't have to fight on this night. A security guy came and grabbed Doucher, just Doucher, and walked him to the door. No one even laid a hand on me, so someone must have tipped off security, like someone had to remove the last jerk.

The life of a man dating a woman most people would agree is out of his league looks-wise is not an easy one, so it's good to know another place I need to stay out of, and this is one such place - so full of unbelievable uncompromising assholes. I was glad I was able to share with you this tale of drunken bafoonery, and I hope you were entertained. However, I need to grow up a little and leave the hazy and crazy (love that line!) posts to the college kids like Jerseyjov. She's a good writer, especially for how young she is. Check her out. Me, I'm going to go back to a mild mannered life and post boring stuff about the grocery store.
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*HLP, if you're reading this, it would be a great time to click the link and check out all the blog posts in which you come up!
**Just made that up. I rather like it.
***I have no idea what he was actually saying because I was lit, it was loud, and I was cutting him off and telling him to go away from us. If he had really said the Turd Furgusen thing, I would have probably had a laugh and bought Doucher a drink.

Forever Awesome

I was over at HLP Uncle's place, and he does these them parties on Sundays based on the cuisine of the apposing city of which the Chicago Bears are playing.  For example, if the Bears are playing New England, you got your clam chowder, Boston baked beans, maybe some Sam Adams.  I suggested that we go a whole different direction and have a Forever Lazy party.  You will notice in the commercial below at around 38 seconds where they suggest you "party it up with friends" and the dudes are getting all amped up in their onesie jammies, hollering at the television as if they don't look like dorks or about to have a big man-cuddling festival.  They also have a part at 1:07 where they think it would not be idiotic to go to ballgame in the Lazies where you will be the "talk of the next tailgate."  Oh, they would talk about you . . .



I want to put this to the test and watch the game with some buddies in some fuzzy PJ's.  Another guest on Sunday asked how we would pee in those things.  I'm way ahead of them.  We simply have to make it a Forever Lazy/Stadium Pal Party.  That way we could just pee away without having to unzip our pajamas or miss any snaps.  And, they make Stadium Gal so that we can invite ladies too (as if any would want anything to do with this)!

Getting enough interest in this will probably prove difficult, so I guess my dream of attaching a catheter to my penis and zipping up a furry outfit for a day of NFL football and chips and dips will remain a dream.  A fuzzy pee pee dream . . . 
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It dawned on me midway through this update that I already did a post about Forever Lazy right over here.  Oh well.  This adds a new element, I think. 

"Talk To Me, Goose . . ."

When I was in a relationship, around a week ago, I would always think that if I found myself single, I'd be screwed because all of my friends are married. Well, here I am, and I'm finding myself in a very wingman depleted market.

Now I look at dudes I know and think about how they would be as a potential Goose to my Maverick or maybe Maverick to my Goose depending on the chemistry between us. I play volleyball with a guy who I went to high school with who is good looking, funny, and he looks a little like me, so we could tell ladies that we are brothers and stuff, but he's so, so married. Darn!



I have a couple of other dudes to work with, but it's just disheartening to know that the most compatible wingman of all time for me was Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP), and I'll never do better than that one. We used to be out together, talking/dancing with a pair of girls, and one of us would lean in and say, "Which one do you like?" and the other one would always say, "Whatever. Either one." We never had any conflicts with that sort of stuff, and whether or not we found love/other things that night, we always kept each other laughing.

How about you, Seven Readers? Did you/do you have a Goose or a Maverick you want to tell us about?

Storytelling Podcast 4 of 4: The Stripper

(this above pic will make sense after you listen)

I've always said that LC, a.k.a. HLP (Heterosexual Life Partner) is a funny, funny man and should be on a podcast some day, and he really delivered. All the participants agree that he put down the most entertaining story, and I think you'll agree, My Beloved Seven Readers.

I would not feel comfortable giving anything away here, as that would kill some of the surprises that caught us off guard as well. Yes, I know it's 25 minutes, but it's worth it. Just sit back and enjoy . . .



Remember, click the arrow play button to here it on this site, and click the word play to download it to your iTunes to listen later, which may be preferred due to the length - break it up during your commute! If you play it just now without the download, be sure to turn off the music player on this blog, along the right panel.

Songs Used:
"St. Louis" by Nelly
"Forever in Blue Jeans" by Neil Diamond
"Waiting for the Sun" by The Doors
"Don't Let the Sun Catch You Cryin'" by Not Ray Charles (little help, anyone?)
"I'm In Love With a Stripper" by T-Pain
"Meet Me In St. Louis" by Judy Garland
"Big Hard Sun" by Eddie Vedder

Another Damn Bar Tale?

Last night after watching the Chicago Bears lose in terrible touchdown-less fashion, Oates, HLP, Cliff, and myself went to another bar for a few nightcaps.  We started getting friendly with some girls who were in there, and I remember putting on one girls' sweatshirt that was really snug on me and had glitter.  I like that feeling of tight clothes clinging tightly to me, like I'm getting a prolonged hug, so I just left it on for an hour or so like a total jackass.

For some reason, perhaps because a Michael Jackson song came on, another chick in there said she could do the moonwalk perfectly.  I expressed my doubt that she could, so we agreed that if it was good, I would buy her a drink.  She took her shoes off and did a pretty crappy, white moonwalk for a few of us to see.  I told her I was not that impressed because when Michael did it, it was faster and it looked like he was levitating, and when he did it for the first time at the Grammy's, we all lost our minds.  So, she yelled at me, said I was just some idiot in a girls' sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure she called me a fag.  So, I just laughed my ass off at how angry she got over a stupid moonwalk, and that just made her more mad.

It should have looked a hell of a lot more like this:

 

More on Podcasts

I got some buddies on their way to record the second set of podcasts for The Gancer. When I did podcasts in the comedy group I was in a few years back, I always thought it was fun as hell, but I felt like I wanted to have more control over how things were done. It's not complicated really; you just hit record, crack some beers, and shoot the shit. Still, it's good to be the host so I can move it in the right directions. In that group, most everyone was a better actor than me, many of them had more time to devote to the group, but when it came to the podcasts, I really think that is where I should have been the lead. For one, you can't take it serious. Once it's not fun and seems like work, then the whole thing is crapped out.

So, Crom is on his way over to Dr. Ken's apartment to do his second one of these with me. The first being the series of Rule #34 podcasts that I think came out tremendous. He's funnier than hell on these things.

Also on his way is a friend who doesn't have an alias yet, so I'm going to call him Beatnik for now. He's a guy who I wasn't too close with back in high school, but through the magic of Facebook, we figured out that we have a lot in common, such as hating high school, drinking too many beers sometimes, and dating artist chicks who drive us nuts.

THIS JUST IN: It sounds as if HLP (Heterosexual Life Partner) might be joining us as well! He has been featured in many blog posts over the years, and I'm sure my beloved seven readers are enthused to hear his voice!

This one's going to be unbelievable, so stay tuned . . .