Fuck Dionne Warwick. THAT'S What Friends Are For

I don’t remember why, but on the drive to work today a line from a rap song popped in my head. I believe the song was Natural Born Killers (or maybe Killaz) by Dr. Dre and Ice Cube, and the line is as follows: “I’m down with Dre like A.C.’s down with O.J.” This is, of course, a reference to O.J. Simpson (Heisman Trophy winner, 2000 yard NFL rusher, and double murderer) and his childhood friend A.C. Cowlings. If you think about it, A.C. is one hell of a friend. You figure their conversation had to have been something like this:

OJ: I need a favor.
AC: Name it.
OJ: I need you to drive me in your car
AC: Can’t we use your Benz?
OJ: Nope. It has to be a white Ford Bronco. Can you do it?
AC: You mean a getaway?!
OJ: Not exactly. More like driving 25 on highway with 42 police cars behind us.
AC: Sounds fun, but . . .
OJ: Oh yeah, I’m going to need to hold a gun to your head the whole time
AC: Ummmmm
OJ: Oh, come on, man! I’d do the same for you. Come on . . .(look at the solo OJ picture when you read this line. He’s damn convincing, isn’t he?)
AC: Alright, Juice. But I’ll be expecting a sixer for this. . .

So, are you down for your friends or are you AC-style down for your friends? If your friend stabbed his ex-wife and her lover 12 times each, would you drive him/her on a Live CNN cop parade at gunpoint? Think about it . . .

P.S.: Can anyone tell me what movie the sixer line is from?

PJ

I saw Pearl Jam at The United Center, where the Chicago Bulls play, the other night. I decided to go for a few reasons.

1. Heterosexual Life Partner, my roommate and one of my closest friends, is probably the biggest PJ fan on earth. He has a bunch of bootlegs and he has been to a ton of shows. You know how I know he is a big fan? At one point in the show he told me how one of the guitar players has Chrone’s Disease, like my other closest friend, and he is a big activist. Sure enough, I saw a guy on the way out with a Chrone’s foundation something-or-other shirt on. Who knows that about a band member? He is like one of those little girls that memorizes all of the N’Sync members’ favorite colors, and I love him for it. So, I had to see what they are all about live if Neil is this retarded over them and we tend to agree on music to the point where we are like a dorky couple of fruity asses.

2. They are a band that speaks to my generation. I went to school during the Grunge Era. For those of you who don’t know, that is when a shit load of bands from Seattle came onto the scene, and all of the hair metal bands had to take off their makeup, cut their hair, and get jobs at Wallmart. Look for Ricky Rocket from Poison at your local Dairy Queen. He makes a mean blizzard. The things that man can do with a heath bar . . . In any event, these grunge bands dominated the airwaves and MTV to the point where we all wanted to wear flannels and be depressed. This was fun for a while, but now I see how high school girls dress and all I can think is, damn, chicks in my day wore baggy flannels, didn’t fix their hair or makeup, and it was like making out with Bob Villa. Sorry, Bob. I’m sure you’re a stallion.

Okay, back to the speaking to the generation. I have to be honest here. I love Nirvana. They changed music forever, but I rarely knew what the hell he was talking about. While Kurt Cobain was singing about mulattos and albinos, Eddy Vedder sang, “While you were sitting home alone at age 13, your real daddy was dying. Sorry you didn’t see him, but I’m glad we talked.”* Nothing like that ever happened to me, but his words in that song and others gave me the chills and they still do. Let’s put it this way, how many parties do you remember a bunch of drunk people singing Nirvana to each other at the top of their lungs? There’s something about Pearl Jam that just transports me back to high school, and I’m sure there is one band that does that for everyone much more than other bands. What’s yours? High school wasn’t a good time for me, but PJ evokes the few good feelings I had about it.

3. My Morning Jacket opened. They are an unbelievable band. Neil and I were very dismayed to see that everyone was sitting down during their set. Because we didn’t want to be the lone tools standing up getting in people’s way, we decided to stand up and cheer like maniacs in between each song, and dance, air drum, and basically rock out as best we could in our seats during the songs.

Some highlights to the show included

Eddy Vedder’s voice sounded great, he is still a cool, rock star at age 40, and he avoided political rants. I will say it is weird that he has graduated to wine during his shows, but since he’s 40 years young, and since he put down 2 or 3 bottles, I have to let him slide on that one. a) Granted, he wasn’t the man possessed, frothing about the mouth, entirely too good looking to be homeless man, but I’ll be damned if he doen’t seem like one, crazed rocker, icon that he was close to 15 years ago, but he is still one helluva rockstar. I’ve always contented that his work on the album 10 is one of the best rock vocal performances of all time. Just listen to him going bonkers at the end of Jeremy. It’s like some demon-rocker spirit is channeling through him to do his rock bidding. He really was a man possessed on that record.
b) They played every PJ song I needed to hear. You name it, they played it.
c) The United Center had 312, a great new Chicago beer, on tap. Sure they were $7.50 a pop, but they were so damned tasty. When you only have four bullet points about a show, and one of them is about beer, you may have a problem, but that’s a whole other self-reflective blog that I don’t have time for.
d) There were 2 goofy drunk guys arm-in-arm jumping in unison throughout entire songs. I was calling them the Wonder Twins. There was a grey haired dude, there were a number of those, right next to them consistently getting bumped into by with their Wonder Twin Powers.

Okay, this turned into a much more in-depth analysis than I intended, but would you expect anything less? Enjoy your weekend everyone, and keep on rocking in the relatively free world.

* Sorry if I blew that quote, but I’m far too lazy to look up the verbatim version.

Tall, Dark, and Useful?

I’m dating this girl who makes me feel useful. She is a beautiful, intelligent woman who was born in Hong Kong and moved here in 1997. For starters, she missed the 1980’s! I have so much to teach her about tight-rolled jeans, jelly shoes, The Superbowl Shuffle, Bananarama, and Kajagoogoo. The following are some slightly more important things I’ve helped her with, taught her, or plan on teaching her:

1. Because she doesn’t have a car, nor does she know how to drive, I convinced her to buy a bike. I know a lot about them, so I was able to accompany her to the bike shop, which helped her, but annoyed the salesperson, who I foiled in her attempt to push everything in the store on her. “How about a light? A bell? A bolt to keep your seat on? A $60 lock? How about surface to air missles?”

2. I plan on teaching her to drive. I think I’d be good at this job, since I’m so patient. For the time being, I feel useful in that I can drive her places, since I have a car and know how to drive it.

3. Today I helped her pick out a handbag. She was all set to buy a $700 one, when I suggested we go to Bucktown and look in a shop that just sells bags, a shop I got the name of from a friend, since I knew they would be of good quality, potentially less expensive, and more unique. She liked a couple, but I could tell she wasn’t nuts about either of them, so I suggested we go down the street to a store called Stitch, which specializes in leather products. Sure enough, she fell in love with a bag, and I like it too. It’s somehow sexy, because it almost looks like a leather skirt. It’s interesting, but not gaudy. Maybe she can return the favor by decreasing my talk of handbags, and increasing my talk about sports, thus making me far less flaming. Until the Cubs give me something to talk about that doesn’t make my blood boil, I will continue to talk of fierce (with a lisp) handbags.

4. I plan on teaching her how to play volleyball. She will be worthy of being my double’s partner by the end of the summer. I’ll whip balls in her face, see previous post, if that’s what it takes.

5. Perhaps most importantly, I am making her watch all the original Star Wars films. We just finished Empire, and she had NO idea Darth Vader was Luke’s father. I must give her props, since after watching Darth use the dark side of the force to choke the 2nd or 3rd general, she wondered why anyone would want to be promoted, thus having to work more closely with the boss who gets frustrated and kills muthafuckas. A valid point, and an interesting notion I had not previously entertained. I know the picture is of him choking a GOOD guy by HAND, but I couldn't find any of him using the force to do it, and let's face it, pictures of him simply pointing his fingers aren't as menacing. Very nerdy of me to clarify that, but If you want to see some REAL Star Wars nerds, check these guys out: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=672422470842718521

I would be remiss if I did not add that she is a rad chick in ways other than I can teach her things. In fact, there are a lot of things she has taught me in the short time I’ve known her. Okay, I’m going to get some sleep so I can be “usefull” at work tomorrow.

I am flabbergasted. As some of you know, I coach 6th and 7th grade volleyball. My principal just came up to me in the middle of practice, mad as hell, asking me if I whipped a volleyball at a kid’s face. What DID happen was two kids got mad at each other when they were chasing down their volleyballs, and one threw the ball at the other one’s face. I asked them what the heck was going on, they verified that they were throwing balls at one another, so I made them do laps. The one kid stopped, so, naturally, I asked him why he stopped, to which he replied he had to go. So, I said, finish your laps and THEN go. About 20 minutes later is when my principal came to me saying that this kid told his mother that I whipped a ball in his face and threw him out of practice. I love working with kids, it’s why I got into the business of school social work, but I’m so fed up with dealing with parents, politics, misunderstandings, and outright lies. I think I’m going to be a house painter. I want to just paint houses with some music on and have ZERO coworkers. Wouldn’t that be great?

"My Life, My Love, and My Lady Is the Sea"

Some of you may know that I work on the weekends as a photographer at Navy Pier, a famous tourist attraction in Chicago. It’s not like it’s a fun little hobby, more accurately, it’s an 18-hour-long, straight up, weekend killa’. I really wish I could have my weekends to relax, but my disgustingly high car payment and my Gigantor student loans have joined forces in a successful attempt to leave me with zero free time, hence the dismal effort at blog updating (sorry seven readers).

I used to take pictures at the Ferris Wheel. I’m the guy that says, “How are you today? Before we get on board, why don’t you step right behind this sign, show some love, and give Christy a big, Ferris Wheel smile,” or something to that effect. Then when they get off the wheel, one of us shows them their picture on the monitor and tries to sell it to them. I’ve been doing this for over a year now, and I’m damn good at it. Here are some bullet points I could put on a resume:

1. I’m willing to flirt with old ladies from St. Louis if it means selling a photo or two.

2. I can maintain order on a busy ramp, with people growing increasingly frustrated, and STILL get them to stop for a photo opportunity on a consistent basis. The college kids that I work with, yes, I know it’s pathetic that I’m 29 and I work with these youngsters, don’t have the gift of gab that I have. You just can’t coach it I’ve found.

3. I can vary my little pitch and tailor-make it to the people on the ramp so that I don’t bore them, my coworkers, or myself.

While I’ve proven to be an effective Ferris Wheel photographer, the last few weekends they have stationed me at the Sea Dog ™. This is your basic speedboat ride and architecture tour. Today I learned that on a cold, rainy, Chicago afternoon, don’t NOBODY want to go on a boat. So, we spent the day playing photographers VS tour guides in a game of two-on-two football. Of course, we’d stop and ask people if they wanted to ride in between plays, and sometimes getting behind the center and saying, “2:15 architecture tour on two, best 75 minutes of your life on 3!” I also watched the two tour guides do an improvisational bit about two ninjas who are mortal enemies, want nothing more than to kill one another, but keep crossing paths without their swords. They are theatre dorks, but perfect for the job, since they have to talk all day and think quickly on their feet.

The sad part is the powers that be noticed that they didn’t need 3 people to take photos of NOBODY, so they sent us all home. This has given me time to finally update my blog. Tonight I will be partying at my apartment during our going away extravaganza for one of my roommates. Tomorrow I will be a hung over, but still very effective photographer or wide receiver, depending on the weather.

The Suburbs Will Suck Your Soul

I hate losing contact with my friends from the suburbs. It's not that I like them any less than my city dwelling friends, it just happens. It reaches a point where it's a standoff: They hate coming out here and I hate going out there. It's like, I have this terrific city all around me, and they have . . . Naperville. Sure the suburbs can be fun, if by fun you mean going to the same two bars every weekend to watch the cool kids from high school become bigger and bigger losers over the years, and then hop in your car, only to be followed by a DUI-ticket-writing-hungry, suburban cop who has no real crimes to fight. I came up with percentages for the reasons I think the suburban friends have for not coming out, and my good friend Roxana helped me with a pie chart. Thanks, Roxy. However, I can't figure out how to get the pie chart on my blog, so you'll just have to form a little pie chart in your head, which is a pretty fun way to pass the time. Enjoy.

70%: There is nowhere to park in that fucking city. Why don't they have any God damned parking lots? After driving around looking for an hour, I just want to go home, drink a sixer, and go to sleep.

20%: $6.50 for one Heineken? I can get a twelve pack of Busch light for that in the burbs.

7% $5 cover charge? That's bullshit. I've been to Joanie's Dry Dock dozens of time, and not ONCE has Joanie asked me for a cover charge.

2% I'd like to come out to Chicago, but I have to get a fresh start on my lawn early tomorrow morning, or the neighbors will start talking about me.

1% Just come out by me! Hootie and the Blowfish are playing Ribfest in Naperville!

Go Cubs Go!

Baseball season is, yet again, upon us, and this no doubt means another disappointing year for the Chicago Cubs. I’m tired of them fucking sucking. I don’t think people get how serious I am about Cub baseball. Let me give you some of the alarming signs that I am a die-hard Cub fan.

1. When someone insulted the post-stroke Harry Caray, I honestly think I could have killed a few of these jerks. This man’s voice was around my house so much growing up that he might as well have been my grandfather. Hell, he was my grandfather, so don’t make fun of my fucking grandpa! Will Farrell, I’ll let you slide, since your impression is God damned funny.

2. I’m not sure if there is a God or not, but I AM sure that if I leave a game early, I can drastically affect the outcome of a game.
I can also alter the results of a game by turning the radio or television off for a brief while. Believe it or not, my bleacher bum friends and I can turn the tides of a game simply by switching our seats. I don’t believe in a higher power, but I swear by this bullshit? There’s something wrong with that rationale.

3. Wrigley Field is not just a ballpark to me. It is my favorite place in the world. I love all the sights, sounds, and especially the smells – beer, hotdogs, ice cream . . .
I don’t like the smell of cigars, but I love to smell it at Wrigley. I have even grown to love the smell of hot urine in the men’s room. It is one of the only parks in the country that still has the trough-style urinals. They maximize available pissing spots by cutting out the spaces in between urinals. Efficient? Yes. Smelly? Definitely. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

4. Speaking of urinals, and why not speak of urinals, I love getting off that self/team deprecating one liner that makes the whole men’s room erupt in laughter, and not your usual laughter, but the bazaar looking laughter of men looking straight ahead, so as not to be accused of looking at a penis.

5. I will drink a piss-warm Old Style beer out of a paper cup and ask for seconds, and thirds, and tenths, and stack my dead soldiers up to show my drinking prowess. I dreamed of being the guy with the seeminlgy endless, stacked up cups when I was a young man, and look at me now America! My first frothy brew at the Friendly Confines will be for you, my 9 readers.

The Gospel According To Frank Zappa

Someone I know did a post in which you use your favorite band's song titles to answer the questions below. Although Frank Zappa isn't my favorite, he is certainly among them, and his songs have the funniest titles, by far. It should be noted that I only used songs that are in my personal catalogue. I hope you enjoy the list, and I'd love to see your version, either in comment form or posted on your blog.

1. Are you male or female? Muffin Man

2. Describe yourself: I Can’t Afford No Shoes

3. How do some people feel about you: Dancin’ Fool

4. How do you feel about yourself: I’m So Cute

5. Describe your ex girlfriend: Crew Slut

6. Describe your current significant other: Road Ladies


7. Describe where you want to be: Wild Love

8. Describe how you live: Broken Hearts Are For Assholes

9. Describe how you love: Advanced Romance and Dirty Love (tie)

10. What would you ask for if you had just one wish: Titties and Beer

11. Share a few words of wisdom: Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow

12. Now say goodbye: Wait a Minute . .

Wow, these titles make me sound like a pervert or something. Well, that's just Frank for you. If I chose another band the list would have a whole different feel. Frank, thanks for giving me a good laugh while sorting through some of the titles of songs I love.

Sit Down?

I’m coaching boys, 7th grade volleyball this year. I just got done with my first game, and I need to kill a half hour to charge my ipod and to let traffic die down. So, I figured this would be a great time to knock out a blog.

We lost both games today, but we did way better than the last time we faced the same team. I was out of town, but I heard we didn’t crack 10 points in either game the first time we faced them. In today's games we were up in the 20's both games. I’d like to think that the spike, pun intended, in point production had something to do with Dr. Kenneth Noisewater’s coaching prowess. What I lack in knowledge, I make up for with enthusiasm. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty good volleyball player, and I know the rules. It turns out all my years of playing volleyball at the bar and on the beach did not equip me with the knowledge of all the anal, little nuances in organized volleyball. When you sub in players you have to have them run to the sidelines with the backs of the guys subbing out to the judge, and the front of the guys subbing in has to face her. There is also a hand shaking format in which they have to go to opposite corners, run straight up to the front, so that they can run across and slap hands under the net. Okay, I’m willing to learn these particulars and abide by them, but what I REFUSE to do is sit down while I coach.

I have ADHD. It’s never been diagnosed, but I have a brutal case of it. If you saw my desk right now you’d know what I’m talking about. When I coached basketball I NEVER sat down during a game. I pace back and forth like a caged panther and I howl like a, well, caged panther. Today, midway through the second game, the judge told me to sit down. There were some snickers as the crowd heard the howling come to an abrupt halt, and I sheepishly sat down and put my clipboard under my chair. I really would have liked to have found another place for my clipboard, namely in that bitch judge's corn hole, sideways.

I have a tournament this weekend, and I’m going to continue to pace until I am warned a few times, at which point I’ll sit, but I don’t have to like it.

-Coach “Panther” Noisewater

Tip Your Waitress. Try the Veal.

Last night, The Roomy and I actually met some cool, attractive girls that we are both excited about calling. It wasn’t one of those times where I was talking to a girl all night, hoping that I could take her home, and then settling for a phone number that I have no intention of ever dialing. Jeez, that sounded mad sleazy. It wasn’t one of those, “yeah, I guess I’ll call her. Maybe she’s cooler and/or smarter when she’s sober. . .” The point is, I’m tired of meeting, and what’s worse, following up with, girls who I’m indifferent about. Love is supposed to start with a spark, maybe an explosion, but never apathy, right? So, The Roomy and I are stoked to have met girls who actually got our blood pumping a little.

Oddly enough, the events leading up to us meeting the women in question started when my roommate, our friend Jason, and myself were watching NCAA games at Finley Dunne’s, a great dive bar to watch sports. Our waitress was cute and likeable, and she was laughing with us because our television was about 5-10 seconds ahead of the other 6.* We would see a big play, have a given reaction, and then look around to see if the patrons had a similar reaction moments later. We tipped this waitress tall and went home, thinking that was the last we would see of this lovely bar maid.

So, last night (Saturday) we were out at The Liar’s Club, having fun, but the lady front was not looking good. We had a pretty big group with us, at least one of which was female, and it looked like we were going to fall victim to, what I like to call, the “bringing sand to the beach” effect. We were dancing in a circle formation, which makes it tough to infiltrate into other groups, or for other girls to penetrate our defenses. I hate when that happens. Just to shake things up, I spotted The Naked Guy, fully clothed, see two posts ago, so I requested Hot in Here by Nelly to get him good and naked. As I looked anywhere but in the direction of his flaccid penis, I noticed that the talent in the bar was looking slim. Sure it was good for my ego to have a mediocre-looking girl make me dance with another mediocre looking girl who was getting married in a week while her mediocre-looking friends cheered, or to have a so-so looking girl try to coerce me into taking my shirt off. I remember Tom Petty’s American girl was playing while I pushed my shirt down as she fought back pushing upwards. That’s all well and good, but now that the ego had been thoroughly massaged, I was hoping to meet a more pleasing to the eye woman.

Not long after the Tom Petty shirt pulling fiasco, just when I thought all was lost, the waitress from Thursday spotted us and said, “hey, I waited on you guys on Thursday.” She really likes us for some reason, and she insisted that we meet two of her friends, who were both really good looking and, as it turns out, a lot of fun. My roomy and I chatted up these girls all night, and when the ugly lights came on, which thankfully didn’t make either of these girls ugly, I remember typing my girl’s number into my phone as I saw The Roomy at the end of the bar typing in his girl’s number. The Roomy and I had a little spring our step as we went off into the night. I actually have to break a cardinal rule and call mine today. She is leaving for Switzerland tomorrow, and I’m going out of town tomorrow too. If this works out for him, myself, or even better, both of us, we will have to stop into Finley Dunne’s on another Thursday to watch sports on the super-fast television, and thank the match-making waitress for setting us up. Moral of the story: Tip your waitress? Don’t give up until last call? How about simply remembering that while life as a single guy can be lonely, frustrating, unfulfilling, and it has any number of other negative aspects, sometimes you have one of those nights where you meet someone great, and you remember why sometimes it’s great to be single, and you also remember why some of your not-single friends sometimes envy you.

* I want to add that I found this waitress photo on Google Images, so that's not her, and those guys aren't me or my friends, but how funny is that picture? Those guys look so drunk, and it looks like the Asian Indian fella is giving her the stalker look from hell glare.

Ninja Blankie!

I don't want to be one of those dorks that talks about his kids on his blog, but I can't help my self this time. This isn't even my kid, but I promise, it's funny. Keep reading, fuck-face! During preschool, my 3-year-old nephew was asked what he wanted to be when he grows up, to which he responded "a ninja." How cool is that? He later changed his answer to a knight, because they have a "double ax." He's not sure what kind of badass he is going to be, which century or continent the ass kicking will be on, but he is certain that he is going to reap havoc and utilize some weaponry.
The next day he had to bring something in to show and tell, and he may have tarnished his badass reputation by bringing in his "blankie." I'm sure lots of tough as nails ninjas have security blankets of some kind . . . Well, Aidan, I still think you're a badass. No matter what.

* Aidan is the kid in the front giving you the finger.

More Than Meets the Eye

http://www.thephatphree.com/features.asp?StoryID=2160&SectionID=3

Disclamer: I am posting a site about Transformers and The Gobots. Yes they are toys. I'm sorry if I am alienating some of my female readers or my readers that think they are too cool to talk about toys. Wait, I don't care about the too cool for toys people. You people suck! The rest of you, enjoy this link.

The link is to an article written on the phatphree.com. The guys on this site do a great job at writing humorous articles. I read one once written from the perspective of a hardass in a striped shirt going out to the bars - very funny stuff there. In this article, the author ranks the top 5 crappiest Transformers and Gobots.

- I tend to agree with his number 1. What kid would have fun playing with a robot that turns into a rock? That is like a cruel joke, like giving a kid a lump of coal in his/her stocking.

- I don't like Grimlock being number 5. I see his point about dinosaurs not being able to blend in on earth like a car could, for instance, but Grimlock is the shit. This guy must not have seen Transformers the movie 800 times like me, or the Canadian version with the handful of curse words, for that matter, because Grimlock is part of the reason that the movie kicks ass, well, that and Judd Nelson lending his vocal talents to portray Hotrod.

- I agree with his dissing of Perceptor too. Come on! A telescope?? On the show he was a pacifist, Green Peace, hippy who wouldn't shoot anyone. That is until the movie when he just up and starts shooting Decepticons like it was going out of style. I always wondered if that was because the writers didn't research the show's history, or if Perceptor just snapped like a disgruntled postal worker from endless days of looking at slides while all the cool Transformers ran around solving mysteries and getting in adventures.

Anyone have any thoughts? I promise I'll get back to writing about stuff more people can relate to, but I had to let my inner nerd shine, if only for a moment.

The Naked Guy

You heard it here, folks. If you ask me what the best bar in the city of Chicago is, without a doubt, and without hesitation, I will tell you The Liar’s Club. Let me give you a few reasons why:

1. Take a look at this picture. I mean the place looks condemned for Christ’s sake. You know that if a bar has a façade like this, then it must stay busy on reputation alone.

2. They have the best music/DJ’s. I know the Friday and Saturday DJ’s by name, and they not only play awesome stuff on their own, but they play most anything I request. If you were by the DJ booth around 12:30 last night, you would have heard this exchange:

Me: I’m going to leave it up to you, Kevin. Do you want to play Chains of Love by Erasure or Billy Idol’s Dancing With Myself?
Kevin: I’ll play them both, man.

What’s crazy too is that they will blare heavy metal music out of nowhere. Everyone will be done dancing to Justin Timberlake, or whatever, and then Mother by Danzig will kick in.
You’d think that would clear the floor, but people dance away and sing to their friends, and sing to people they’ve never met, but could tell are cool because they know the words to a random song like that, or some other terrific song.

3. They have The Naked Guy. On any given Friday night, when you hear It’s Getting Hot In Here by Nelly, look over to the end of the bar for a guy who looks like a mix between Kevin Spacey and the guy from Midnight Oil. The second he hears the song, he takes one last drag from his cigarette before extinguishing it, he takes one last healthy swig from his cocktail, and he marches out to the dance floor. It’s kind of like when Batman gets the call. The only difference is, I’ve never seen Batman strip naked and dance by himself, although for the right price I think Adam West might be willing to do a naked appearance and dance the Batoosie. As I was saying, the man who is simply known as The Naked Guy begins a dance that seems to be intentionally done in a way as to create an over exaggerated flopping motion. Girls circle around him and take pictures of him, while I dance with a hand blocking the view of the flip-flopping member. One night I struck up a conversation with The Naked Guy, and I said to him, “Say, Naked Guy, how ever did you start this fine tradition?” Evidently, someone dared him to do it a number of years back, and he has been dancing in nature's own just about every Friday night since. He’s also a card-carrying nudist, well, I don’t know if they have cards, or where they’d carry them when they’re naked, but he goes to nudist events all over the country. Through the course of the conversation I did get his real name, but to me, and the other loyal patrons of the best bar in Chicago, he will always simply be The Naked Guy. Here’s to you, Naked Guy. May you continue to flip and flop yourself to your heart's content.

The Most WORSTEST Times I've Heard Words Used WRONGLY

I don’t claim to be a grammar whore. I know I mess up lots of stuff, but there are some English language boo-boo’s that make my skin crawl. I started to go in order of most annoying, but I think to avoid being anticlimactic, I’m going to go in order of how funny the screw ups were.

5. This one girl and I did an internship together a ways back, and by the time it was over we both hated one another. Remember that Seinfeld where Jerry’s mom can’t fathom how anyone could not like Jerry? That’s how I felt. I’m not saying that everyone loves me, but I get along with most everyone, and I’ve certainly never had someone detest me to this degree. I think it had something to do with the fact that we were complete opposites, we shared a 10 by 10 office Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and we had every one of our grad. school classes together Tuesday and Thursday. The word that this gal said that made me want to turn on a hand mixer and swirl around my innards was UNappropriate. Yes, UN.

4. This same girl was talking about the new dog she was getting. Shit, I have to look up the spelling on this . . . I’m so damn lazy. Okay, Weimaraneris the name of the breed. She would say “wisenheimer.” Isn’t that something Moe called Curly on any given episode of the stooges just before he stuck a finger in each of his eyes? Believe me, doing the finger in the eyes bit sounded like a good idea after the 7th or 8th time she screwed up this word. Maybe getting on the ground and running around in a circle, i.e. the Curly Shuffle, would have helped me blow off some steam. I mean, the fact that I already couldn’t stand her, and she was so darn excited about this dog, and she KEPT saying the wrong word, and such a silly word . . .

3. I work with a girl that is just my type physically. She is a petite, little, Italian woman with dark, curly hair. I don’t want to sound like a pig here, but I’d be leaving out a very important piece of information if I did not mention her rear end. She’s super thin and then her rump just jets out to the point where, if she were standing up, one could set his can of beer on her hiney, you know, if you needed to free up a hand for something. Her drawbacks, as far as the possibility of ever dating her are concerned, are that I work with her, and she has a kid (sorry if that sounds insensitive, but I'm not ready for that). However, I think I’d sooner look past those two MAJOR strikes against her before I’d get past the fact that about every other time I talk to her she says “supposaBly” with a “b.”

2. While working at a music store, the best job I’ve ever had incidentally, a customer struck up a conversation with me about the band Queen. He said something to the effect of, “That guy could sing.I mean, he was awesome. I don’t care if he was as gay as a three dollar bill.” It’s QUEER as a 3 dollar bill, you nimrod! Hasn’t he ever stopped and thought how the expression made no sense the way he was saying it? What’s funny is now I say it his way in a thick Chicago accent, and it gets enough laughs for me to continue to do so.

1. Many moons ago my friend’s dad had one of his buddies over, and over the course of a brief conversation, the guy made two of the funniest blunders I’ve ever heard. The first came when he said he was in a subdivision and turned his car around in “one of those coups d'états (he meant cul de sac). Then he was talking about something he had seen on the nature channel in which a tribe in Africa practiced annual sex. My friend’s dad asked, “You mean sex once a year?” To which he replied, “No, man. Sex in the butt. In the butt!” I think you know which word he meant to say.

I have to open this one up to the floor, since so many of you are such talented writers. What’s the crappiest use of the English language you’ve ever heard?

Bubba's Fixin' To Get Hitched!

Last night I attended a wedding celebration in honor of my good friend Bubba. Just about any time you go to an event involving a guy named Bubba you are in for an interesting evening, and this night was no exception. Here are some of the highlights:

1. There was a circuit blown, a power failure, or something that lasted for about an hour. This meant no lights, no music, and perhaps most importantly, no air conditioning. I was sweating my tail off up in that piece! I give credit to one guest who danced into the room with her boom box and some cd’s. This resulted in a thunderous round of applause, and I was excited to have music too, until I heard “The Pina Colada Song.” I’m afraid to say that the songs didn’t get much better from there. As compensation for the hour of power failure, the venue offered an extra hour on the open bar. Drunken Dr. Kenneth Noisewater was loving that solution, but hung-over Dr. Kenneth Noisewater is thinking he could have done without the extra hour of cheap rum.

2. The husband of one the bridesmaids did an Elvis performance, complete with sideburns, a cape, and the whole nine. At one point in the evening he came into the room with a bag of Dracula fangs. Why I have no idea, but it was fun as hell talking to people with those things in. It dawned on me that I was the only guy still keeping them in way later in the evening, which should have discouraged me, but it was just too damn fun. Every time I walked by Elvis, Dracula teeth or not, I’d say, “How you doin’, King?” Then we’d chat for a while, and I must say, he was very entertaining, as was I, I was told, so naturally we hit it off quite well. The King was helping me out by telling me which women were available. Thanks, King, wherever you are . . .

3. I was rocking a feau-hawk for the first time. Am I too old for that style at the ripe-old-age of 29? Call me metrosexual, tragically hip, or a just plain dork, but I think it looked cool. Maybe I’ll post some pictures when I get some emailed to me.

4. I took my closest, female friend as a date, which worked out well, since she knows a lot of the guests. Her and I are on the If We’re Not Married By 35 We’re Just Going to Say Screw It and Marry One Another So We Don’t Die Alone Plan, or the IWNMBTWJGSSIMOASWDDAP Plan for short. Well, not short, but shorter. Unpronounceable too. The plan needs a better name; I admit. Both our respective parents live in the Chicago suburbs, so we stopped by her folks’ place in between the church and reception. Her dad is a chef, so he whipped up some hors d’oeuvres for us: Rolled-up prosciutto on a cracker with fancy cheese on top, dribbled with a touch of olive oil. Then we sipped our wine and watched an episode of Frazier. The hoity-toity crap was out the window, as we were off to Bubba’s weddin’ . . .

5. I realize this is my second blog in a row ending with a reference to Ween, but the song the bride and groom danced to was Stay Forever by the aforementioned band. Nicely played, Bubba.

Eureka! I found my beloved ipod!

I found my ipod! It’s really an amazing story (watch closely for the fun words in caps and the accompanying stars). I sent out a mass email to the staff telling them to keep an eye out for it. We have an in-school suspension program in our school, and we have 3 RUFFIANS* that are there for the remainder of the school year. The teacher that runs the program told her students about my situation, and one of the loveable little HOOLIGANS made a wanted sign for my ipod with a picture of an ipod, and it said, “Have you seen me?” As I was leaving, this darling, little HOODLAM** ran after me to give me the wanted sign.

When I got back to my office, my 9th hour group of 8th graders were waiting patiently for me. Just for the hell of it, I showed them the sign that this adorable STREET TOUGH*** had made, and I told them the story. Hearing this, one kid said he saw an ipod in the lost and found the day before. I grabbed him by the collar and yelled in his face, “Tell me everything, you rotten little bastard!” Actually I didn’t lay a hand on him, and it was more like, “Really, what did it look like,” but it would be funny if I had done it the first way. He said he gave it to some girl, so I got her name, tracked her down, and sure enough, it was in her locker.

The thing that blows me away is, if this LOUT**** had not made the cute wanted sign, if he had not ran after me to give it to me, I would not have shown it to this kid, and I never would have seen the ipod again. I can’t help but think the guidance I have given that little SON-OF-A-GUN led him to feel some compassion for me and my plight. No good deed goes unrewarded, right? Well, I’ll be thinking of that little PUNK on my ride home when I’m bumping Booze Me Up and Get Me High by Ween on my freshly recovered ipod.

* Great word
** Great use of this word in Yackity-Yack when they’re all, “Just tell your hoodlum friends outside, you ain’t got time to take a ride!
*** I ganked this word from an episode of Seinfeld
**** I must admit that I had to use the thesaurus for this one. Anyone ever hear of this one?

The Robbery That Shook the Nation. Well, It Shook This Guy Anyway.

For those of you who don’t know me that well, I work in a school. Today some kid went into my office and stole my ipod. You have no idea how much this event has taken the wind out of my sails. I am simultaneously mad, sad, and disappointed.

I'm MAD for obvious reasons. I really would like to do an Andy Sipowitz style investigation in which I simply go student to student beating and black mailing information out of them until I get to the bottom of it. That would more than likely get me fired, so I think I’ll save the Sipowitz approach for another day, but believe me when I say that I really did consider it. I nearly stopped by Best Buy so that I could get the NYPD Blue box set for pointers on beat-downs and questioning styles to trip them up.

I’m SAD because this event will honest to God decrease my quality of life. This may sound like an exaggeration, but those of you who know me well know how important music is to me on an every day basis, and you know that this really isn’t a stretch. I listen to my ipod every day on the way to and from school. I just bought a freaking tape adapter for my car so that I can do so. You have no idea how annoyed I was on the ride home when I had to listen to the radio, knowing that I could be listening to one of my 4,500 favorite songs. Midway through a Bon Jovi song I had to shut the radio off and pound the dashboard a few dozen times. I also use it when I go running. I have a very short attention span, so most of my exercise is through sports, since running bores me. The only way I can make running seem halfway entertaining is to make bomb-ass play lists to keep my legs moving. This thief of a kid is going to make me fat! Okay, my blood is boiling right now. Give me a minute . . .

Okay, last but not least I am DISSAPOINTED. Whoever this kid is, he/she was more than likely visiting me at the end of the day, saw I wasn’t there, and took the ipod. I listen to these kids’ problems all day, I help them with every little aspect of their little lives, and sometimes I take their problems home with me to the point where their little lives are racing through my head when I’m trying to sleep, and this is the fricking thanks that I get. That is the hardest part about this whole thing.

Dodging an Army of Belushi's Is Even Harder Than It Sounds

Some of you may not know that I have four roommates. Yes, four. You are probably picturing a frat house, complete with toga parties, panty raids, maybe even a kidnapped mascot of some kind, and that is most everyone’s first reaction. I swear it isn't like that, but it is what people picture. My roommate and I have a new addendum to our description of our living situation when we meet girls, and it is as follows: . . “but I’m looking towards getting my own place.” Trust me, girls over 25 or so don’t like the sound of four roommates.

Well, last night actually was like a cotton-pickin’ frat house up in here. A friend, who is more a friend of a friend really, who had moved to California with his lady, is back in town for his bachelor party. You have to understand that if it was a close friend I would follow whatever itinerary that they had come up with, but as long as it is a friend of a friend, I just assume do my own thing and skip the nudey bar, etc. I saw him Thursday night, so I figured I’d toast to him then, and that would count for my contribution to the bachelor party weekend. I think I could have pulled that off, but I didn’t bank on like 10 guys taking Friday off and drinking all afternoon, which made them a little more persistent in their attempts to suck everyone into their vortex. I was in the bathroom when a representative was sent upstairs to oust my roommate Andy and I out of our rooms. Luckily, this guy, who was the bachelor’s brother, who neither of us knew, did such a bad job trying to get Andy out, that he gave up on me. I could hear it turning into an argument, so I knew I was safe for a while . . .

After I was all changed and ready to make my escape, I peered down the balcony thing and no one was in the front room. They were all in the kitchen. It was the perfect time to make my get-away! I darted downstairs, but I heard footsteps coming in my direction! I tried to make my way to the second set of stairs without looking back, but I was relieved to see, out of the corner of my eye, that it was Andy. Despite it being a very dated phrase, I said, “I’m outy.” Alas, Andy, who had been sucked into the vortex, could only meekly say, “I don’t blame you . . . “

When I got home, everyone was still out, except for the bachelor, who I saw sleeping soundly on the couch. Apparently, he had thrown up a few times, dowsed himself in his own urine, and didn’t even make it out. I guess 10 guys taking the day off, drinking all afternoon, and a non-stop regiment of shots all spelled trouble for the poor bachelor. Well, he does have another night tonight to try to pace himself better, or more accurately, fight off the vortex better. Wait, that means another night of me having to sneak around and crawl under the barbed wire. Wish me luck . . .

With This (Altered) Ring I Thee . . .

I met a new friend last Thursday at volleyball. I was at the bar I play at really early, and I was having some drinks. I know the bartender, she’s a great gal, and she was talking to this guy. Eventually the three of us were chatting, and we discovered that both of us guys are divorced. Somehow he and I were got to discussing what it is we have done with our wedding rings. I told him mine was in the case for my glasses, which I never wear. I wish that I had done something more clever with it, or at least made something up, because this guy’s response was maybe the single best thing I’ve ever heard. He said he was going to “make his wedding ring into a cock ring to fuck other chicks with.” Brilliant. Well, tonight I have volleyball at that very bar, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m more excited at the prospect of seeing this guy than any girl I can think of in the last couple of months.