Consider Me Focused

I got an email from my roommate, my new favorite roommate, that said he was participating in a focus group that would be giving us beer AND paying us $100. FINALLY, I was going to MAKE money drinking beer, instead of coming home at 3:30 in the morning to find that I had magically turned all my crisp twenties into crumpled-up ones.

For reasons I can't POSSIBLY understand, the focus group facilitators were scrounging last minute for participants, so the lady who emailed Roomy and I told us to say we were Coor's light drinkers, and not to tip off anyone that we knew one another. When we got upstairs, staggered by a minute and a half as to disguise our friendship, we found many people, both men and women, and there were, in fact, pitchers of beer flowing liberally. Then one of the facilitators said something that I really wish she wouldn't have: "Okay, ladies, thanks for your time. Be sure to get your money on the way out." Yup, we have a sausage fest/sword fight on our hands.

The remaining men sipped beers and answered a woman's questions while one guy filmed us, and another gal typed something on a lap top. Eventually, we learned that the people talking to us were from Miller Lite, and they were trying to figure out what makes people choose a given light beer. The consensus of our group was that we don't care which one we drink - whichever one is on special is a-okay. They ran a bunch of slogans concepts by us they were kicking around, and the only one I remember right now was, "That's SO miller." We all decided that was the gayest* thing we'd ever heard, but that didn't stop roomy and I from saying it all week long. Come to think of it, I'm going to say it to him next time I see him.

There was one participant who must have been right out of college, because he was that guy who thinks drinking is SO COOL. Every time he would talk about drinking beer it was like he was a missionary trying to tell us "the truth." A testimony to his belief in the all mighty beer was that when asked what his favorite slogan of the night was, and I stand corrected, since I do remember one more slogan, it was, "You need a case for that." This ad had guy in a shirt and tie huddled up in the fetal position. I, of all flipping people, had to chime in and say that they couldn't encourage alcoholism like that, and suggest that you're just twenty-four beers away from all your problems fading away. That's ridiculous! After all, it should only take thirteen or fourteen. : )

After collecting our $100, in the form of two crisp fifties, which I've since, once again, turned into crumpled-up ones, roomy and I mingled with a couple of the other participants, and we learned a few things:

1. Some people, Roomy included, are doing too many of these things when he is being recognized from previous focus groups.
2. We all agreed which people, "you need case for that"-guy included, were complete tools.
3. Two of the guys knew each other too, like roomy and myself, but they were smart enough to sit all the way across the table from one another. They told us that we did a shitty job at looking like we didn't know one another. In retrospect, we did sit next to each other, cracked jokes back-and-forth the whole time, and we tried to riff off some of the advertising concepts with our own ideas. We had a really awesome idea, which they have on film, and they really should use. I'd be kind of pissed if they did, but, hey, they'd probably be pissed if they found out I blogged about all this stuff. Who knows, maybe someone from Budweiser will read this rag, rip off an idea, and the next thing you know you're watching a "That's so bud" ad.
4. The gal interviewing us tipped us off that the women she had interviewed just before us said that if they saw a guy drinking a Coors Light, they would assume him to be "white trash."

Okay, seven readers, what does a drink say about a person, especially if you're trying to decide if you're interested in them or not.

* I know it's not politically correct to use that word in this sense, and I typically don't use the term that way, but come on! It is a gayer than shit slogan, is it not?

Sunny Bunny (TM)

As some of you know, I make ends meet by working as a photographer for a company that takes pictures of moron tourists in Chicago. I have spent the last three days taking pictures of kids sitting with the Sunny Bunny, named such to keep things secular and politically correct. Here are the highlights:

Day 1: Sunny Bunny (TM) is not officially affiliated with any organized religion, but she has been assigned a gender; female. However, despite the fact that the guy in the suit on Day 1 was as male as The Gancer and even The Cherry Ride, he was prancing and swishing around like Rupaul. One little, Black kid on a field trip came up to me and said, "Did you know it's a guy in that suit? He's tweekin'." I reserved comment so as not to pass judgment, but also due to my limited knowledge of tweekin', I didn't feel comfortable deeming someone as a tweeker or nontweeker.

Day 2: Since nobody wants much to do with an Easter Bunny, or holiday bunny, whatever, after Easter, things were really slow, which gave us lots of time to play charades. I know what you're thinking; charades sucks. But, you have not played with the non-swishy/tweeker Sunny Bunny (TM) working day 2, who is the most expressive, imaginative, kick ass charades player I've ever seen, especially when you take into consideration the fact that he only had four fuzzy fingers on each of his bunny hands. I was guessing all of them, and he did the little back-and-forth motion, which, because he and I had the mojo, I knew meant that he too thought he and I had an uncanny charades connection.

Day 3: Everything went wrong. I couldn't get the damn computers working, and the dude working his second day, despite being very knowledgeable in the martial arts and the one-inch punch, was not much help. I called everyone I could think of to help trouble shoot, but eventually the boss had to come out. He was pissed, and more than a little bit mean to The Gancer, which soured my mood. I was so bent about the whole thing that my charades game suffered.

Okay, I'm thinking of a word, and the category is ME (displays index and middle finger on arm to indicate the number of syllables. He then puts hand up to his own forehead and makes an "L" with his index finger and thumb).

Top 3 'I'm Not That Into You' Songs

We often hear about the greatest love songs of all time, but what about the most apathetic sentiments of all time? You know, songs about those people you're seeing, who you certainly don't hate, but you're nowhere near loving them. I think you'll agree that these are three fine choices. So, without further ado, The Gancer brings you the Top 3 'I'm Not That Into You' Songs of all time:

3. Stay by Pink Floyd. In the first verse there is no way to tell that unassuming keyboardist Rick Wright is not into the philly to which he sings:
Stay and help me to end the day.
And of you don't mind,
We'll break a bottle of wine.
Stick around and maybe we'll put one down,
Because I wanna find what lies behind those eyes.

Then the next morning he wakes up and does a total 180:
I rise, looking through my morning eyes,
Surprised to find you by my side.
Rack my brain to try to remember your name
To find the words to tell you goodbye.

I wonder what words he chose to tell her goodbye? I have a good friend, who's fear of commitment and confrontation exceeds even mine, who sets the alarm on his phone to go off in the morning as if it were ringing when he's doing a "road show", so that he can fake a phone call and get out of there. Buddy, if you're reading, you're a sick man, but that's pure genius.

2. Stay With Me by Faces, off of the A Nod Is as Good as a Wink to a Blind Horse LP, which could easily make a top three list of best album titles. This song tells the story of a guy trying to lure a young lady upstairs to read his "tarot cards," which is really code for bumping fuzzies. I've always said, "Would you care to see my painting?" ANYWAY, the narrator then offers the "jezebel" cab fare and use of his "best cologne" if she agrees to not be there in the morning when he wakes up. What a stone, cold pimp!!

1. Saturday Savior by Failure. Yikes! These lyrics speak for themselves:
I'M NEVER GONNA SAY THE WORDS
THAT YOU WANT
I'M NEVER GONNA FEEL THE SHAME
LIKE YOU DO
I'M NEVER GONNA STRETCH MY SHAPE
TO BE WITH YOU
I ONLY NEED YOU FOR A DAY
'CAUSE I ONLY WANNA BE YOUR

SATURDAY SAVIOUR
I CAN BE THAT
SATURDAY SAVIOUR
I WILL BE YOUR
SATURDAY SAVIOUR
I CAN BE THAT IMPOSTER IN YOUR BED
WAKE HIM UP PLEASE

I'M NEVER GONNA MAKE YOU FEEL
THAT YOU'RE SATISFIED
I'M NEVER GONNA FEEL YOUR PAIN
LIKE YOU WISH I WOULD
I'M NEVER GONNA OPEN UP
MORE THAN THIS
I JUST WANNA BE YOUR
I JUST WANNA BE YOUR

I'M NEVER GONNA BREAK APART
QUITE LIKE YOU
I'M NEVER GONNA LONG FOR LIFE
THE WAY YOU DO
I'M NEVER GONNA PUSH YOU OUT
'CAUSE YOUR NOT IN
THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A WHILE
'CAUSE I ONLY WANT TO BE YOUR

Although he's a little harsh, you have to admire how up front this guy is, because it would be worse to lead her on, right? Congratulations, Failure, on placing number one on The Gancer's all-time 'I'm Not That Into You' songs.

Hey, seven readers, do you have any other nominations?

Twenty, Twenty, Twenty-Four Hours Ago, I Wanna' Be Bar Mitzvahd

Despite being 0% Jewish, I want to be Bar Mitzvahd in the worst way. In Jewish tradition, according to wikipedia.com, maybe not the best source, but certainly the easiest source for my lazy ass to use, "when Jewish children reach the age of maturity (12 years for girls, 13 years for boys) they become responsible for their actions. At this point a boy is said to become Bar Mitzvah (Hebrew: בר מצוה, "one (m.) to whom the commandments apply," So, until my bar mitzvah, the commandments do not apply, and I'm not responsible for any pre-Bar Mitzvah actions! That being the case, I plan on having some wild weekends leading up to my big day. That brings me to the first reason I have a hankering for a Bar Mitzvah, I think it's time that I make some changes in my life, and I should start to live according to some principals. Not necessarily Jewish principals, but some hand-selected, secular ones I will decide on, and live according to from that day forward. Maybe I'll let people at the party vote on them. The wheels are turning now . . .

More importantly, Bar Mitzvah is about a boy becoming a man, a status I am nowhere near at this point, but I need to get there. Why am a such a man-child at the age of 30? I could maybe point the blame at my upbringing, my surroundings, my drinking, my friends, my decision making, or any number of other things, but I blame it on my lack of Bar Mitzvah!! I am becoming a man, readers, and you're all invited!

Which brings me to my third, and most important, reason why I need to have a badass, Bar Mitzvah party: I love a good party! There will be lots of booze flowing the day The Gancer becomes a man, ladies and gents, and I've decided heavy metal legends Anthrax are playing. I think they'd turn that motha' out, and I figure I can get them to do it if I get someone to put it on TV, since Scott Ian's long, stupid beard is on 2000's era VH1 more than Gloria Estefan and Phil Collins were on early 1990's era VH1. They for sure are going to play a killer, ear drum busting, heavy-ass version of I'm the Man, since the Hava Nagila riff is in the song. Also, how perfect a song title for such an occasion, right? This is really coming together. Another reason Scott Ian could be persuaded is that he is himself a Jewish man, and according to jewsrock.org, yes there is such a site, "Born Jewish, guitarist Dan Spitz has been a Jew for Jesus since 2001." I would look up what the fiddler's fuck being a Jew for Jesus entails, but there's no time for that! There's too much to plan and so much to do!

Expect an invitation soon. This is my 94th post, so maybe my 100th will simply be an invite, and posting a yes in the comments section will mean you are cordially invited to the event of the season and the most kick ass Bar Mitzvah you've ever fucking seen.

Tour De Franzia and Edward 40's Hands

One of my former roommates was always pushing for a Tour De Franzia night. Have you heard of this? I did a little research, and although there are many variations in rules and regulations, essentially it involves two teams drinking the shit out of boxes of Franzia wine. Some people require that the bag of wine be taken out of the box for the sole purpose of slapping the bag like it's a fat rear end and watching it jiggle after each gulp. Uniforms are also a must, complete with matching helmets and spandex for each team. The headache the next day would be excruciating, but the satisfaction one would feel after ringing out that bag of Franzia, and giving that empty bag the final slap would make it all worth while and time well spent.

How about Edward 40's Hands, when you duct tape 40 ounces of malt liquor to each hand, so that essentially all you can do is drink malt liquor until they're both finished? No going to the bathroom either, unless you know someone willing to unzip your pants, take out your thing, shake it, and put it away. You wouldn't be able to trim the bushes in your backyard nearly as well as Johnny Depp, but you'd get a helluva lot drunker.

What do you think, readers? Which of these two games would you play? Which one would you be better at?

I went on a trip to Arizona for a bachelor party/Cubs spring training outing, and these are the highlights, in no particular order:

- Because my buddy is Asian-Indian American, many of the guys at the bachelor party were of the same descent, six in fact, which left six white dudes. So, when picking softball teams, it only seemed logical to have a brown on white match-up. Sadly, white boyz lost 4 to 2, despite my late inning, two-run double, charged by the following comment, made by someone on the Brown team when they had held us scoreless for eight innings: "Didn't your people invent this game?"

- To make the meaningless spring training game against the Oakland Athletics interesting we employed heavy drinking, via the big, white buckets of beer the vendor was cool enough to let us keep buying, and gambling, which was in the form of betting on what a guy in a certain spot of the line-up did with each at bat. I picked late and had the seventh hitter, but Buck Coats came through with a lot of hits, and one of the best cowboy names ever. There was also a pitcher for the Cubbies named Rocky Cherry, which, side-bar, is a good porno actor name, so we hummed the Rocky theme until he threw us a ball for the bachelor.

- Don't ever travel with an expired license. I had to go through the crazy security when you stand in that box and I got blasted with hard bursts of air, which scares the shit out of you, even if they forewarn you, and tell you not to be startled. They also opened up my bag and threw out all my toiletries, some of which were expensive, like my hair gel and my oil of oilay face soap. Okay, that is super-gay, but I have sensitive skin, damn it, or shoud I say, thenthitive thkin. They must have been worried that I had a plot to blow up the plane with the world's gayest, toiletry bomb. Anyway, the ID continued to cause me problems when an a-hole working the door at a bar wouldn't let me in because it was expired. I know it's a college town, but come on, I'm 30! He just didn't want my old balls in there . . .

- When we left a bar called cherry-something, which had pole-dancing girls in their underwear, yet it wasn't a strip club, because there were tons of female patrons, we saw a car accident RIGHT in front of the bar with everyone loitering outside to see it. If I were sober I would have been like, "Oh, man. That sucks." But, because I was fit shaced, I was like, "Oh snap! Did you see that," and I took pictures of the beat-up, smoking car with my cell phone. Moments later we saw a bunch of guys beating up one fat kid. That was also an awesome sight to behold, but not if you were the fat kid, I imagine.

Laziest Post EVER

This week's post is at The Liar's Club

I just found a piece of paper behind my desk that had the following things written on it:

Tape

Dooding (which I assume was supposed to be doodling)

County Music (which I imagine was supposed to say country music, but at least I didn't spell it cunty music)

Spinning Records

Singing

Paper Weights

There seems to be somewhat of a theme with these items, and then paper weight really threw me off. If anyone can tell me what in HELL these items have in common, and what may have been my motivation for making such a list, it would be greatly appreciated.

The Urban Sombrero

Caution: I'm really sorry if anyone is offended by this post, because I'll admit, it's a little racy. Mom, if you're reading this one, proceed with caution, and please forgive me.

Between being a dork in high school and college, and being in a long-term relationship, for many, many years, I was not too entrenched in the dating game for a long, long period of time. About three years ago up until the present time, I have found myself meeting a lot more women. I've settled down to where I'm only getting together with people I really like, but I had a bit of a selfish phase, which in my mind was well-deserved given the circumstances, where I was taking gals home of all shapes, sizes, and with varying degrees of sanity, intelligence, and overall respectability.

One of the most noteworthy things I noticed in my observations is that three commonalities kept popping up with these gals:

1. The belly button piercing.

2. The tattoo on the lower back, a.k.a. the "tramp stamp."*

3. The shaved, (ahem!). Excuse me.

When you're newly single, any one of these elements is really exiting, and all three is super-duper, but after a while it gets to be a little monotonous and contrived, like, "Okay, shirt off, there's the piercing. Spin her around to take the bra off, cause I'm drunk and it's easier that way, and sure enough, a tramp stamp." Then I'd see number three, and I'd lose my train of thought. I guess just about any time you're in the room with one of those, you really can't complain.

ANYWAY, I got talking to a friend of mine about the big three, and we decided we needed a funny term for that special lady who possesses all three distinctions, and I have my good friend and former roommate to thank for coming up with "The Urban Sombrero." It is actually a term used on Seinfeld for a type of hat, but we've really made the term all our own. You're free to use it . . .

So, next time you're at the bar, if a young lady bends over ever-so-slightly, and out pops a tramp stamp, think to yourself: 'I wonder if she just has that one element, does she have the respectable, or not so respectable, two out of three, or has she achieved the coveted status of "The Urban Sombrero?"'

* The Doctor does not believe any of his readers are tramps if they have a tramp stamp, since it's merely a term, and not a true sign of a tramp or any trampiness at all.

Lando Calrissian: Cloud City Entrepaneur or Everyday Cock-Blocker?

Empire Strikes Back came on HBO today. Let me get this out of the way, and then I'll get to the topic at hand. Remember When Han Solo was about to be frozen in carbonite, Chewbacca was freaking out about it, and Han has to calm "Chewy", his BFF, down, and he tells him to take care of the Princess? Now it's possible that I'm overly emotional from drinking three days in a row, which I admit does happen to me sometimes, but I was fighting back tears so as not to get busted blubbering by my roomies during that scene. That is equal parts nerd and pussy, wouldn't you say?

Anyway, Lando gets a lot of heat by Star Wars fans for turning over Han Solo, his long-time friend, to the Empire, which led to Han getting frozen in carbonite. However, Lando had little choice in the matter, and he does redeem himself in later scenes, and again and again in Return of the Jedi, the next installment in the Star Wars Saga. What Lando should get more flack about is his outright, unabashed, cock-blocking. The second Lando meets Princess Leia, he starts playing mack daddy on her. Never was there a conversation like, "Hey, this chick, is she with you?" No! He immediately says, "Hello, what do we have here?" I'll tell you what we have here, Lando: Blatant, intergalactic cock-blocking. Even after he sees Han holding hands, and it was clear they were an item, Lando still lays down his pimp-daddy vibe on her.

He's been called a scoundrel, he's been called a traitor, but here at The Gancer, the good doctor is going on record and saying that Lando is a blocker of cocks from his long, blue cape to his Colt 45.

Roomie Update

Some of you may know that I live with four other dudes, so I thought you all might get some insight into The Gancer by learning about who he lives with.

Master Bedroom (Upstairs): He works with computers. I'm not sure why this guy moved from the suburbs to the city, since he rarely leaves the apartment, or even his room for that matter, but he's a really nice guy. I will say, however, that he is slightly more outgoing than his black, very skiddish cat, who has never ventured downstairs.

Bedroom Adjacent to Mine (Upstairs): He's also in computers. This guy has been mentioned in a couple of previous blogs, and to be honest, I could easily update a blog daily that would be just about him. Last night I thought I was going to have a snow day at my job, so I drank a bottle of wine. Much to my dismay, I had to go into work with a whopper headache. Bedroom Adjacent to Mine drank half a handle of jack, woke up earlier than me, and he felt fine. I worry about him sometimes, and I wish he'd make some lifestyle changes, and lighten up on the explosive anger, but he's a loveable guy and a good friend.

Downstairs Bedroom: He went to any Ivy League school and now works for a publishing firm. Currently, he is really excited about a manuscript he's reading about murderous, hedonistic, sex-crazed wearwolves. I like him because he's a good guy, but I also like him because he has a quasi-girlfriend who's always cooking marvelous dishes, that we occaisionally get to part take in, like the badass shepheard's pie she made on Sunday.

Downstairs Double Door Bedroom: He recently moved here from California, and he now works downtown as a recruiter/head hunter. Great guy to hang out with, but I'm having to face the harsh reality that, despite the fact that he's younger than me, he's like the big brother I never had, kind of like Wayne on The Wonder Years, in that he's flipping better than me at everything from basketball to volleyball, both of which I'm painfully reminded of every week, since I play on teams with him, and his skills even exceed mine in the area of crossword puzzles. Come on?!!?

Well, you now a little about all five of us, since if you've read more than an entry or two, you know, perhaps a little more than you'd like to, about the misfortunes, mishaps, and misdemeanors that have shaped who The Gancer is today. An added bonus is I can post these descriptions on Craig's List to give prospective roomies some insight. Perhaps not . . .

The Iguana Story

When I was in Mexico a few years back, I met this guy named Brett from Indiana, who is one of the funniest guys, both intentionally and unintentionally, I've ever met. In fact, he provided me with a few of the expressions on my funniest expressions post, AND he gave me The Iguana Story, which I'm about to share with you, my beloved seven readers.

While he and I were sipping on our miami vice's, a mixture of strawberry dacquari and pina colada swirled together (you simply must try one of these), with his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a spider moving suddenly, and he wigged out. I asked him what was wrong, and with his southern drawl he responded, "I don't like fuckin' spiders. I hate when, like, you see somethin', and then it moves all of a sudden . . ." He then launched into the iguana story, to illustrate his point, and for that I am eternally grateful:

I had a pet iguana once, and when I was buying somethin' for it at the pet store, this dude working there was doin' like a demonstration, lettin' one of um' crawl all over him. Just as he's sayin' what docile creatures they are, or whatever, the thing bites into his neck, and blood spurts out everywhere. It was fuckin' messed up! I knew what I had to do: I had to get rid of my iguana, or suffer the same fate as the pet-store-dude. I read somewhere that if you just turn um' loose in cold temperatures, they die in a coupla' hours. So, I drove out miles away to an open field and turned the son bitch loose. About a month later I open up my gym bag to find an iguana in there, snarlin' and a' hissin' at me! I have never been so a'scared in my whole life. I quickly grabbed my book bag full of text books, and beat the motherfucker to death."

Well, that was The Iguana Story. It's been in the blog can for about a year now, and it seemed like a good time tell it. I swear to God, Brett was shaken up just telling the story. How did that thing find its way all the way back home and into his gym bag? I'm "a'scared" now too thinking about it! Well, seven readers, I hope that this Saturday evening finds you with your beers cold and your gym bags iguana-free.

Sincerely,

The Gancer

Football Enduced Depressions and the Drunk Dials That Accompany Them

The Bears losing the Super Bowl yesterday made me horribly depressed. I got a little cell phone happy too, as these statistics would indicate:

I called 3 ex-girlfriends and one ex-wife.

I then called my sister's husband and told him what a shit I think he is. His latest and greatest move was to bring his kids to his homewrecking girlfriend's house only a month or two into being separated, because that won't fuck with the kids' heads, right? I'm fuzzy on what exactly I said on his voicemail, but I remember saying, "I think you're a shit."

Now, if the Chicago Bears could have got as many first downs as I made dumb phone calls, we would be having a victory parade on Michigan Avenue tomorrow.

The guilt I had about this series of ill-advised calls inspired me to come up with the following brilliant idea: A cell phone that operates like those court ordered cars, so it won't work unless you blow an alcohol free breath into it.

What do you, my seven readers, think about this notion?

I had a dream the other night, I know, another dream, set in the used CD shop in which I worked during college and the ever-productive, ensuing years of 'finding myself.' You know how you always find yourself dreaming with certain locations as a setting, because you can picture them exactly down to the last tile, vent, etc? That's how this was, but it was really amazing because it was years ago that I worked there. In this dream, I could have accurately conjured up any one of the usual cast of characters that would come into the shop in my day, not limited to, but including: DJ Chaos, Beatles Mark, Ultimate Warrior Jacket Guy, and Shy Poke. I could write a decent blog about any one of those goof balls, but the guy in this dream was funny in his own right, and he could have very well been a regular, had he existed outside the relm of my unconscious.

He was a chubby, Mexican-American, middle-aged man who was standing at the counter, to the left of the cash register, calling up a series of women on his bulky cell phone, and leaving on their voice mails a monotone delivery of an atrocious love poem, which he read from a hand-written, crinkled-up, piece of notebook paper. After the third time he launched into it I had to run into the back room before he could catch me laughing, and that's something I would really do when I worked there. God, I fucking miss that job.

Yes, maybe it was the freedom of not worrying about what profession it is I should have been doing, and the fact that it was really flipping easy, but quite honestly, I loved being a used CD jockey, and I was damn good at it.

I loved coming in the morning, flipping on the lights, coffee machine, etc, and doing all the things that gave me the sense of accomplishment of having opened up the shop for the day.

I loved, on some days, having no coworkers.

I loved, on some days, having no, or little to no, customers.

I loved being able to tell people who sang what and on what album. I think some people are annoyed by those kind of questions, but I lived for them, and I still do.

I loved my boss. I liked the guy so much that I wanted to do the best I could for him. Even though he was 40-something when I was 20-something, he was as much a friend as he was a boss. Hell, he went to my wedding. Sure my marriage crashed and burned after 8 months, but that had nothing to do with him. The guy even got me a doob once when I really needed one, and that's something I certainly don't get from my current boss.

I actually loved putting out CD's into the racks. I know a lot about rock music, but for every band I know a lot about, there another twelve that I know only by the stacks of names that I came across when I put discs away. To this day, when I can't think of a band's name, I can think of where they were at The Shop and narrow it down, like from P to Z for instance.

I loved that job, and it's a sad realization when a dream reminds me that the best job I ever had, and may ever have, only paid 9 bucks an hour, and that in all likelihood CD shops will be a thing of the past before long. Well, at least the chubby Don Juan cell phone-mack daddy gave me a good chuckle. I was really laughing when I got up, and then my laugh settled into a grin thinking about the days and nights I spent buying and selling shitty discs like Four Non Blondes and Candlebox.

Fish Behavior and Couple's Showers

My roommate and I were watching a show about deep sea fish on the Discovery Channel, because we can't find the damn remote, and I was shocked to learn about the mating patterns of one particular fish. Apparently, the female is like five times the size of the male, and the male literally attaches himself to her for life, pumping her full of fish sperm, and tagging along for the ride until the day he dies.

Later on that day I was talking to a female friend of mine who has to go to a couple's shower. Those are great, right? Because every guy wants to go watch a woman open a bunch of stupid gifts, as if he gives a shit what kind of hand-mixer she gets.

Guys being dragged off to one of those things just made me think of that male fish, pumping his wife full of fish sperm, and tagging along with her to all kinds of God-awful events, until the day he dies . . .

Who in the Hell Wants to Read Another Weekend Wrap-Up?

Saturday
The 80's-themed, birthday party was a huge success. I never got around to asking the hot neighbor girls, see a couple of posts ago, to come to the party, partly because I spent all day cleaning and partly because I'm a big, sissy boy.

My Greatest American Hero costume, complete with official t-shirt and homemade cape, was badass! Something about wearing a cape made me dart out of the room each time I had to go somewhere, just to make the cape flutter in the breeze.


When I picked up my pre-party slice of pizza I asked Oscar, our local pizza guy, to come by when he got off work, and he did! The five tenants of our apartment all go in there a couple times a week, and there were a bunch of former tenants that went ape shit when they saw him, and he remembered what many of them used to order. Oscar had a ball. I really wanted the pizza guy to get laid, but even more I wanted the pizza guy to bring pizza, and neither one of those things happened. However, he did light up when I stopped in today, he thanked me for the invite, and most importantly, he shaved the change off of my meatball sub.

Sunday:
Hungover as I was, and as frigid as the Chicago morning was, I was not going to pass on a free ticket to Soldier Field for the NFC Championship game. Well, I know it was only a game, and some of you may not understand, but it was one of the most thrilling, heartwarming events of my life. This city loves its Bears, and they're only really good every 20 years or so, which makes for a lot of fans showing love for their team and their fellow fans.

For hours after the game every car that was driving by was honking their horns and hollering their Bears' praises out their windows. My buddy saw an old guy shoveling his driveway and said to him, "How are you doing this evening?" to which he replied, quite simply, "Bears."

The Gull-Darn Zombies Are Back!

I recently did a post in which I complained about people who talk about dreams they've had, and then, of course, proceeded to tell my readers about a dream. Now I'm going to tell you about, yet another, dream. Boy, it's like saying I hate when people whistle, and then whistling the theme from the Andy Griffith Show, loudly, right into your ear, from one inch away.

The other night I had one of those really long dreams, that's really a series of dreams with one common theme, this one being zombies. Those lovable, rotting, undead fellas are always popping up in my dreams, and I must admit, I have had a long, love affair with them ,and even did a post about it. I wonder what the zombies in my dreams signify? I'll have to ask one the next time I dream about one, just before he bites my neck and slurps up my entrails like fettuccine. I spent a good while running away from zombies in this particular dream, and clobbering the heads of others with various blunt objects. During zombie-free period I was stopping off at my girlfriend's house, which is when I knew I was dreaming, since I don't have one, but before I could get into her suburban (which is another sign it was a dream) house I was stopped by a girl I used to sort of date. She was sexy as hell when I knew her, but she seemed to go in and out of liking me, which of course made her really appealing. I know, I'm screwed up, but that's for another blog.

So, in the dream she was visiting her boyfriend, and we got talking about how neither of us were too into our respective partners. She said to me, "So, you're taking out some lucky, young lady," to which I responded, very suave-like I might add, "I hope I'm looking at the lucky, young lady I'm taking out this evening." What a pimp-daddy, right? We made plans to meet up later, and I remember thinking about whether I should take her out for dinner or just a drink, and which fine, Chicago establishment should I take her to? Next I remember thinking, "Shit, would if the zombies are out tonight! The gull-darn zombies are back!"

A possible interpretation for this dream:
I'm never able to commit to a relationship, and even when I'm ready to, external factors, like zombies, always get in the way.

Microwave Based Diets and the Quest for the Perfect Outgoing Message

One of my roommates took off for Las Vegas for whatever the porno awards are called. He's never been to the awards show or the city, and knowing his personality and indulgences, it could make him overload and tweak out like the robot on Lost in Space.

One of two things is eminent:
1. He will spend all his money on bad, bad things and be short on rent when he gets back.
2. He will disappear without a trace, or disappear only to pop up months later as the world's most successful pornographer.

He just started Seattle Sutton Healthy Eating, which in case you never heard of it, is a diet whereby you pick up weekly loads of 3 daily, healthy meals. Since he can't eat them in Vegas, and they will go bad by the time he comes back, he has given another roommate and myself permission to consume all of them at our own pace. They're not great, but they're free meals, so we're going ALL the way off on those bad boys.

In a completely unrelated matter, I started a new volleyball league with a team I've assembled with two roomies, one good friend, his girlfriend, two of her friends, and a friend of the other roomy. It's 8 people in all, and I had never met 3 of the girls. The team played well, and drank well, which is typically more important. However, my optimism for a fun season came to a screeching halt when the topic of the outgoing message on my phone came up. My roomy said that it sounds like I'm saying his name, like I'm talking directly to him for some reason. One of the new girls listened to the message and determined that I was actually saying, "uh." Then she starts going OFF about how she hates when guys leave her a message and say "uh," and how she would never call a guy back when they do that. Mind you, she's MAD. I tried to keep it light, so I was like, "Well, it's endearing and cute when Woody Allen and Hugh Grant stutter and stammer." To this she CONTINUES to go off about how stupid I sounded, like she's trying to antagonize me. You just met me, you nut!! I'm thinking, but not saying, of course, 'so have you ever won any awards for your outgoing message? Did Ed McMahon come to your house with an over-sized, novelty check and present you with an Outgoing Messagey Award.' Boy, The Messagies wouldn't be quite as fun or get as much press coverage as The Emmies . . .

I was mad as hell, so I got drunk and ate the shit out of a couple Seattle Sutton Dinners. Does she honestly think I give a shit what my outgoing message sounds like? As if I'm really going to change it because a bimbo hairdresser thinks I sound too indecisive.

So, I'm changing my outgoing message on my phone, and I noticed that I didn't say "uh" at all. It was, in fact, a "hi" that sounded like an "uh." "Uh's" and "hi's" aside, it was a damn, shitty, out-going message. I sound hung over and underwhelmed, and I don't think I would have recorded the thing at a bar, but I'll be damned if it doesn't sound like there are bar noises in the background. When I rerecorded the thing it took me like 20 takes, and I'm still not even close to being happy with it.

What about you, seven readers? Do you hate the sound of your own voice and rerecord your outgoing message a mess of times before settling on one? Hey, if you want to talk about stuff like Bush sending more ground troops to Iraq go elsewhere, because The Gancer deals exclusively with crappola topics like this.

Bookmark This Sumbitch

The first post of the group blog project The Liar's Club is live!

Myself and three of the other (self-proclaimed) finest bloggers in Chicago got together over cocktails, and we came up with some great ideas, so keep your eyes peeled for enlightening posts that may or may not have to do with Chicago. This first one is an introduction of sorts. Check it out!

here's the link. so click it now, mo-fo. you heard me. move your dirty mouse across the shiny celine dion mouse pad you got in vegas and click it!

Jennifer and Maryanne, You Have Been Cordially Invite To Attend . . .

In a few weeks, my roomies and I are having a big party here at the apartment. The occasion is a good friend of mine and myself both turn 30 this month, and we're having the party on the day of another close friend's birthday. With three birthday boys inviting friends, plus the other 4 roommates inviting people, and people's friends are inviting friends, we are expecting a big turn-out.

That being said, we really are open to inviting just about anyone at this point, since we're facing the fact that there will be over 100 people up in here. This led us to the conclusion that we need to take a crack at inviting the rarely spotted, but known to be pretty girls who live two buildings down. We're running out of time, and I wanted to get some input from my blog buddies, especially the female ones, on how to invite these gals without looking MAD creepy. Remember, none of us have ever spoken to any of them. Do I . . .

A) Knock on the door and cordially invite them?
B) Wait until the day before and say, "We're having a big party, and it may go late and get loud. If possible, could you just come by and tell us to shut up rather than call the cops." Then, of course, invite them, while looking like the invite was secondary to the warning.
C) Just hope I bump into them, and if I don't, just chalk it up as a loss.
D) Slide a flyer under the door as if I invited the whole block, which won't be the case, but I would design the flyer to look that way.
E) Go over there the night of the party when I'm blind drunk and DEMAND they come over for a drink.

* I always pondered, and I must admit I was a little jealous, about how Larry and Balki got together with two blond bombshell neighbors like Jennifer and Maryanne. You now see the reason for the goofy picture, since their success is fueling the fire of my mission . . .

* Wasn't Family Matters a spin-off of Perfect Strangers? I do believe the Black gal pictured was the sassy elevator operator who we later learned had the misfortune of living next-door to Steven Urkel.

"There's a Bathroom on the Right"

You know all of those misunderstood song lyrics like:

"There's a BATHROOM ON THE RIGHT" instead of "There's a bad moon on the rise"
(Bad Moon, Creedance Clearwater Revival)

or

"Excuse me while I kiss THIS GUY" instead of "Excuse me while I kiss the sky."
(Purple Haze, Jimmy Hendrix)

or

"I'm SHAVING OFF MY MUFF for you" instead of "I'm saving all my love for you"
(Saving All My Love for You, Whitney Houston)

Okay, nobody thinks they heard that last one wrong, but that's damn funny.

So, today while driving down Broadway Avenue in Chicago I heard Ironic by Alannis Morisette , and I remembered THE stupidest misunderstood lyric that your's truly concocted. I honestly, and you're not going to believe this, thought that instead of "a death row PARDON a minute too late," I thought she said "hard-on." I remember thinking, what does she mean by that? Maybe some poor sap is on death row and he's got a conjugal visit going, and he can't get any led in his pencil. Then the MINUTE his lady friend leaves he gets the stiffy of a LIFE TIME. I actually thought up that whole STUPID ASS scenario, rather than just think what else she could have said when, of course, pardon made perfect sense.

I'm sorry to say that my little death row scenario does not come any closer to the actual definition of irony than Alanis did in any of her versus or the chorus of the song Ironic, but I will say that it's a far more interesting tale, "don't you think. Oh yeah, I really do think . . ."

Okay, seven readers, tell me the dumbest thing you sang along to a song thinking it was right as rain.

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.