Farewell To Perhaps the Finest Grenade Jumper of Our Time

Last night I hadn't planned on going out, because I had to work early the next day (Saturday), but I couldn't say no to the crew that was assembled. It didn't used to be a big deal to get everyone together, it was all too easy and a dangerous pattern, but lately everyone has girlfriends, things going on, or in Grenade Jumper's case, a wedding to plan. He is the main reason I went out against my better judgment, because I so rarely get to see him these days.

I've known Grenade Jumper since I was in the first grade, he's one of my closest friends, and one of the funniest human beings I've ever known. All my closest friends are funnier than shit, and if they wrote their own blogs, this guy especially, you'd forget all about me. By the end of next month he'll be married, and it won't be long after that when he'll make his inevitable descent into the suburbs; They're already looking at houses. Yes I'm happy for him, but I'm going to miss the big fella (his shoulders are literally the size of bowling balls. I'm not kidding).

Here are some of my favorite things about him:

1. I go to lots of Chicago Cubs games with him, and every single game, and I do mean every single one, he bellows, "Get off your knees ump, you're blowing the game." Hearing one person say the same joke every game I see with him, season after season, would not work for most people. With him I'm practically rolling in the aisles each and every time I hear him launch into it, especially when there are kids around.

2. He can trace the lineage of the World Wrestling Federation belt from when Hulk Hogan defeated the Iron Sheik* to the modern era. Sometimes I think he's making up bits and pieces, he'd almost have to be, but he really sells it and never misses a beat, which is all the more impressive.

3. He and I have this thing together where we do third base coach signals to one another across the bar, putting fingers across our arms, tilting our brims to either side, whether we have hats on or not, clapping our hands, emphatically shaking off each other's signs, and lots of people think a serious "discussion" is going down. The signals mean nothing.

4. He's, as his name in this post and the title would indicate, and you may want to stop reading if you're one of my easily offended female readers, the finest grenade jumper I've ever known. By this I mean that he would run interference on a girl that would make a lesser man queasy at just the sight of her. There have been numerous times where he has jumped belly first onto a grenade, opening up doors for his fellow horseman**, doors that would have been impenetrable without his heroics. Sometimes he'd even go home with one of these well-fed, Midwestern ladies. There was one legendary morning where he rifled through a gal's mail, desperately trying to remember her name, and that's a morning that would be brought up to everyone's amusement countless times. Truth be told, I don't think he minded bigger girls all that much, and he may have had a bit of proclivity towards them. I'm laughing just thinking about this: There were nights where he'd be on a mission before we'd go out, and he'd say: "I wouldn't want to be a jack and coke or a fat girl right now, because . . ." You get the idea.

Being a groomsman for him next month will be an honor, and it will be one of those weddings where all my cynicism about marriage, couples, whatever, will not have a leg to stand on. My happiness for he and his bride-to-be will be unbridled, so to speak. I may even send him a squeeze bunt signal from across the reception hall. He'll no doubt think it's one of our usual, nonsensical communications, but this time it will mean something, to me. It will mean that it's the end of an era for our group of friends, but he's a guy I'll always care about and stay in touch with, even if he moves to the most remote suburb fathomable, and I'd do anything for him, any time he needs it. That's the road that a quality Grenade Jumper paves for himself.

*This was a bad guy wrestler in the 1980's who played into the U.S.A.'s hatred for Iran at the time, since we were supposed to be anti-Iran, while we funded Iraq to fight them, only later to attack Iraq. Twice. Anyway, The Sheik, even had an inappropriately dubbed finishing move, of which Mr. Hogan was the first to escape from, The Camel Clutch.

**Four of us used to call ourselves The Four Horsemen. It was really just an epic sounding, glorified, Biblical, downright juvenile name for four idiots getting drunk and trying to meet girls.

Knuckles and Thoughts Equally Out of Whack

When I played basketball in high school, I was lazy as hell, but I had a really consistant jump shot. These days, I've lost the shot, so I've overcompensated by making sure that I'm always the most aggressive guy on the court.* The other night I was playing in a men's league, and although this has been my worst season in a long time, this night I was playing like a beast man. Despite the fact that I gave up some pounds and inches to the other team's big men, I owned the boards, dominated the paint, and all in all played a half of basketball that will assure me a slot among some of the finest wreck league players in Chicago's fine, long-standing, round-ball history.**

Then, only moments into the second half, I ran my finger into some dude's back, and it contorted into a funny position. I had to leave the game. Now, most people, given my situation, would have a train of thought like this:

"Shit, I have no insurance. What am I going to do?"

But, my thinking was more like this:

"Shit, I'm the only tall guy we have tonight. We're going to get killed underneath."

I tried in vain to do a Mel Gibson from Lethel Weapon 2, on a smaller, less dramatic scale, and pop it back into place, but it was not to be. We did get killed underneath, we went on to lose the game, but I learned a few things:

1. Don't ever bitch about your pinky hurting. The very word sounds pussy. Waiting way too long to have a dislocated pinky reset, and the reset itself, was one of the most painful things I've ever dealt with, but trust me, if you ever have your daintiest of digits injured, just suffer in silence.

2. For a while there I thought my left pinky would never be able to bend, which is funny, because when I do toasts or shots, I always go "pinky up," and insist that everyone else does the same. Now I would have no choice in the matter . . .

3. Vicodin is the shit! I made the "mistake" of taking my happy pills before bedtime, and wow! I was drifting in and out of consciousness, and in one dream I was in The Eagles. I don't remember playing any music, but Glenn Frey and I were getting all messed up on various substances and gallivanting around with all the groupies and floozies we could get our ax-wielding mitts upon.***

3. With all the writing I have been doing, I was worried about how this would effect my typing.**** As it turns out, my ring finger has really been a team player, instictually absorbing all of his fallen compadre's duties, while still fulfilling all of his own obligations. I started thinking, I really took my full typing capacity for granted, which in turn got me thinking: Do we not overuse the phrase "take for granted?" I mean, should I really have been thinking at some point, "Man, I'm so glad I have a fully operational pinky to hit these q's, a's, and z's!" Seriously, everyone who miraculously comes away from some kind of near death experience always says that they are no longer going to take life for granted, but yes they are. If you're sitting around being thankful for what you have, then you're not living your life, right? Also, if that person were to steer every conversation to what a great gift life is and how precious it is, then all his/her friends would start to hate his/her guts, wish he/she had died, and rightfully so.

*I really want to don a headband, so everyone knows who the overly aggressive guy is.
**There are no such annuls, and I may have slightly exaggerated the glory of my performance.
***I finally have a rock star dream and I'm in The Eagles, of all bands? Well, as nerdy as their music could be, at times, I'm sure they had as much fun as just about any other band in the 1970's.
***Email me if you're interested in checking out stuff I've been writing for online publications.

Calcutta Love

In my longest relationship, about 5 years, there were numerous problems, for which we were equally to blame, and one of them was a decline in the quality and quantity of sex. There were nights (any hope for daytime sex was long gone by this point) where I'd be begging and pleading for action. It was at this time that I'd start bartering. Let me take you back to a horny Gancer in the bedroom of that high rise, South Loop apartment, over looking the Sears Tower, only a few years ago:

Gancer: You're filling out that wife beat quite nicely tonight, doll face. How's about you and I doin' what lovers do?
Ex: So not in the mood.
Gancer: Alright, a BJ then?
Ex: Yeah, right.
Gancer: Okay, it was worth a shot. Let's say we go with a handy? You know, a root pull?
Ex: No, Gancer! Come on, I told you about the day I've had. All I want to do is-
Gancer: (Cutting her off. Wasn't listening very intently when she spoke of her day) I would settle for a TF. A quick TF, and I'll be all good. Right as rain. I'll just squirt some lotion on the old fun bags, run my thing in between those bad boys right quick, and I'll even towel you off when we're done. What do you say?
Ex: Come on, Gancer! I told you that today was-
Gancer: (Cutting her off, once again) Fine then. What would you say to a Titty Whack Off Deal (This is when I would fondle her and jerk myself off.)?
Ex: (taking off the filled out wife beat) Fine. Done.
Gancer: Woo hoo!

Is that some of the worst bartering you ever saw? You just know there's a shrewd veteran of the Calcutta market place reading this thinking, "Man, I can't believe he settled for the Titty Whack Off Deal."

I guarantee that if I brought up the Titty Whack Off Deal to The Ex she'd laugh her ass off, and just hearing her laugh, I'd smile. Sadly, that conversation more than likely won't take place, because talking to her is too hard, but I'm glad I can share the bartering story with my blog buddies, who I'm quite pleased to say, can also make me smile.

Wow. That was a corny finish to what was supposed to be one of my funny, perverted posts. Then I go and blow it by writing a Doogie Howser, M.D. send-off. Jeez!

Double Stream

Women, did you or did you not know this fact: Sometimes when men pee, usually after sex, his stream of urine splits into two streams.

Don't ask me how it came up, but some friends and I were talking about this phenomenon the other night. During that conversation, and in my limited research afterwards, what I've found is that women typically aren't privy to this little bit of penis knowledge. It's a lot like the Shrinkage episode of Seinfeld, where George and Jerry ask Elaine if she knew that penises (or is it peni?) shrink up after being in cold water, so that they could gauge whether Jerry's girlfriend would think George was simply cold or hung like a seven-year-old.

The only time I've seen the Double Stream addressed in pop culture, my only source of information, let's face it, was in Me Myself and Irene when Jim Carey's character wakes up, takes a pee, and it sprays exaggeratedly sideways. Although it's not a double stream specifically, he says something to the effect of, "Why am I peeing like I've been having sex all night," because the character had a split personality and he didn't remember his actions while his alter ego was in control of his body. So, this scene does let women in on the fact that there is a correlation between too many, if there is such a thing, rounds of sex and its effect upon the male's stream of urine.

However, I think this isn't enough to get this sort of valuable information out to the masses, and here at the Gancer, the same site that gave you insightful information on the vart (queef), I'd like to ask my readers if they think it is a worthwhile endeavor to get the definition onto Wikipedia, Urban Dictionary, or both, and what should the name of the condition be called, since Double Stream is a little obvious and blah? Your thoughts?

Rock and/or Roll

I got my mythical band name, album title, and album cover photo from a post that Cherry did recently. You click on links to get the necessary names and pictures at random. Cherry helped me write the words on the picture, because I'm really dumb when it comes to computers, and most everything else. Thanks, Cherry! Now, a little about my mythical band . . .

Lehmi County Airport is led by left-handed guitarist, singer/songwriter, and self-proclaimed genius and doctor, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. Their first two records came and went without much fan fair or critical praise, both grossing less than the band's staggering bar bills, but they are standing on the verge of a breakthrough with their latest release, the self-indulgent, self-depricating, minor masterpiece, Be a Fountain, Not a Drain.

It takes a few listens, roughly 30, for this album to grow on you. The first 10 listens you'd sooner have your femur bone cracked in half, the next ten you're really annoyed, but you tolerate it, the next five you find yourself bobbing your head, but still a little annoyed, suddenly, during the next three listens you're in love with this record and don't see how you lived without it, you hate it again upon listen 29, but then after 30 you're back to wanting this record to make love to your butt.

Pick up this mythical record, coming to a mythical record shop near you.

Also, head over to The Liar's Club, a Chicago topics blog updated hardly ever by Cherry, Classy, Niner, and Myself. I'm actually kind of proud of my latest LC post, and it's not even mythical!

Terms of Endearment

I was in a relationship for five years once, and during that time I thought I had used up every pet-name I could see myself using. This worried me, because I knew I couldn't reuse them; It just wouldn't be right.

However, I blurted out one with my new Special Lady Friend that isn't a viable option for an everyday term of endearment, but it gives me hope that I'll come up with a good one some day.

While it's not going to make it into the rotation, it's too damn funny not to share with my readers, who I think share my sense of humor to some degree, or you wouldn't keep coming back to read about my misadventures. The name is . . .

Miami Sex Machine

P.S.: I did a google search for this new phrase, and nothing came up. So, it looks like The Gancer is the only site with that phrase in its contents and STILL the first site to come up when anyone does a query for "titty bucks." Go ahead. Try it.

Toby, "Breakfast With No Hog," and Arnold Working Some Ass

1. I had to shoot a photography gig for a corporate event, and who should be providing the entertainment but U.S.A. lovin', Ford truck drivin', no sleeves in his entire closet havin' Toby Keith. I will say, although I pretty much hated his actual music, he and his band put on a pretty good show. Also, it was better than the music over the PA before he took the stage: One song was called She Thinks My Tractor is Sexy, and if you think I'm lying about a song title/concept that stupid, just click here. One thing that really pissed me off was when Toby went into a version of Stranglehold by Ted Nugent. Not because he butchered it, but, surprisingly because he nailed it, and his voice suddenly became a "rock" voice with a good range, and, most importantly, not the least bit country. Then he went right back to his shitty, twangy country voice for the remainder of the show. Do you think he would rather do faithful covers of classic rock songs, but he's stuck in this Dixie Chick hating persona because it's making him so much damn money? Something to think about . . .

I texted this girl I just started seeing about the horrors of working an event with someone as shit-tastic as Mr. Keith playing, and she texts back, "Shut up! I love him!" Okay, she's cool, so I didn't hold it against her, and I even took a photo of him for her. I wasn't able to print them for her until the next day at the office, and then I had to walk home in the rain with a 6 by 8 too big to fit in any pockets, so I had to clutch Toby close to my heart, on the inside of my coat. I must dig this chick, yes? Time will tell.

2. I bring you, the 10 best rap songs ever, decided on by a white boy unqualified to say so (Notice the House of Pain):

10. The Ditty by Paperboy
9. Big Poppa by Notorious B.I.G.
8. Fugee La by The Fugees
7. Paul Revere by The Beastie Boys
6. Jump Around by House of Pain
5. Gin and Juice by Snoop Doggy Dogg
4. The Message by Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five, Featuring . . .
3. Nothin' But a G Thang by Dr Dre
2. Mind Playin Tricks by Geto Boys
1. Good Day by Cube

3. My roommate and I watched Conan the Barbarian and Conan the Destroyer back-to-back. There is no comparison between the two: Barbarian rules and Destroyer is retched. That I've always known, but this time around I came to another realization: Conan the Barbarian is the one and only time you will see Arnold Schwarzenegger getting it on in a movie. There have been a lot of off-screen, implied fucking in his films, but Barbarian is the only time you can see him actually working some ass. I say that it's the last time too, because I don't see him making a film comeback after politics and getting down in front of a camera in his 60's. I just don't see it happening. So, rent Conan the Barbarian, watch him poke some crazy broad in a tent, who turns into a demon, and then Arnold chucks her into a fire. That's no lie. See it for yourself. My roommate informed me that he voted for Arnold when he was in California, and for that scene alone, he's got my vote too.

'Zo and Laetitia: Together at Last

One day my ex and I were talking about the celebrities who we wished we looked like. She wanted to be someone with a model's body, yet still voluptuous, so she decided on the chesty Victoria's Secret model Laetitia Casta (the word "tit" is in her name for heaven's sakes). I always wanted to be an enormous, good-looking guy who could dunk a basketball with a simple post move - A guy who, in general, nobody would want to "F" with, so I went with the then center for the Miami Heat, Alonzo Mourning.

We then got off on a bazaar tangent, as we often did, on what it would be like if the two of us jumped into their bodies, like in Being John Malkavich, found each other in our new bodies, and started dating.

Alonzo stands at 6'10" and 261 pounds, while Laetitia is 5'8" and although she was quoted as saying she only need be "in the mountains with some cheese and a bit of bread" to maintain her happiness, she is probably not much over 100 pounds. She also said of her breasts that they were "made in Normandy...from butter and cream cheese." What's with this chick and cheese, and although I'm sure she means that's what her titty-growing diet consisted of, doesn't it sound kind of like she's sculpting a pair of knockers out of mounds of butter and cheese? Damn, that's hot. Anyway, Alonzo has a foot on her in height, and well over 100 pounds on her in weight, but let's dig a little deeper . . .

Before the 2000-01 season, Alonzo was diagnosed with focal glomerulosclerosis, a kidney disorder that sidelined him for an entire season, and eventually led to an early retirement. While tragic, this would be a great time for him work on his impressive list of community service projects, but if he were married to Laetitia Casta, 'Zo could also devote his time to banging his supermodel wife at least three times a day, which any man in his position should, unless doctor's orders went against such a regiment.

Hey, readers, which celebrity do you wish you were, and who would you be dating? What kind of couple would you be, and what would the public think?

Information used without permission from http://www.laetitiacasta.com/laetitia-casta.php and http://www.answers.com/topic/alonzo-mourning

Broken English Girl

A few weeks ago I met a Thai girl at a bar called, oddly enough, Thai's, and she spent the night at my place. She then stayed over until like 3 o'clock the next day, and she told me, in broken English, the story of her life. She's 28-years-old, she's one of 6 children, her mom died when she was 20, and her dad quickly remarried someone twenty years his junior. I will say, for having not spoken a lick of English when she moved here about a year ago, her English is pretty darn good. When I was driving her home she decided that we should stop at the Thai restaurant she works at. I didn't plan on calling her, so I really shouldn't have agreed to do this, but I'll be damned if it wasn't the best Thai food I ever had, and for only like 6 bucks a plate. I was kind of bummed because I knew I couldn't show my face in there again, but I did recommend it to a lot of people.

I didn't ever call her, but last night I found myself at the same after-hours bar in which I met her, and who should appear but Broken English Girl. We went back to my place again, and this time she stayed until five in the afternoon the next day. She wouldn't let me have sex with her this time around, which was probably a good idea, although it felt like a downright shitty idea at the time, but I did, however, get the best full-body massage of my lifetime. I'm talking, hands, feet, standing up to walk across my back, and best of all, some deal where she sat Indian-style, with my head in her lap, doing something flipping incredible to my temples.*

This time I learned that living in the states opened her eyes to some of the things in Thailand that now seem archaic to her. For example, men typically expect their wives to be virgins when the marry them, they are shunned by all if they cheat, yet the husbands cheat lefty-righty without any judgement. So, when she went back, she was not too thrilled when her ex-boyfriend proposed to her. He didn't like hearing no, so he hit her. Things like this make it hard for me to do an all-too-typical Gancer blow-off/phase out. I certainly don't want to be her boyfriend, but I do want to look out for her, for some reason.

I then agreed to help her move some items from her apartment to the place she's moving into. During this process she couldn't work the keys to get into two separate doors of the new place. That is what I'm talking about when I say I feel some sort of responsibility when it comes to her. She really is a sweet girl. After the moving was done she made a point to get my number, and she left her watch at my apartment, so I am going to be hearing from her. That's alright with me, but I just want to be a friend to her. Do friends lie in bed, listening to Pink Floyd's Obscured By Clouds and massage one anothers naked bodies? God, I hope so in this case.

*No there was no happy ending, before you make a comment like that, but I did educate her on that expression.

Getting Spanky at the Cock

No, that's nothing dirty, you perverts. I work at the John Hancock center, taking pictures of tourists at the base of the cock (ground floor), then I try to sell them the pictures with different Chicago backgrounds at the top of the cock (94th floor). I hadn't worked that location for some time, and I was less than thrilled to see it on my schedule, since it can be, at times, boring, depressing, and sometimes the house music, no lie, is a disc of Michael McDonald ruining Motown standards, one after the other.

However, I had not until this point passed the time away by chatting up the African American ladies who sell the tickets, run the elevators, etc. I wish I had discovered this earlier, because these gals are a hoot! One gets off the phone and says, "Oh, he's getting his balls waxed." I said, "Huh?" She said that a coworker was very secretive about the "appointment" he had to go on for his lunch break, so she filled in the blanks. Later, we were talking about if we wanted kids some day, and the one had decided that she was going to have kids at age "41." I asked her why that number, and she said that at that age she didn't care what childbirth would do to her body, stretch marks, etc., bring it on. I then brought up how I heard breast feeding can deflate a pair of perfectly nice breasts into a pair of deflated balloons. 41 Girl hadn't heard that, so she asked her friend, who was involved in another conversation, not at all listening to our conversation, "Did breast feeding fuck up yo' titties?" I chuckled about that for the remainder of my shift.

Here is another random thing I learned from a feminine, Southern guy I work with who is in between flight attendant gigs: In Ireland they call flight attendants "trolley dollies." Cute, huh?

There is one more thing I learned recently, but this was something I learned Saturday night. We were having a few drinks at a friend's place, and some of the ladies were modeling their New Year's Eve dresses for my buddy and me. I was shocked how candid they are with one another, like, "Your boobs look great in that, but your belly is poking a little. You'll have to wear spanx." What? Spanx? Have you heard of these? Apparently they are like stockings/spandex, only they go around a girl's gut to tuck it in tight. My buddy and I were wondering how it is we've never seen any of our girlfriends put one on, nor had we, to our recollection, taken off one of these in any of our other encounters. My buddy then speculated that this is why they often step out to slip into "something more comfortable." However, after the topic had moved onto something else, he suddenly remembered seeing one. We all had a good laugh as he told us about how he remembers wondering what in the hell it was.

Some of you won't be too surprised that I came up with a solid name for the male version of spanx: Hankz.

Hey, readers, have you heard of spanx? Any good spanx stories?

Misunderstood Christmas Lyrics

I've been taking pictures of people at the mall to the sounds of the same God-damned Christmas songs over-and-over again, and if you know me at all, you know that I can't tune out music. It burrows into my head and pushes out everything that may be useful to me like where I left my car keys, my mother's birthday (only kidding mom, it's in October), or how to walk upright. Because I was left with no choice but to listen to this crap, since I can't tune it out, I figured I'd use my time to come up with some funny, I hope, insights about some of the lyrics. FYI, although they are both brilliant, I'm not going to go with ones that have already been done, like "Walkin' 'round in women's underwear" or "Check the balls on that big collie."

1. During We Wish You a Merry Christmas, it's way funnier, instead of saying figgy pudding, to say friggin' pudding. "Now, bring us some friggin' pudding. Now bring us some friggin' pudding. Now, bring us some
friggin pudding, and bring it right here! You can also insert Bill Cosby's favorite, "friggin pudding pops," to the same, if not heightened, effect.

2. Does the guy in the 12 Days of Christmas give his main squeeze five golden rings, for example, each day he gives her items five through 12, because that's what it sounds like. If so, she'd get 40 gold rings, and that's a lot of bling. The bad news is she'd also get 40 ladies milking, and that's a lot of lactating. That could be really messy, and does she have to house these wet nurses and whoever they're giving milk to, or are they taking milk from something, like cows? If so, what does she do with all those damn cows? If you ask me, this guy doesn't know shit about buying gifts. At day two she should have said, "Okay, now I have two partridges in pear trees, and the turtle doves don't sweeten the deal. What's more, Danny and Keith keep bugging me to get them out of the trees and they're repeatedly demanding of me to, 'Come on, get happy.' Take all this shit back and just get me the stuff I pointed out when we were at the mall. Weren't you listening? I know I didn't point out no damn birds!" Always just buy the shit they point out guys. Women like surprises, but only if they are predetermined, non-bird or wet nurse related surprises.

3. In Santa Clause is Coming to Town, when they say that "he knows when you've been sleeping, he knows when you're awake;" I wonder if he also knows when you've been playing with yourself. If so, I'm surprised I got any gifts.

4. There is a version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas that plays at the mall where it really does sound like the lady is saying:
"Here we are as olden days
Happy golden days, up yours."
That really sounds like a mixed message, like she's wishing me happy golden days (whatever that is, but it sounds nice), but then she says, "Up Yours!!!" Hilarious. Nobody says up yours anymore, which seemed to go out with "eat me." This is a shame, in that both are still effective in terms of their imagery and directness.

5. In every one's favorite Christmas carol, Whoomp There It Is!, by every one's favorite Christmas crooners, Tag Team, when they speak of their man Steve Boland, who in the hell is that? What throws me is that it's not a rap name, like I could see if it were Stevie B., but I suppose there already is a Stevie B., who sang the 1991 shit ballad*, Because I Love You. No rap name, just regular, old Steve. Actually, I looked it up, and evidently he says, "And my man Steve Roll'n," so it's kind of a rap name. I wish I knew that the other day before blurting out "my man Steve Bolan" 300 times in front of all my coworkers and customers, who must think I was rapping about some insurance agent, since that what Steve Boland sounds like to me.


Speaking of Stevie B., how bad is this video? Nothing happens! He just walks around his spacious, but sparse apartment, lamenting in his disheveled tuxedo and Afro-pompadour hairstyle. I just coined that term, and I'll never get to use it again, except those rare occurrences when Stevie B. is brought up. Such a a shame.

6. I noticed the other morning, when the holiday favorite Caribbean Queen came on the radio**, that Billy Ocean may have been ahead of his time when he sang, in 1985:



I was in search of a good time
Just running my game
Love was the furthest
Furthest from my mind

Running his game? Who was saying that in 1985? Then again, he does say "painted on jeans," which does bring him right back to 1985 as fast as his delorean will take him. As far as Billy's "game" is concerned, I don't know what kind of game he's running, because he was prone to saying: "Hey, you! Get into my car!" That's not too suave if you ask me, or is he really a genius? Oh, Billy, you sly dog you . . .

Are there some holiday lyrics that always threw you off over the years?

* This is not to be confused by Woot, There It Is. Why do two similar things like that always seem to come out at the same time? For instance, why did Antz and A Bug's Life both come out within a week of one another? One seems to always suck too. Was Antz or Bug's Life the shitty one? I don't know, because I've never seen either, but I'm pretty sure one or the other was the Woot, There It Is of the animated bug world.
** Okay, fine. I kind of like that song.
*** Okay, fine. It came up on random on my iPod. Okay, fine. I sought it out and played it.

Gancer VS Gancer: Not a Big Pay-Per-View Draw, But Interesting Nonetheless

I was straining, struggling, and damn-near sharting* my way through a set of a mere 50 push-ups, that quite sadly, had to be broken up into two sets of twenty-five, and it occurred to me that in high school I could do 50 straight without a problem. I used to be late to gym class daily, opt for doing push-ups rather than receiving a detention, and I'd bang them out like Mitch Gaylord. Um, perhaps a metaphor with the words bang and Mitch Gaylord was not a well-thought-out simile. Anyway, my next thought was, and who the hell else would think this(?), but I wondered if High School Gancer could kick Modern-Day Gancer's ass?

Let's go to the tale of the tape . . .

In this corner, at 6'1", and weighing in at 175 pounds, a skinny, pimply, two-sport athlete**, wall-flower in a flannel shirt with a professional fighting record of 0-0-0. 0-0-1 if you count the times, and I don't see how you can't, when his older sister held him down and tickled him until he couldn't breathe as a collective loss. He has crippling shyness and social awkwardness, but if there's heavy metal music playing by the likes of Suicidal Tendencies or Pantera, his heightened suburban, white-boy teen-angst may give him a slight edge. He also boasts a maximum bench press of 205 pounds.

In this corner, at 6'2", and weighing in at 195 pounds, a 30-year-old frustrated writer who drinks more days out of the week than he exercises, except in the summer when he bikes a lot, or if he has more than 2 sports leagues going at a time, which is rare.*** Again, a professional record of 0-0-1. However, maybe both should have records of 0-0-2, since she used to, again, while pinning me down with her knees, spit hanging loogies, and then suck them back up at the last minute, sometimes waiting, alas, too long. The edge would go to the kid in a long fight, since 30-year-old Gancer would surely get winded, but confidence and poise has to go towards the veteran. However, as savvy and cunning as he may be, although his maximum bench press has not been put to the test in many moons, it probably falls at around the 135 pound mark. This number is not arbitrarily chosen, since any less would mean not being able to use the big-boy plates, and the veteran's pride would lead him to risk serious injury and/or days of soreness rather than get out the wussy plates.****

Overall, if I were a betting man, I'd lay money down on the Modern-Day Gancer. What do you think? How about yourself? Could you kick your own ass even when you were in better shape?

*Sorry, Cherry. I swear that's the last time I reference your shart.
**Not at one time, mind you. One sport, basketball, came during my freshman year and the other one, track, came during my senior year, just to break the monotony.
***Then again, I usually go out for drinks after games, so it kind of cancels out.
****Did Ronny steal my jumpsuit?

Door #1 or Door #2?

1. Elsa the Hungarian Pharmacist:

I met her a couple of weekends ago at a 4 a.m. bar in which I was way too old to be at; I was like the chaperon, seriously. Just when I'm thinking it's time to get a slice of pizza and an orange soda* and take my old ass home, a blond walks in, and she "makes eyes at me."** A little while later, the two of us are doing a barroom, make-out deal, another thing I'm way too old for. We have since exchanged text messages and calls, but it took a while for us to connect. When we finally did talk, I found her to be a lot of fun, and she has a great laugh. We plan on meeting up tomorrow (Thursday).

Pluses:
1. Fun.
2. Cute accent.
3. Might be a potential hook-up for copious drugs. Only kidding! Seriously, positive factor number three has been saying Elsa the Hungarian Pharmacist for the last couple of weeks.

Minuses:
1. I know almost nothing about her.
2. The bar was dark and I was drunk, so she might not be as pretty as I thought she was.
3. Ladies I have met under similar circumstances have not been of much substance, except for Classy.

2. Asian Med-Student Neighbor:

She's a beautiful woman, there are no two ways about it, and everyone who meets her thinks so. We have these amazing conversations when we're one-on-one, yet it's somewhat strained when we're in a crowd. There was one night where it looked like something was going to go down between us, but she flaked. Then another night we're out with a bunch of people, the two of us are talking in a room of the bar away from our friends, and we're agreeing about how great our talks have been. Moments later, when I really should have been kissing her, I find myself talking with some Russian guy in a Cannibal Corpse t-shirt, discussing the merits of their seminal, 1990 LP Butchered at Birth.***

A few days ago she calls me, surprising as it may be after choosing a death metal discussion over her, to ask if I have any Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, which I, of course, didn't. But moments later I found myself going linen/bedding shopping with her. Good sign, right? By the end of the trip we had made plans to go Christmas shopping at Macy's together. Great sign, yes? However, knowing me, I will build up the Christmas party at her house this Saturday as the end-all-be-all moment to make a move. After chickening out, or watching her hook back up with the hand doctor or some other doctor, I'll go upstairs to my apartment, listen to Love Hurts by Nazareth, cry into my keyboard, and then be my own hand doctor.

Pluses:
1. Butterflies. I get honest-to-God butterflies.
2. She's intelligent and a good conversationalist.
3. Fun to be with. I could have sniffed candles in that shop with her until they kicked us out.

Minuses:
1. Seems to have a taste for the finer things in life, and I shop at Aldi and wear gym shorts when I run out of boxers. The thread counts of the bedding seemed a chief concern, and I really didn't know that was a big deal, nor did I know how to spell duvet until Monday.
2. Dating the neighbor could be awkward, and the inevitable post-relationship run-ins would be even weirder. Also, between her 3 roomies and my 4, we have SEVEN roommates. Would we ever be alone together? Also, if things get weird between she and I, would I mess up having four, cute med-students to hang out with?
3. Why do she and I only hit it off one-on-one? Something is screwy about that, right?

I'm surely going to take a crack at both and see where my heart leads me, which will sort a lot of these things out, but I'd welcome some preliminary input, seven readers. All I know is I better enjoy this two girl "problem" while it lasts, because given the feast or famine nature of my love-life, the next two months could have me feeling like The Loneliest Leper TV series starring Scott Bakula.

*You can't beat that combination at Chicago's Pizza.
**Who says that? Nobody else at that bar, that's who. Thus proving I was too old to be in there.
***I've actually never heard that record, or any of their other work for more than a growling minute, but I know all their album titles and what the covers look like. Fucked With a Knife is one of their ditties . . .

I Bring You . . .

. . . Some of the funniest, most random things I've heard in the past week or so:

The Biggest Undies Surplus I've Ever Heard of: Last night a female friend of mine, who has always seemed normal enough, told me two of the strangest things I've ever heard.

1. Don't ask me how this came up, but she disclosed to me that she owns 250 pairs of underwear, many of which still have the tags on them, and they take up like three drawers. Who in the hell hoards undies like that? I told her she should make a quilt out of them, like Gayle Zappa did with all of the bloomers that Frank got from his fans. That idea made her right eyebrow go up, which is when I know I've peaked her interest.
2. She still clings to a security "blankie" she has had since she was two-years-old. When her and I were trying to decide whether or not her boyfriend was a good catch, she did say that he would run into a burning building to save her "blankie." That made our minds up on two matters. He's alright, and she's totally fuck-nuts, in a good way.

Bangin': Today I was telling my mom how my opinion of someone, unless he/she is on of my readers, of course, immediately drops when I hear that he/she tunes in every week for a shit-ass episode of Grey's Anatomy. She pointed out what I've always thought, and what most anyone else should be able to deduce, that one would not want to be treated in a hospital where the entire staff is "bangin'" each other. I'm not sure if any of you will think that's funny, but I just got a bang, pun intended, out of my mom saying "bangin'."

Rotten Ass: I was out with K.I.D., Niner, and some other folks, and K.I.D. relayed a story to us where a random guy said her ass is "ripe." This is along the same lines as the fellow-patron at Home Depot calling Bottle "thick." In both cases, although I wasn't there, I'm sure it was meant as a complement, but in neither case did the woman in question take it as such. To comfort K.I.D., Niner posed the question of would she rather the guy had said she had a "rotten ass?" I nearly fell out of my chair.

Eternal Life Through "Gancer's Awesome Mix Vol 1" and Other Masterpieces

Yesterday, I hitched a ride with some coworkers to a company-paid, birthday lunch for another coworker, and I noticed a few surprisingly respectable songs in a row on a disc that the driver was spinning. I say surprising, because she has never struck me as an Arctic Monkeys fan - I had her pegged as a casual fan of rock music, who would default to something like Coldplay. As it turns out, the disc was made by a guy who she went out with a few times. Sidebar, this gal seems to go on like three dates a week, and the first time I had a conversation beyond hello with her, I felt like I was on a date. She was grilling me with a guided barrage of questions. People with that bad of a sense of urgency to find someone scare the shit out of me.

Mix Tape Guy* guy was evidently scared too, because he dumped her after three dates. I find it strange, as did she, that before dumping her, he acted all chipper on the phone when he made plans to see her at a coffee shop to dump her. There was no need for the face-to-face dump after three dates, even with the mix tape propelling the relationship**, and by making her meet him out, he disrupted her whole day.

ANYWAY, given the fact that I could tell she thought the guy was a putz, I was surprised to see that the disc was still in rotation in her car. This gave me a reassuring feeling that there may be girls out there bumping my mix tapes, even though some of them*** may be saying something akin to, "Fuck Gancer and the camry he rode in on!" I put a lot of time into my mix tapes, and I truly do think about each and every track in terms of the likely-hood that she will like it, given everything I know about the person. I don't simply reburn a set playlist. I certainly don't burn an entire mix tape of the same song over and over, like my sister's psychotic, college roommate, song being In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. Actually, that might be an easy way out of a relationshit, because any woman would be horrified by such a nutty move. ANYWAY, Because of my strong feelings about these CD's, I'm glad that the carefully chosen songs by bands I love are being spread to people she knows, and maybe even burned onto NEW mix tapes, and then maybe that person makes YET ANOTHER mix tape . . . Staggering, I know.

How about you, Seven Readers? Do you have any relationship-based mix tape stories?

*I'm going to call mix CD's mix tapes throughout this whole post. However innacurate it may be, mix tape is not a term I'm willing to let go.
**That was a joke by the way. I'm don't put quite THAT much stock in the power of the mix tape.
***By that I mean roughly all of them.

El Conquistador

I was talking with a female friend of mine who said that after her extremely emotional break up, which I don't think she's entirely over (but who ever is?), she never had a trampage period. If you don't know what that is, and don't worry if you don't, because I didn't either, this is an episode when a gal sleeps with numerous men, not at the same time necessarily, but essentially, to get over her ex she goes through men like she goes through scrunchies. Wait, scrunchies? Girl don't even use those anymore do they? I once had a girlfriend with whom I shared a car, and she'd leave her scrunchie wrapped around the gear-shift thing. It looked not-so-manly to drive around with a gear-shift adorned with a woman's hair accessory, but I just left it there to avoid getting in a fight somehow, even though I wasn't even sure if moving it anywhere, which means I would lose it, would, in fact, get me in a fight. Could that be a metaphor for our whole relationship, or just a really useless tangent leading us astray from the topic at hand?

Okay, that tangent is over, so stay with me here. The concept of a trampage begs a couple questions:

First the feminist, double-standard question:
Why is it trampy for a woman to get filled out like an application for a few months to get over someone, and a man is just a red-blooded stud getting the poison out? A fair question, and one I don't have the answer to. I could delve into this, but the topic is a little too serious for me, and frankly, I'm not qualified or smart enough to come up with solutions to such a systemic, societal trend. Blogger doesn't pay me to be smart.*

Second, a question that is even less fair to a segment of the population than the last quesion:
Why can't I meet more trampaging women? Okay, the segment I just mentioned is just me, but I'm right when I say it's not fair! I guess I may have come across a few, but never have I been told explicitly I was being used to get over someone. This happened to a friend of mine though, on New Year's Eve a few years back. He and I lived together at the time, and we were having a party at a bar across the street from our house. By the way, it was my favorite New Years ever, and probably among my friend's favorites, as you'll gather in a minute, because there were like one-hundred people there, and so many of them were great people who we invited. Anyway, because this bar was so close to our place, we had pre and post-partying there, and many folks left their coats in my buddy's room, a fact that will be significant in a second. So, My Buddy* is hitting it off with a gal, they duck out, go back to our place before the post-party starts, and he gives her a good rogering in his bedroom, on top of roughly 30, winter coats. At some point she actually told him that she was coming off a bad breakup, and to get over it, she'd be down for getting freaky, even it were on top of a combination of wool, leather, polyester, and maybe even GORE-TEX.**

Lastly, the question on the other side of the Trampaging Coin:
What term do we assign to the male equivalent?
I've given this some thought. Actually, I just blurted it out when the question was posed to me, but I think it's a term with some staying power. Because a man sometimes needs a series of sexual conquests to move on, and because the term implies a latin-lover-type mentality, the term for a man in this period of his life that I'm leaving for posterity, here at the gancer, is Conquistador.

Okay, now it's your turn:
Tell us a Little Miss Trampage or El Conquistador story

*They don't pay me to be funny either. The pricks.

**Every time I typed My Buddy, I couldn't help think of the doll My Buddy advertised on television when I was growing up. It didn't seem tangent worthy, so I've footnoted it, and you can learn more about it here.

***My friend, I'm done saying my buddy, later told me that during "the act" she said, "I love parties!"

****In the above text, you will not find a fourth asterisk, which incidentally, took me forever to figure out how to spell (see earlier where I said I'm not that bright), but special thanks goes to fellow blogger Mysterygirl, who, despite never fully trampaging herself, proved to be a valuable person to network with on this topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Week's Post . . .

Is at The Liar's Club.

Notary Babe

I have to get something notarized. So I'm searching online for notaries in Chicago, and there's a page called the "Notary Rotary" with a big list of people, all of whom will meet you anywhere, anytime, and many of whom have pictures. I'm scrolling through their pictures, thinking, I might as well have a hot ass chick meet me anywhere, preferably at 2:00 in the morning, at my house, while in my undies. I thought my odds were pretty slim at finding the allusive hot-to-trot, notary-babe, but low and behold the blond bombshell pictured immediately to the left of this sentence. This scenario begs a few questions:

1. How could I NOT go with the hot one?!?
2. Doesn't everyone?
3. Do any of these other losers get calls, or since she started did all their business dry up?
4. Is the notary game just a front for an escort ring?
5. God I hope so.
6. Was #5 a question or more of a beg?

So, this notary bird is meeting me Thursday night at the bar at which I play volleyball. I can't wait to tell my whole team about it, so we can all anxiously await her arrival. Maybe she'll sub for us! Maybe she notarizes naked! Maybe she signs with her . . .

I'll be sure to keep you, my loyal readers, posted of the upcoming events.