Gancer Gets Groceries! That's Fascinating!

Is it all the writing and blogging that makes me have an internal monologue running through my head, thinking what's funny about the world, what would be good to write about, rather than living in the actual moment? Do any of you do this too?

So, I thought about lots of things while I got groceries today, and I must warn you: Nothing all that interesting happened. Sure, if the store was robbed or Marv Albert came in wearing crotchless panties and bit a woman's ass, then the thing would write itself, especially that second one. However, to me, writing a blog and attempting to make it funny and/or interesting, without embellishing details, when nothing all that noteworthy went down, was seen as a challenge in my eyes. Is this exactly what's wrong with blogging? Maybe so. Well, if you'd rather move onto something more sexy like that New York hooker's myspace who blew that Governor right out office, go right ahead.

Do you care what you look like at your grocery store? As I'm talking to my roommate and tweaking my hair, he asked me if I was going out. "Nope," I said. "Just going to Club Jewel." Let me explain. We call the Jewel, may be called Albertson's by you, across the street from our place Club Jewel, because the people are so darned pretty there. We used to call it Hot Girl Jewel, and then met some girls who called it Hot Guy Jewel. How odd that this shop brings in all the hunks and babes, right? That being said, you actually have to get dolled up a little before you go, because the women in there look like TV Spokes Models on Star Search*.


Do you eat like a grown-up or like a kindergartner during snack time? A young couple in the same aisle as me was talking about cooking something, what should be used to marinate it, or whatever, and I started to think how I need to eat more like a grown-up. My dad is one hell of a cook, I'm sure I could learn a lot from him, impress women by cooking for them, be a lot healthier, and maybe a little happier. I thought all of this while I stealthily grabbed my six pack of beef ramen noodles and ducked out of that aisle.

Have you met, have you tried, or do you hope to one day meet memebers of the opposite sex while grocery shopping? I did see some good looking birds eye balling produce and comparing unit prices*, but I have a girlfriend right now. That's right, I said the GF word, it's kind of a big deal that I'm using the words, being that it's a promotion from Special Lady Friend, which would probably be an interesting subject, but we're not here to talk about anything interesting and nothing personal on this blog for a few posts. We're here to talk groceries, damn you! So, I wasn't macking on any of the Grocery Girlies, but even when I was single, that's a tough approach, right? I think that in other countries people converse more with strangers, but here in America, especially in big cities, we're taught and/or conditioned not to make eye contact at any cost. It's to the point where if you just try to point out a better deal to a gal, she may freak out, mace you, and kick you in the balls. Well, it's not to that point. I'm just saying it's a tough opener.

When you put your items on the conveyor belt, do you look at what the person in front of you is buying? Why am I even asking? Everyone does. Do you then make inferences based on what types of things they buy? For instance, if they have lots of lean cuisines, then they're probably single. If they buy lots of organic shit, then they're tree hugging hippies. If he buys a bottle of Jack and a 20-pack of rubbers, then he's Gancer. You know, just little inferences like that. Anyway, the gal in front of me had some high class items, but I had too many man-child items to hide. I looked to hide my ramen noodles, but when I moved some items to hide it I saw my Chef Boyardee in plain view.** She's going to be making some very obvious judgements, and they will be dead on.

Do you like paper or plastic? Wow, this is getting flipping boring, but seriously, I'm a paper man. When I walk home from the store I always have way too many things to carry and no little cart thing, cause I'm not quite old enough to be That Guy, so all those plastic bag handles burrow into my hands. Today I had two real heavy, double paper bagged loads, perfectly loaded by yours truly. I exercise a fair amount, but I never do any kind of weight training. Is it bad that one of the only times I feel the burn on my triceps is when I waddle home with twenty pounds of groceries in each hand?

Your turn, readers. Answer one or more of the questions in bold type at the start of these boring paragraphs.

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*A very dated reference, but well worth it for the people who remember. Do you think Ed McMahon got on any of those models? If I had to guess, I'd have to say, "Ha ha! Yes! You are correct, sir."

**They were on sale for $.79 a can, since you asked.

The Tom Petty Debacle

I can't sleep because I'm amped up from too much coffee I sucked back while trying to stay awake during a focus group about pens, so I figured I might as well use this nervous energy to write something. The only spare topic that I have in my handy-dandy notebook* is The Tom Petty Debacle. Now, readers, I'm going to post this, but keep two things in mind.

1. It may read like a crystal meth addict** with AD/HD wrote this thing, but I'm not changing anything. It will be a stream of consciousness of goodness like Kerouac on "the crack," so you and I will just have to make do with what will more than likely be mixed results.
2. I know that I had an "I swear I'm not a sleaze" disclaimer for my last post, but I'm doing it again, damn it. I was wronged by a woman I loved, I had a real bad selfish phase, and I acted like a thoughtless, drunken child for a little too long. I'm all better now, but it would be a shame not to write about these days, right? I mean, it's therapeutic and cathartic for me, and it's, with any luck, damn interesting to you folks.

Cast of Characters With Names Changed to Protect the Innocent:

Abigale: I met her at a hair metal cover band show. She had a white tank top/wife beater thing on that had a small, subtle picture of a cassette tape nestled on her chest. We got to talking, and I shared with her my theory about dating as it relates to cassette tapes: I won't date a woman if her first album was in CD format, because that would make her far too young for me. We went on a date, she must not have had a first album in disc form, but regardless what media type that all-important first album was in, I never called her afterwards. We connected weeks later, she asked me if my not calling was due to the phone difficulties she was having, and rather than come clean, my passive ass found itself saying, "Yes. That must have been it." In the coming weeks we became more of friends/drinking buddies than anything else, I enjoyed her company quite a bit, but she was getting fond of me, believe it or not. One time she said her mom was like, "How's Dr. Kenneth?" I was weirded out, but rather than establish what we were doing, my, again, passive and perhaps a little needy ass kept things at status quo, which was probably as good as leading her on. I know, I was fucked up and immature. I swear I'm better now.

Delilah: This is the first woman I dated after my divorce for whom I had strong feelings. It was way too soon to like someone that much. I would feel weird when I'd open up to her, and then I'd clam up. She had some commitment issues at the time too, may still, and she'd shut down and get wicked distant, borderline cold, which was NOT good for me at the time. As tumultuous as our thing was, I was resolved to be in a committed, dating relationship with someone for the first time since my Devo, which is a hip way of saying divorce, as if divorce could ever be considered hip or anything other than shitty, awful, or awfully shitty.

I get a call from Abigale one day, and she has an extra ticket to Tom Petty with The Black Crowes opening at Alpine Valley, which is in Wisconsin and quite a drive. I remember getting that call while on my bicycle, and thinking, "All right, this is a road trip with a gal who really likes me, and she will probably see it as a bonding type of deal, which really isn't a good idea, cause she, to take a page out of Kevin Arnold's book, "like-likes" me while I merely "like" her. But, I've never seen Petty, and I really like The Crowes," so I said, "All right, American Girl!"

On the way down we got caught in horrible traffic, and we ended up missing ALL of The Black Crowes and we only saw like six Petty songs. Just before the end of his set, a biblical flipping storm*** hits, we exit the stadium the wrong way, have to walk all the way around the thing through the rain and mud, and by the time we get to the car there's literally**** not a dry spot on us. I was driving her car home, and it crapped out on an exit ramp. She's panicking and crying while I'm trying to tell her that we need to get it off the road before someone hits us. Finally, she puts down her phone, and steers it while I push, which is when a guy with a tow truck comes by and says, "Hey, I nearly hit you guys. Do you need a ride?" Turns out this cat works for an auto body place and was on his way home when he saw us, so he towed the car to his shop and drove us to a hotel. As a quick side note, I love the city, but on the whole people are, if you're a city slicker like me, embarrassingly, eye-opening nicer in small towns.

We both have to shower in the room, but since we have no dry clothes to put on afterwards, we both have to sleep in towels. Now, picture Dr. Kenneth doing his darndest to stay faithful to Delilah, but next to him is an emotional, nearly naked, good looking woman who is nuts about him. Plus, they had both managed to get pretty high from a too tightly rolled joint***** his roomie rolled. Also, I'm sure you'll know what I'm talking about here, but when you have a stressful, emotional day with someone of the opposite sex where there's some attraction, there is a certain exchange of pheromones and vibes that tend to make both parties pretty randy. Believe it or not, despite being painfully exited beneath my towel for hours upon hours, I did not lay a hand on her, except to console her, since she was crying from some sort of Tom Petty Debacle related melt down.

Here's the worst part: About a week later Delilah broke up with me, I said "what the hell," and slept with Abigale after too many quarter beers at The Horse Shoe. Part of the moronic, sick-fuck thought process of mine was that I was somehow entitled to, not only because I was reeling from the break up, but because I white knuckled and blue balled it through that TP Debacle night, when I really didn't need to, since Delilah already was no doubt ready to dump me by the TP night. So, in my mind, not now but at the time, I was thinking that sticking it to Abigale would be, in a sense, sticking to Delilah. Abigale thought our quarter beer lovin' meant we'd start dating, but of course, I wasn't ready or willing, which I knew before I slept with her. It's quite sad actually. Sad for her, and sad for me that I would do something so downright shitty, just because I was hurting from the divorce, and then rehurting from the Delilah deal.

Midway through this thing I thought about not posting it, and usually when I have that feeling I'm right, whether it's someone reading getting pissed or myself feeling equal parts ashamed and stupid. Well, I'm posting it, because I've been going with an on again off again emotionally naked, cathartic, therapeutic writing style for some time now, and I think my blog buddies who have been in it with me for some time know me to not be the turd I once was. I'm going to get back to posts about silly stuff like nude field goal kicking and Flashdance, because I feel drained after writing this thing. Fortunately, I'm Drained enough to sleep, finally, so I'm off to catch a quick couple of hours of sleep before work. Thanks for "listening" everyone. Good night.

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*Yes, I got the "handy-dandy notebook" from Steve on Blues Clues. I watched a lot of that stuff with my nephews. That guy did the least convincing running in place while the background moved, but I always gave him credit for being funny on such an F'd up show. Big ups, Steve.

**Just as I typed that sentence about typing like a crack head, I typed attic instead of addict. Yikes. Hey, when you were in junior high, did you ever ask girls to look down the front of their shirt and spell attic? "A titty I see (A-T-T-I-C)" I'm going to try it, but not in the work place this time. I'll leave that to Dyckerson, who, as an experiment, is going to try that gag on ten women at random next week. Best of luck to you, Dyckerson!

***The electrical storm before the crazy rain came down actually provided a beautiful backdrop during his surprisingly impressive set of the six songs I saw. It's something I'll never forget, much like The Tom Petty Debacle itself.

****One of my roomies is an editor and a real bright guy. He pointed out once that literally is overused, and often doesn't make sense the way people use it. For instance, "I was so hungry I was literally ready to eat my foot." No, not literally. If you meant that literally I'd call the funny farm on your ass cause you are a kook. Well, in reference to how wet we were, this time it's used correctly, because there honest to God wasn't a dry spot anywhere to be found, like we had just done fully clothed cannon balls into the neighbor's pool.

*****Sorry, mom, if you're reading. Yes, my mom reads sometimes and she's awesome. I'm more sorry about the overall content of this piece, but for some reason I'm sorry about the joint thing too. I swear I"m not a druggie, it's been over a year since I had the wacky tobacky, and I've never been a regular puffer.

On the Road Again

Disclamer: Okay, all. Please don't take this post as sleazy. Many of us had days of one-nighters, and this is merely meant to educate, not to offend.

On Saturday, I had an all-day bachelor party deal for a good friend. In between shooting each other with paint balls and shooting down shots of Jager at a bar, we had some time to drink some beers at my place and shoot the proverbial shit. While discussing what the night may entail, someone inquired about how many of us were single. The answer? Zero! Zero out of eight of us considered ourselves single. What did that leave us talk about? Our glory days . . .

Here's one thing we learned: When it comes to a one nighter/hit it and quit it situation, most guys prefer a "road show" to a "home game." Here's why:

3. Miss One Nighter will never know where you live, or that you're 31-years-old and live with 4 other guys, not that I know anyone like that. Also, if she's nuts, she can do a lot less damage to you and your property at her place, in theory, unless she has a Buffalo Bill, "It puts the lotion in the basket-esque" dungeon where she locks men in for weeks on end, but how many women like that do we meet? One, maybe two lifetime?*

2. No neighbors, roommates, land ladies, wives (?), or anyone else are privy to anything that transpires during a road show. Sometimes we have weak moments and take home something that's not looking so good, or even if she is looking good, maybe we're just not comfortable letting people in our immediate area in on the fact that we make a habit of this. For lack of a less overused phrase, what happens at a "road show" stays at a "road show."

1. When you wake up, all you have to do is excuse yourself. You know, I have to get my oil changed, take my grandmother to the zoo, have my testicles laminated**, whatever; just make an excuse and go. During a home game, you feel rude making an excuse, cause you're basically throwing her out, so, if you're like me, you end up driving them home. That way you save them the walk of shame by offering the slightly less embarrassing drive of shame. Even still, when you say, "So, I can drive you home?" What they hear, and rightfully so, is, "So, get the F out of here?"

How's about you, my beloved readers? Which do you prefer and why? Anyone out there prefer a nice home stand?

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*Got this pic off of a picture of a t-shirt! What sick son-of-a-gun is going around with that guy on his/her shirt!?

**Borrowed that awesome little phrase from George Carlin when he's talking about how when it gets quiet suddenly at a party you're always saying something stupid, like telling someone you're having your testicles laminated.

Campy, Borderline Shitty, Soft Rock Cures Road Rage. Who Knew?

I exited Lake Shore Drive today, got behind the slowest, dumbest cab driver ever, and I was stuck behind the nimrod for way longer than I wanted to be. I think I ordinarily would have gotten ticked off and cursed his unborn children, but today I had "Maneater" by Hall and Oats on, so instead of yelling, "Come on, fuck face," I softly sang, in my best Daryl Hall, white-boy, soul voice "You're the worst driver" to the tune of the phrase "She's a man eater." I made myself chuckle, so then I couldn't be mad. Try it some time.


If the song is equal parts goofy and soft rock, then there's no way you can stay mad. The next time a motorist makes you want to get your nine or your deuce-deuce out of the glove box, before you pull out your strap and lay that buster down like Nate Dogg, just throw on Eric Carmen's 1975 hit, "All By Myself," and instead sing:

"You can't drive for shi-it.
I swear to God
You can't drive for shit."*

If you can't fit the thing that angers you into the lyrics of a not at all agro song, since an angry song might just make you angrier, simply substitute the words penis and/or vagina, because that's invariably funny, if you share my middle-school sense of humor.

Just trying to make the world a happier place, teach the world to sing, and buy the world a coke . . .

Gancer

*A couple things about Eric Carmen. One, I never noticed this before, but does the vocal melody of the versus and some of the chord progressions of the piano rip off David Bowie's "Life On Mars?" Secondly, has there ever been a guy to pop the collar of his chest-exposing, Electric Horseman shirt, sport a terrific, white-man's afro, and just sing all serious, like he has no idea how ridiculous he looks, quite like Eric Carmen?

I heard At This Moment by Billy Vera and the Beaters today, and I immediately got sad for a relationship I wasn't in when I was nine.* Allow me to explain. When Ellen broke up with Alex on Family Ties I was as crushed as him. I really identified with Alex P. Keaton, probably because he was portrayed so well by Michael J. Fox, who was also Marty McFly, which didn't hurt.** I even wanted to be a Republican because of him, but thank God I didn't go down that road. For whatever reason, maybe I just wanted to be grown up, which I'm still waiting for, but I was jealous of him. I wanted to wallow in some of that sweet, sweet misery and then run desperately through the airport like O.J. Simpson, in the commercials, not like when he was stabbing people, and try to get my mythical girl back.



I did the same thing with What It Takes by Aerosmith. I'd sit in my sister's room, because I was yet to get my own stereo, and listen to that song off their 1989 release, Pump. I'd stare at the cover of the disc with the two trucks fucking, and I'd get sad. Sad for a girl that may or may not dump me when I'd have a legitimate girlfriend, which I had to wait some time for. What it Takes to get a girlfriend turned out to involve confidence and talking to them, which was a little more than I bargained for at the time.

Why am I drawn to misery like that? Why do I love wallowing so? I used to have a playlist on my itunes called Depressing as Hell, and it had over one hundred songs on it. I'd throw that bad boy on random and have a good cry when I needed one. My mood can be so affected by music. For instance, I could be in a great mood, throw on Jar of Flies by Alice in Chains, the best shoot up a big pile of heroin*** record of all time, and my mood will immediately shift to sadness, but it feels good to feel down when the music is good.

Hey readers, does anyone else do stuff like that, or am I just a masochist nut-job? I mean, I know some people enjoy a good tear jerker movie, so I'm no nuttier than them, right?

* Does anyone recall the talk show for which they would later become the house band? Also, make sure you stick around for the extra awkward interview at the end of this clip. I'll be damned if he doesn't look right at the camera and say that the way to a woman's heart is through lots of meatballs and sausage.
** Ever since Michael J. Fox got sick, now this song makes me think of him shaking from his degenerative disease, and that makes me sad too.
***No, I've never done heroin. But if I ever decide to start, this would be the perfect accompaniment.

Tearing Down The Gancer's Wall, Brick By Brick

I've been blown away by how open I've been with the new Special Lady Friend. Granted, I still won't let her read the blog, which is causing some tension, but we have a very open dialog, which I'm not used to. When it comes to expressing our feelings, I come from a family of bottlers, with the exception of my sister, who, with her outbursts and outpouring of emotions, would be more appropriately likened to a fishnet. Because of my upbringing, and unwillingness to change in relationships, when something pisses me off, I just talk about it with my friends, you people, my butcher, or anyone who isn't the girl. Then I just let it fester until I up and leave one day. This SLF doesn't let me do that, and, thus far, I don't resent her for helping me to change for the better.

So, the other day she relays to me that during some downtime at work she was telling her coworkers that she can't find anything wrong with me*, except that I sing in the morning when she's either still sleeping or awake but crabby. This led one of her cohorts, a bright one in my estimation, to say, "Well, doesn't that mean that he's more than likely happy waking up with you?" Good point, sir. I told her I'd work on it, which I will, but it will be tough, in the shower especially. I have a song on my head at all times, sometimes just one lyric or phrase.**

She then asked if there's anything she does that bothers me. This was a great opportunity to bring up something that had been bothering the shit out of me for the last two months. I said, "SLF, you use the world obsess too much. You can't possibly be obsessed with 14 things in a given week, or you'd drive yourself mad. Perhaps it's too strong of a word for all of these circumstances?" To this she just smiled and said she too would work on it. I thought she'd be super pissed or at the very least a little hurt, but perhaps she's not as harsh a critic of herself as I, especially when it comes to vocabulary and word usage.

Are there other things that bother me, sure, but they're minor. However, they'd be major if I weren't diggin' so much. For example, we're sitting in my kitchen one day, and she's looking at my Pink Floyd Back Catalog poster***, and the following conversation transpired:

SLF: Why do you have those naked ladies in your kitchen?
Gancer: Well, don't you recognize any of the pictures on their backs?
SLF: No, should I?
Gancer: (Flabbergasted, but restrained) Well, how about the one with the triangle?
SLF: Nope.
Gancer (In his head thinking, "Holy hell!, but instead, he says) Well, that would be an album by a British, psychedelic group, and it stayed on the USA, Billboard Top 200 for 741 weeks, which comes out to roughly 14 years . . .
SLF: Yeah, no idea.

And you know, it really didn't bother me that much. Then the other day I'm telling her how there's a pretty good possibility a website will be paying me to drive out to Lafayette, Indiana to interview Izzy Stradlin, the underrated, down-to-earth guitar player and songwriter of the seminal rock group Guns N' Roses. She said how happy she was for me, because she knew how big a band they were, despite the fact that SHE DIDN'T KNOW ANY OF THEIR SONGS. Excuse me? I named a couple, and turns out she did, but wow. Again, doesn't bother me. All I ask is that she humor me when I throw out a quick rock anecdote, and I do try to make them quick. She does this.

Things are going well. She's got this smile too, and it seems to me that it reminds of childhood memories where everything was as fresh as bright, blue sky . . .

Now, I wouldn't be mad at her for not knowing that lyric, but I would be mad at you, reader, cause you're not sleeping with me. Now it's time to share: Have you ever had an exchange like this, where you calmly tell each other what quirk or habit bothers the shit out of one another? How did it go?

*I, of course, don't believe this minor infraction to be the only thing that bothers her.
**For a few days it was the first verse of Across the Sea by Weezer. I love songwriters who write very odd vocal melodies, and I think it's cute how he uses broken English to sing the praises of his biggest fan in Japan.
***Don't think I'm oblivious to the fact that I'm far too old to have a 'Floyd poster in my kitchen.

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?