"Happy Trees" and a Shit-Load of Boats

I just got back from a field trip with my parents to The Art Institute of Chicago to see an Edward Hopper/Winslow Homer exhibit. I have a whole new respect for Hopper because he liked chesty women, cold couples who were indifferent to one another, and he seemed to be a bit of a peeping tom. As for Homer, that guy just really, really liked boats. I was talking about that with Niner, who said the guy must have gotten up in the morning and said, "I'm going to paint me some boats today," and paint boats he did. Lots of 'um. I shot through those boat pictures like crap through a goose, but there were people stopping to study each and every one. I just don't get that . . .


Your turn, seven readers: Do you guys like art? I seem to only like the ones where the people depicted tell a little story, or it allows me to make one up, usually one with espionage and/or kinky shit. A little kinked-out espionage never hurt anybody. I just don't dig on the bowl of fruit or landscape paitings, unless the "happy trees" are being painted by the guy on TV with the white-man afro.

I stopped to get gas today, and the guy behind the counter was reading Playboy Magazine. I didn't see the cover, but I recognized the usual, full page cartoon depicting Santa Clause getting laid. The girls in the Playboy cartoons all want to do Santa's fat ass. This I've always known, and I accept it. What's new to me are gas station attendants "reading" Playboy at 8:30 in the morning.

Is this okay?

6 Cheeses? Uh, Surely You Jest, You Nimrod!

So, Gancer Girlfriend and I are watching a commercial, and a pizza joint is boasting a 6 Cheese Pizza. I tell her there's no way in hell there are 6 cheeses on there, cause I can't even think of six cheeses that would be good on a pizza. Naming off a few, I ended up at Gouda, and who in the heck wants Gouda on their pizza? We looked it up online, give us a break, there was nothing else to do on a Sunday afternoon, and sure enough, there are, in fact, six gosh damn cheeses upon that pie: Mozzarella, Parmesan, Romano, Asiago, Provolone and Fontina. I then decided that the odds are slim to none that the people working there know what six cheeses adorn their over-cheesed pizzas. Gancer Girlfriend thought that the nimrod on the other end of the phone would know.

The bet begins . . .

Winner buys the Chinese food we would order with our next call, because we'd sooner order a six blends of pickle juice pizza. In fact, the image of that disgustingly cheesey concoction of crappola ruined the notion of pizza for us all together.

To determine the winner, a phone call was to be made to said pizza joint.

1. If the nimrod can't name the six cheeses, she buys.
2. If the nimrod can rattle off all six right away, I buy.
3. If the nimrod asks someone else or looks it up to get the answer, then we would go Dutch.

Here's how the phone call went:

Nimrod: (unenthusiastically) Such-and-Such pizza, can I help you?
Gancer: Yeah, quick question: What six cheeses are on your Six Cheese Pizza?
Nimrod: Uh, I don't know. (Long Pause).
Gancer: Well, I just need to know that real quick, and I'll let you get back to whatever it is you're doing that's more important.
Nimrod: Uh, hold on.
(Moments Later)
Nimrod: Uh (nimrods say "uh" a lot), Mozzarella, Parmesan, Romano, Ass-ee-ah-go (slowly sounding it out wrongly, like the profile faces on Electric Company), Provolone and Fone-tine-uh (again, Electric Company-Esque).
Gancey: Okay, partner. That's all I needed. Have yourself a wonderful day!

So, we went dutch on some Kung Pau chicken, Moo Shoo chicken, hot and sour soup, and a smoothie she ordered that tasted like a Pina Colada, which made me sing "Escape (The Pina Colada Song,)" which she only knows from Shrek, which made feel old, but not as old as I felt trying to describe that the Electric Company was like a Black Sesame Street, or that Morgan Freeman starred on it.

My Beloved Seven Readers, in your comment, after you're done telling me what a colossal dork I am for actually making this call, of course, tell me if you've ever heard of Fontina cheese.

PS: Get a load of that Pina Colada song video. He might be the least cool rocker I've ever seen from his Blue Blocker Sunglasses, to his tucked in Member's Only Jacket, to his khakis, and right down to his white sneakers, just to top it off. For that get-up alone, never mind his dance moves or general dorkiness, If he didn't have a hit record, he wouldn't be "makin' love at midnight," or any hour for that matter. Even with the hit record . . . Yikes.

The Lost Island of Misfit Blog Topics

Either I have the most crippling case of writers block of all time, or I'm just coming up with the worst ideas ever. I'm going to share some of these awful notions with you today, so I won't be tempted to ever use any of these.

1. I jokingly offered to be a sperm donor for a lesbian friend of mine, because I want a baby without a wife or responsibility. Actually, when you break it down, I'm a damn good surrogate father candidate. I'm tall, healthy, athletic-ish, and decent enough looking. I'm not smart, but my parents are, so there's a good chance my kid would be. I figure that I've produced loads, pun intended, and loads of sperm since the early to mid 1990's, and finally it's going to pay off. I could be the proud sort of father of a baby boy or girl, who I'll get to see every now and again, but I will not necessarily be obligated to love or support him/her financially. I just whack it, hand over the joy juice, they turkey baste it in there, or whatever, they do all the parenting, and I just keep doing what I've always done. Whacking it.


2. I got halfway through a piece about how much I love it when the Liquor Sample Lady is at the grocery store when it dawned on me that it was stupid, boring, and made me look like a booze hound. Seriously though, there's nothing like a snort off some fancy-schmantsy spirit you'll never buy to make shopping feel less like a chore and more like a bar. Why can't everything be a little bit more like the bar? Okay, so I am a booze hound. What's it to you?!?

3. My Hollywood buddy is working on the set of Boston Legal, and I asked that he update me on what Captain Kirk has for lunch every day. He seems to be a fan of the turkey chili and cornbread, if you must know. He also likes nailing green chicks from distant planets, which I find can work up an appetite.

4. More shit about my beloved nephews. My parents always have a bottle of oil and vinegar on the table for salads, and one nephew quite accurately pointed out that it looked like a "potion." His mother and I half convinced him that it was a shrinking potion. He tried some, and he's all, "See, it doesn't make me shrink." I told him, "It will kick in soon enough. You'll know it's working when it looks like we're all getting bigger." The fact that I get my jollies by screwing with a kindergartner's head is probably another reason my fatherly duties should remain strictly surrogate in nature.

5. This idea is actually quite good, but I decided it's a little mean and maybe a little evil. I was skipping through completely random blogs, planning to publicly make fun of a particularly stupid one on my blog. How caddy, right? The blog that was most likely to get ripped was one run by a couple, and dedicated to counting down the days until their upcoming wedding in Napa Valley. There are only a few posts so far, and they all suck. Their profile picture is the two of them and their dog. There's nothing worse than when you get a Christmas card from a couple and they're cuddled up with their stupid dog. I'm going to send out a card with a photo of me and my mailman just to throw people off. Anyway, I get the sense that when this couple's fabulous, scenic, Napa wedding is in the books, they'll be like, "Okay, now what." With any luck they'll have a new blog counting down the days until their divorce. Now that would make for some good reading. I hope it rains on their wedding day and the grapes in the wine go bad, giving the wedding party and all the guests the worst case of the green apple quickies they've ever experienced.

Sometimes, All I Need Is Imaginary Ice Cream and to Love You.

When you were young, did you ever lay your big wheel* or bicycle, preferably big wheel, on its side, spin one of the wheels around using the pedal, and tell a friend that the ice cream store was open for business, or some shit?

I thought this was just something we did on our block, maybe due to all the led paint we ingested, but I came to find out people from other suburbs of Chicago and surrounding Midwestern cities also ran imaginary ice cream shops. Then, just today, I was IM'ing with SO@24 and Laughing Through My Chardonay, and they were both proprietors of big wheel ice cream joints in parts of California and Kansas, or wherever Chardsy is originally from.

This blew my mind, because the whole game is just a dumb concept. What does a spinning plastic wheel have to do with ice cream? Every 31 Flavors I've been to has a long, but not at all round, counter where people select the flavor on the other side of the glass that they want on top of their cone, bubblegum perhaps.** I know not of spinning wheels of flavors, do you? Who was the cool kid on the block who started doing this, and how did it take off nationwide? If I recall, it was not a game I'd play long, as it would usually play out something like this.

Neighbor: Around it goes . . . and you get . . . Mint Chocolate Chip!
A Young Dr. Ken: Uh, great. This is dumb. Let's go dine on some delicious paint chips.

The game's tendency to be over soon after it starts is kind of like when you grabbed a dandelion and said, "Momma had a baby and her head popped off," as you "popped" the flowery part of the weed off with your thumb. Once the head popped off, you were off to find another baby or do something else, perhaps something a little less sick and twisted. I mean, come on, popping baby heads off? I really shouldn't make off like I wasn't a little twisted too, since a neighbor and I used to play Lightning Bug Home Run Derby with those fat, red wiffle ball bats. Those poor little guys just kept lighting up and giving away their position. They didn't stand a chance against Ryne Sandberg and Jody Davis***. At least nobody got hurt at the ice cream parlor. Not mine, anyway.

I poked around the Internet a little on this matter, and it is speculated that grabbing that big wheel pedal and turning it is to signify cranking an old fashioned ice cream maker. Others believe the spinning wheel of flavors is an homage to some shop in San Francisco that had a wheel customers could spin, and on it were the titles of fifty flavors available daily. If you ask me, even if one or both of these facts are true, it still doesn't explain how something so darned stupid made its way across the country.

Readers, please tell me in your comments if you did or did not play the Big Wheel Ice Cream Parlor Game. Also, for extra credit, drive your bike to work, get down on the floor with it, spin the wheel, and say, "Ice cream! Get your ice cream here . . ." See who laughs, who gets nostalgic, who looks at you like you're nuttier than squirrel poop, who fires you on the spot, and let me know that too.


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* I was thinking that someone should come out with Big Wheels for adults, but instead of in the style of A Team, Transformers, or G.I. Joe, have them decorated for Grey's Anatomy, The English Patient, Brokeback Mountain, or whatever else adults watch.

** I remember getting bubble gum ice cream and thinking it was so cool, even though the frozen, hardened collection of gum bits I had accumulated were giving me lock jaw. My parents would always say how gross and stupid it was, and now, as an adult, I see the light.

*** He and I are still Cub fans, and those are still our favorite players of all time. I can't speak for him, but for me it has to be the Lightning Bug Home run Derby connection. Jody was a lifetime .245 hitter, so how else do you explain how this scrub remains so near and dear to my heart?

Groomsmen or Boozemen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chick Songs: A Little Help From My Readers?

I'm working on a list for an online publication, and I need your help. I'm short one song, since you'll see that I make a joke about a certain band with swishy twins, long blond hair, and a famous father. Although I'm keeping the joke in no matter what, I'd love some input from my readers, who are the muthafuckin' shit, no two ways about it. Here is the rough cut:

Top 10 Songs Sung by Women in the Rock Era:

To clarify what the “Rock Era” means, there will be no Etta James, Billie Holiday, or Patsy Cline; basically, the list contains the most moving, powerful songs with female vocalists from 1960’s to the present, according to males here at Name of Publication Here.

10. Nothing Compares to You by Sinead O'Conner
Written by Prince, but knocked out of the park by Sinead O’Conner, this song was everywhere in 1990, and deservedly so. The video’s image is almost entirely a passionate, bald woman singing directly into the camera, and because the song and the performance are so strong, it manages to be highly effective. Indeed, just singing the song, she mustered up some real tears for everyone to see on their MTV.


9. Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin
Although written by Roger Miller and Chris Kristofferson, an on again off again lover of Janis’, it was based partly on her, and while sang by many others, it was performed most memorably by Janis herself.


8. Fade Into You by Mazzy Star
Fade Into You is a wonderfully melancholy song that you can just zone out to; it literally fades right into you.


7. Heart of Glass by Blondie
This is a funky song that makes you want to dance, but when you stop doing the hustle for a moment and listen, it’s also impressive musically and lyrically.


6. Love and Affection by Nelson. Great song, and those chicks are hot! Wait, this just in: They aren’t chicks. Moving on . . .


5. Crazy On You by Heart
Heart had two amazing artists in the Wilson sisters, Nancy on guitar and Ann on vocals, and both of their talents are showcased perfectly on Crazy on You. It’s a sexy song too, but it’s hard to tell if that’s just since seeing The Virgin Suicides*. After that kiss, Josh Hartnett is left thinking “What the hell was that,” he reaches out for her, she’s gone, and he’s left never so turned on in his life and her gum in his mouth. The song adds an amazing intensity to the scene, but it’s plenty exiting on its own.


4. Doll Parts by Hole: There are rumors that Kurt Cobain and/or Billy Corgan wrote all of Courtney Love’s songs, much like the rumors of Truman Capote writing To Kill a Mocking Bird. Is it possible that a female artist simply hanging out with a talented male artist is enough for people to jump to the conclusion that the male must have written her work? If there’s no truth to it, then it’s a sad state of affairs that these assumptions were made. Any way you slice it, this is a rocking song, and Courtney downright nails it at the end when she belts it out, like only her crazy ass can. The guy that one was written about must be thinking, “Man, I hope that some day I don’t ache like she aches, cause she sounds like she’s feeling downright miserable.”


3. Fast Car by Tracy Chapman
This is one of the saddest songs ever, or is it? It sounds at first like it’s a somewhat happy song about a woman running away with someone, perhaps a lover, to escape her lousy life in the lover’s “fast car,” but after repeated listens, it becomes evident that they merely started up a new, crappy life somewhere else. Now she just longs for that exiting day when she first fled, blind to the knowledge of the fact that the getting away wouldn’t make her life any better. Ouch!


2. Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac:
It’s a heavy, dark song that sounds positively evil, yet so subdued, and Stevie Nick’s vocal is raspy, sexy, mysterious, and perfect. "Take your silver spoon and dig your grave” is a great line that, quite obviously, alludes to Stevie Nick’s drug abuse, that would only get worse in the years following Rumors, the band’s break-out success and the album that contains Gold Dust Woman, as its final, haunting track.


1. Feel Like a Natural Woman by Carole King
No one would dispute the fact that Aretha Franklin is technically a better singer than Ms. King, but in this case, the version sang by the woman who wrote it is more powerful and moving. Carole doesn’t need the vocal range of the Lady of Soul when there’s that much emotion behind that voice of hers.

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?

________________

*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?