Summer in Chicago: Thanks for the Swass, I Mean the Memories

It's like a million degrees in Chicago today. It's the kind of weather where you're just saturated in sweat, and you can't shake it. So, I must love my seven readers to sit my swassy* ass down and blog, when all I really want to do is dump Popsicles into my shorts and rub Fla-Vor-Ices (TM)** on my nips.

Irish Kids: My summer job means a new crop of Irish kids working with us. Those kids are a lot of fun. Too much fun. Whenever I'm a train wreck the next day, all I have to say to someone is, "Freeking Irish kids." My plan this summer is to not get to know any of them. In fact, I won't even look any of them in the eye or speak to any of them directly unless I absolutely have to. Stay away from me with your demon rum, you pasty devils . . .

Dog Person?: The lady wanted to get one more drink after we had already had a couple of bottles of wine at dinner. I didn't think it was too good of an idea, but then I drove by the biggest shit hole bar you ever saw. I'm a sucker for a dump bar, and this one was right up my alley. We walk in the place, it's quiet, and there's literally no customers. We got talking to Boyd, the charming bartender with a Southern accent who looked to be around 60-years-old, and out of nowhere, Gancer's Lady says to Boyd, "You look like a dog person." To which he says, "Well, I don't have a dog. I don't like them all that much, but I guess if I'm a dog or a cat person, then I guess I'm a dog person." I nearly fell off my stool when she asked him that, and then it was even funnier when he responded that way. Guess you had to be there . . .

The Chicago Cubs Have not won a World Series since 1908. Right Now, in 2008, the Cubs Are the Best Team in Baseball: Yes, if you do the math, if we don't win it all this year, it will officially be over 100 years since we did. I went to the game last night, and we really look like a major league ball club. Today we*** got a home run to tie it in the bottom of the ninth, and then got hit by a pitch for the win. These guys are finding ways to win every day and everyone is contributing, which is what you see from teams that . . . Let's just move on before I fuck it up.

Consider That Azz Backed Up: As I crank up the old iPod in my car the other day, I was really excited to get out of work; So excited that it didn't dawn on me that Back That Azz Up by Juvenile would not be a good song to play when you're parked by a school with a bunch of kindergarten through eighth graders walking home with their book bags. God willing, they didn't hear any of these lines, or what's worse, hear that I knew the words:

You got a stupid ass yeah, make me laugh yeah
Make a nigga wanna grab that, autograph that
I'm sweatin in the drawers yeah, hard and long yeah
Wanna walk it like a dog yeah, break you off yeah




That's quite a stanza, but how about this?:

Them titties sittin nice yeah, I wanna bite yeah
I could fuck you right yeah, all night yeah
Wanna bring it to my house yeah, on the couch yeah
Knock the pussy out yeah, get them out yeah
I wanna see these hoes yeah, bend it low yeah
Let me run it in the hole yeah, and let me know yeah

I felt like an idiot thinking that some kids might have caught my white ass playing that, but I was laughing when he said that "run it in the hole" line. Shit, I'm laughing now.

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* The definition we're looking for is NOT the one credited to Sir Mix-A-Lot

** You might call them Otter Pops (TM) if you grew up in certain areas, but either way, they're nice on the nips on a day like today.

*** I know that we didn't do anything, but that's just the way that we talk about our beloved Cubbies out here, so deal with it.

Kids Say the Deuchiest Things

I'm getting into full swing of my summer job, which sometimes means partying with people way younger than myself. Actually, the party I went to last night was at the same house as the party in a previous post.

I was making some observations while positioned on a balcony where, for whatever reason, very few guests ventured. This amounted to box seats for watching deuches in their natural habitat, and they came out in all variations . . .

Hula Deuche: There was a girl spinning a glowing hula hoop around with her whole body, using a slithering motion. All right, actually, that was more cool and sexy than it was deuchie. She got a golf clap from The Gancer.

Mouse Trap Deuche: A guy came storming out onto the balcony to ask for a "small rubber band" to jerry-rig a portion of the game Mouse Trap. I'm sure he was in college, but he looked 14. In his hastiness, he hadn't noticed that he locked himself out, but the rubber band was his chief concern. I felt like calling his parents to tell them that it looks as if their son has got into some heavy drugs, he's slipped into a Milton Bradley induced dementia, and his deuche baggery has reached alarming levels.

Deuchie Host: Actually, she's a good kid. I saw a big drum and asked if it was some sort of jungle juice. She told me that it had been numerous gallons of "pink pantie droppers," but it was now reduced to a few boozy pieces of fruit. Beer was scarce at the party too, but I was happy to celebrate her birthday, in spite of that and her suck-hole friends.

Deuche of the White Rhino Variety: He was a trendy black dude with a headband and, I'll say it, pretty eyes, and he looked a little like Lenny Kravitz, another big time D. Bag. He had me pinned into a corner of the kitchen, and he was going on and on and on and on and on about how pot will be legalized in the next ten to fifteen years, because of something or other about the government - perhaps based on something he had heard in his poli-sci class earlier that week. I then heard him throwing out some prices for some of his products. $50 for a bag of very "dank" pot and $65 for white rhino, or something like that. I'm so out of it when it comes to pot. I think he became aware of that when I said that I wouldn't mind seeing "dope" (I actually used that word) legalized, but I just can't picture it. Like, you walk into a liquor store and say, "I'll take a sixer of bud and some white rhino dope." He said something like, "Why do you call it dope? That implies anyone who smokes it is a dope." I would never imply anything like that, although, this guy certainly was.

My point is that kids are so sucky these days. Just to the right of the hula hoop girl, there was a hippy drum circle, and I think I saw a sitar. A sitar! Maybe kids have always sucked, but I just wish they weren't so trendy, and would just be themselves. I talked with one real cool kid for quite some time, who was celebrating not getting fired from his fish aquarium job (his "weed money job"), but other than him and maybe one other guy, it was a backyard full schmucks.

If I ever have kids some day, I'll be sure to tell my son, "At the first sign that you are becoming a d. bag, I'm punching you in the crotch. If that doesn't work, you're off to military school. If that doesn't take the deuche out of you, then I'm taking away your sitar.

Ninja Rap and Useless Crap

1. The chorus of Humpin' Around by Bobby Brown sounds exactly like the guitar riff from Dancing Days by Led Zeppelin. I'm not sure if I would have noticed it, but there was a Zep. tribute album out at around the time with a version of Dancing Days by Stone Temple Pilots. I think Bobby should have given the the Zeps full credit, got Jimmy Page to play the guitar, and just called the thing Humpin' Days.


Speaking of Bobby Brown, and I often do, I just saw the video of On Our Own, his contribution to the Ghostbusters 2 soundtrack. It's a pretty bumping song, but why the rap in the middle with awful lyrics about the awful movie? "Grabbed their proton backs on their backs, and they split?" Another bad movie rap around that time came when Vanilla Ice lent a hand to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze soundtrack with Ninja Rap*, complete with an oh-so-stupid chorus of "Go, ninja! Go!" The shit literally "oozed" off that record. MC Hammer cut an equally moronic record called Addams Family Groove, which was anything but "proper."**


You know some rich white guy came up with the idea to make these songs, thinking the kids would think it was cool, but no kid over the age of 8 should have thought any of those songs were cool. Furthermore, none of these artists should have performed them if they had any notion of self-respect. You'd never see NWA doing a Little Mermaid Rap. "Go, Mermaid. Go, Mermaid. Go, Mermaid. Go! Go land yourself a prince without the benefit of your voice, beeyotch! Hans Christian Anderson up in this muthafucka!"

2. I was talking to an African American fifth grader who, in private, informed me that there is a staff member (not this one) who "always be pushin' up on the ladies." That's my new favorite phrase, and I plan on saying it 13 times this weekend alone.

3. When I feel miserable, everything I write about seems so pointless. Even more so than usual.

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*I left the Youtube of Ninja Rap going during a mellow track by Travis, and it was real interesting. I smell a collaboration! Mellow, mellow, RAP!

**That was for my main-liar Cherry.

Something occurred to me yesterday as a hairy guy rubbed my back . . .

. . . and that is this: Once you zone out, the sex of the masseuse does not matter. Sure, the first few minutes of a dude lathering me up in lotion was a little off putting. Yes, when he'd really dig into my pressure points, he'd let out a heavy breath, and that was a little gross. However, he let me bring a CD, so by track three of Radiohead's The Bends, I was in my own little world.

I should explain. This was my Polish immigrant landlord giving me a rub down. Just kidding. Actually, it was a complimentary massage I got after my last session of physical therapy for my pinkie.

So, what else is going on with The Gancer besides deep tissue, homoerotic massages?

1. I'm teaching again, and loving it again.
2. I'm still trying to write whenever I can. I'm really pleased with how my Goofy Rock Names piece came out.
3. This summer I'm going to try to ride my bike and play volleyball* for more hours than I drink.
4. I've been dating the same gal for almost half a year.
5. I went to the Liar's Club last night. The Naked Guy was there, and I really wanted some friends, who were first-timers, to see him flop around for a bit. To get him to do the naked dance, one needs to request his song. It wasn't looking good, because there was some guest DJ who only played techno shit. I tried to put in a request with him, but he pretended not to notice me while he fiddled with his knobs and played shit song after shit song. My buddy said the music sounded like it was made by a robot who had to go to rehab for being a sucky robot. I said to Naked Guy, "Hey, Naked Guy. You going to get good and naked this evening?" To which he replied, "I don't think they have a techno version of my song," his song being It's Getting Hot in Herre by Nelly. Alas, there would be no nakedness.

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*I had to offset the other picture with this one, so everyone can enjoy a butt, except Morrissey, who's asexual, but he doesn't read anymore. The picture reminds me of an Asian Indian gal who was always in the same league that my buddy, HLP, and I played in. When she'd get ready to return opposing serves, she'd bend over, and her rear end would pop up ever so slightly. HLP would say, "she's presenting." I swear we weren't perving on her, much, because everyone would notice this, boys and girls alike.

I've always thought I could write snappy dialog, but I'm not good at formulating a story. Here's a random chunk of dialog I wrote, for which I have no story. Hope you enjoy it.

Scene: The protagonist is out at the bar, horribly drunk. He walks into the bathroom and saddles up at the only available urinal. The man to his left, the only guy in the bar who may be drunker than him, swaying as he pees, pisses slightly outside the allotted space of his urinal. The two have a conversation while they pee, looking straight ahead at the wall behind their respective urinals

Protagonist: Wow, watch where you're pissing there, Foster Brooks.

Stranger In the Men's Room: Who the fuck are you calling Foster Brooks? And just who in the hell is Foster Brooks?

Protagonist: He's the stereotypically drunk guy from the Dean Martin Show, but I wouldn't expect a popped collar beat-off like yourself to know that.

SMR: The Dean Martin Show? Sorry I didn't pick up on your old-ass, old man reference, old man. Fucking old guy at the bar talking the shit and shit. You got the puniest dick I ever saw too.

Protagonist: (never breaking his stare from the tile wall ahead of him) One, why in the hell are you looking at my penis?

Two, I'm a grower not a shower.*

Three I guess sort of relates to one, but didn't anyone ever tell you that you never look anywhere but straight ahead when you're pissing next to someone in the bathroom, whether that person be your father, uncle, step father, long-lost brother, Michael Landon, or a complete stroke with his collar popped, like yourself?

Four, why in the hell are you looking at my penis?

SMR: (laughing and still swaying) Dude, that didn't make any sense. You're all over the place with those numbers and your old man lecturing.

P: You're all over the place with your piss. That's a rule you should have learned way before the Look Dead Ahead at All Times rule, but since you failed that one so horribly, it shouldn't come as a surprise that you never learned the most simple of all urinal rules: Get all your gosh damn pee into the cotton-pickin', fuckin' urinal!

SMR: (shaking his thing and putting it away) I'll piss wherever I please. You plan on doing something about it, old guy at the bar?

Protagonist: (also finishing up, now turning towards SMR) For starters, me and my little peen can give you the mushroom stamp** of a lifetime on that Cro-Magnon five head*** of yours. Not even one of the skanks in this joint could be wooed back to your apartment when you're wearing that little seal of approval.

SMR: You ain't stampin' nothin'. Now, why don't you get back to your seven and seven, or whatever it is you old guys drink.

(The protagonist laughs to his side, and then tries to get in a sucker punch. He misses, but SMR does not, since although piss drunk, he's bigger, stronger, younger, and been in more fights. He hits Protagonist dead in the face, knocking him back into the stall door, and his ass falls down to the piss soaked floor.)

SMR: (Primping himself on the way out the door) I'll take a rain check on that stamp.

Protagonist: (Wiping blood off his lip) Hey, consider that an open invitation, Foster Brooks.

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* Here's a link to that definition.

** Here's a link to a definition of the mushroom stamp.

*** Here's yet another link to the definition of five head. Urban Dictionary should be paying me to link all these. I just got those sick fucks 12 more readers!

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Foster Brooks:

The first thing I noticed as the lone white guy at a Black funeral was

. . . that the family all wears white. Some of the suits were kind of cool, like the little seventh grader's, who was the only person in attendance who I knew, while others were more of the pimp-daddy variety. I was picturing a wake situation, where I come in, say who I am, I'm sorry for their loss, shake a few hands, fake like I know how to give a prayer, and be on my way. Instead, everyone was seated, the family was all spread out, so I was standing on the side waiting for a window when a good amount of family members were by the casket. It was then that a woman approached me and asked me to be seated because they would be "beginning" soon. I told her I was all right, but she still yelled at one of the white-suited youths to fetch some more chairs. I remained standing, looking for that window, when the same woman approached me, motioned for me to follow her, and sat me in one of the chairs lined up along the aisles. I'm very pleased to know that this many people came to honor her, but I'd be lying if I said that the aisle seat didn't make me, being the only white guy there, stand out even more.

The aforementioned seventh-grader is one of my students. He lost his mother, who is really his aunt, but she's been raising him as his legal guardian since he was eight months old. I gave him a hug when I saw him, and he asked me if Miss So-And-So "and all them" were there. I said I hadn't seen them, but that I'd keep an eye out for them. I actually could say with certainty that they weren't there, because I would have seen them due to their whiteness. I just didn't have the heart to tell him, nor did I think it appropriate to point out just how easy it would have been for him to tell if they were in attendance.

A preacher dude, who was one helluva public speaker, came out to give the introduction, getting it off to a most rocking start, with the organist and drummer punctuating certain key phrases with bombastic flourishes. I really didn't know much about this kid's mother, and I wouldn't really know much more about her until four or five rocking songs into the night. With the funk based guitar and danceable beat, I'd liken this overqualified church band to hey-day, George Clinton's Funkadelic, the more rock oriented counterpart to his more famous Parliament. One particularly rousing number had the melody of Wilson Picket's Land of 1,000 dances with the Na-Na-Na's replaced with "I got a prayer" over-and-over. It was slammin'. Moments later, three of the deceased's sisters got up to the stage to say a few words, but before long they were breaking into song, which I thought odd at first, but then I just couldn't help but be amazed that they were singing it a cappella and very well.

As strange as it sounds to tell you, this funeral was right up my alley, but even with a band as tight as Funkadelic and a pastor as excitable as James Brown was in the church scene of The Blues Brothers*, I still didn't feel compelled to dance down the aisles like some of the folks there. Don't get me wrong. I don't think that they are in the wrong for handling the affair in any way they see fit. Hell, if a toga party helps people get through a tough time, I say pull off those bed sheets, turn on Louie Louie by The Kingsmen, and grab a hold of a bottle of Jack. It's just that I'm not used to that type of funeral, and I didn't feel it right for the rogue white guy no one knew to dance up and down the aisles. Plus, although I did crack a smile a few times watching little kids dance, I was really, really bummed about this poor kid losing his mom. However, as I bobbed my head and allowed the music and the vibes of the room to soak in, I began to feel really, really good, somehow. I may find myself on the west side of Chicago next Sunday for a 5:00 mass. Fuck it.

Maybe all the stuffy white funerals I've been to over the years have it all wrong. Maybe the next funeral I go to I'll put on a pimp suit and turn that mutha' out. Maybe not, but after this experience, I'll certainly be more open to new and interesting ways to approaching the grieving process.

What's the most interesting funeral you've ever been to, be it as a result of the culture of the family or just one that was noteworthy in general.

*As I watched the sermon at the church, I couldn't help but think of that scene in Blues Brothers, and it occurred to me that it really wasn't that far off from the real thing, only without the people doing flips.

Breakin' Up Is Hard To Do

How long does a couple have to be broken up for it to be counted as a break up? I would argue that if it is patched up within 24 hours, then it doesn't count. What do you think?

Kisses To My Favorite Bar

My latest post is at The Liars Club, a Chicago based blog that myself and a few other bloggers contribute towards. Please come by, because readership over there is poor, mostly due to inconsistent posting by all four members, who seem to have drinking, bunsen burners, baseball, and DJ Major Dad, respectively, as their priorities.

The Liar's Club got its name from the best bar in Chicago. It is a watering hole that will always hold a special place in my heart, as well as my liver. I haven't been there in a while, mostly because I've been dating someone seriously for the past four months and so has the Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP)*. It just isn't a good place to take the lady for a cocktail, and it doesn't work as a guys with girlfriends' night out spot, because the music is cranked to such a deafening level, that you can't converse, catch up, etc.** The one time I did bring my girlfriend in there, I almost said to one staff member, pointing to the girlfriend, "This is why you guys haven't been seeing me around lately."

Here's one more bazaar tidbit that speaks to my love affair with that bar: Every time I drive by it, if I happen to get off at the Fullerton exit when the Armitage one is backed up, I do the thing Sammy Sosa did after catching fly balls, kissing two fingers, touching them to my chest, and pointing towards the dirty, LC facade.

span style="font-weight:bold;">*The other day, HLP said to me, "Imagine if just one of us were dating someone for this long? How miserable would that other guy be?" We both had a laugh, because, sadly, it's true.
**If the bar doesn't work well in either of these functions, then I guess you can sort of fill in the blanks as to what capacity it did function for us, and don't say for wooing each other, because I acknowledge that it sort of reads like that.

"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?

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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?