(Originally written 7/22/8)
Aw right, I’ve had parts of Vacation posts rattling about in my head for weeks now. I’ve tried to work them out where they can be good, funny posts. But alas, after weeks of half baked ideas, they have just turned out to be just that; half assed. I have just run out of steam. And I know the Vacation posts have been long (fucking 10 pages about vacationing with kids!?) and maybe not as funny as you and me would like. I guess they were more just to write to convey about what I was seeing and feeling. So if they were too self indulgent or not funny or a waste of your time, I do apologize. I know we’re all here just to laugh.
Instead of trying to belabor these Vacation posts, I’ve decided just to blow them out as it were. They’re not good enough for an entire post, but maybe good enough just to toss in. Plus it wraps these posts up, and allows me to get onto to other (hopefully funnier) posts. So here we go, in random variety order…
Why do kids love to dig at the beach? It’s like they become solely focused on just digging as much as they can. I doubt these kids just shovel up the lawn for shits and giggles at home, so why does it become an obsession at the shore? As I walked and ran on the beach, I saw dozens of little rugrats digging like their life depended on it. And the parents are getting into it as well. I saw many real shovels as well. Yea, like the kind you can buy at Home Depot. Shit, these parents come prepared these days. Not only do you have to throw everything in the car, now you have to bring your own landscaping tools.
There’s a new beach game I saw sprout up this year. There are what look like 2 drying racks. And you have 2 balls tied together. The rack has 3 rungs, and I guess you score more depending where the balls land. To me, it looked like you were throwing testicles. I saw a lotta people doing that. But I would have a hard time throwing what look like bull testicles at the beach.
4th of July on the beach was way cool. We decided to stay at the house and watch from there. Apparently, police were handing out flyers saying anyone caught setting off fireworks on the beach would be fined like $1000. So you just knew, as the real fireworks started going off, so did the “illegal” ones on the beach. Up north, fireworks would go off, and you see 2 cops on ATVs race up the beach. As soon as they got up there, “illegal” fireworks went off further down south. Sure enough, there’s the 2 lights now racing down the beach. This just went on and on, and for some reason just cracked me up. Hell, if I was the beach cops, I wouldn’t be busting my ass to catch these firework crooks. Regardless, it was cool to see fireworks lighting up the ocean. Remember how I was busting on the papa-razzi at the amusement park? You should see me totally tooling out and trying to take pictures of fireworks. I think I ended up taking like 30, 25 of which were pretty much shit. I blame the beer.
While walking by myself on the beach, I had an odd experience. There I was, immersed in my SummerSongs and everything that is the beach, staring out at the ocean and the seeming edge of the world. I found myself just really inspired to write. Maybe about what I was seeing, what I was doing, but I wasn’t just mindlessly “being” at the beach; I found myself really wanting to do something else. I noted it as some kind of sign, something that I should actively pursue. You can see I got a ton of stuff from the vacation to write about (and OK, not all of it was great or funny), and maybe I should be a bit more passionate about it. I have been low on passion for months now.
I guess you can kinda add this to the Vacationing With Kids post. So kinda add this to that, yo. They were checking beach tags on the beach (duh) and all ours were already at the beach. So it was pretty much me, my mother in law and my brother in law. My BIL was in and out, so at the time it was pretty much just me on the main floor with the main TV. The main TV that has On Demand. Newsflash; I am poor and don’t have this service at mi casa. So it took me a while to figger out. I got to the free movies section. Seeing as how all was calm, I went to the horror section. I quickly came across Hostel. I heard good things about this flick, and it’s supposed to be gritty and gory. Again, seeing as how all the kids were gone, and it was a few straggler adults, I felt empowered. It was the most violent, adult thing I could find. So I put the SOB on. I looked to the deck to see my mother in law firmly immersed in…well, whatever the fuck. The point is that she was immersed, and the coast was clear.
Fuck the luck. I get about 10 minutes in. The movie is not gory yet at all. However, we are at a point where the one guy (which is what you always call the secondary male character at this point in most movies) is going through his camera phone showing all kinds of naked chicks. My Buffalo BIL is in silent agreement on the back about how much this movie rocks. Then, much like one of the 4 young girls, I hear the deck door slide open. Shit, my mother in law is coming in. Goddamn it. You have got to be kidding me. I am toast. Even pig headed as I am, I know there is no point to continue. In the vain hope that the possibility might still exist at some point in the fading 12 more hours, I manage to save the movie.
OK, so she’s mulling about, so I scroll through the movies again. I find the directors cut of the original Robocop. Great summertime, popcorn movie. I feel this is a decided compromise, so I put it on. Sure, for it’s time it was a bit gory, but it can’t hold up to current times, can it? My MIL sits in the easy chair next to my loafing ass in the couch. So the movie goes on for a bit, and I can see it will start to get violent soon. Red from That 70’s Show is looking to kill poor future Robocop guy. I recall from that time, that this scene is kinda violent. I ask my MIL “I think it’s gonna kinda get violent here. Is there something else you would like to watch? Perhaps some sort of judge show? They seem to be all the rage this point of the day.” She says no. Again, I feel the need to tell here that it will get bloody. “No, seriously, I think it’s gonna get ugly here. I don’t need to watch this. Is there something you would like to watch?”
“No,” she answers, “it won’t bother me. I will just close my eyes.” Fuck, if I had a nickel for every time her daughter told me that. OK, game on. No kids in sight, and I have basically pleaded with her not to watch. If she wants to, she better close here eyes for this next part. I can’t even look at her. It’s such a release to watch something that isn’t a ‘Wiggle’ or a ‘Jonas’ on the screen, I am enthralled. She seems not to be disturbed, so we keep going with the movie.
We get to the part where there are 2 hooligans (who kind of look like yours truly) and they get a hold of a girl. Robo gets on the scene. He wants to shoot, but hooligan #1 puts the damsel in distress right in front of him. Robocop scans the scene and sees a weakness. The girl has her skirted legs open, so he shoots through her legs. Right into the guys nuts. At this point, my MIL lets out a heretofore unheard of evil laugh.
It was so out of character. The whole time I was worried about offending her. And here we come to a scene where a guy gets shot in the nads, and she’s fucking laughing. It didn’t take me too much longer to shut the movie off. But not before saving it. So I still wonder if the next people who rent the house see the saved movies and think we were a bunch of sick fucks. Actually that would be kind of cool. I should have thought it out more, and saved the most sick movies I could find.
(Mood change) I still felt a bit shallow staying there. Here I am, at the place I love the most, and felt like it was a tease. Goddamn, one day, I would love for us to retire at the beach. Get a house that can see the sunrise or sunset. Hear the ocean. The dichotomy (there’s that word again) was I was at a place that one day I yearn to live, but for the last year have made very little moves to make that a reality. It’s like tasting the best rum ever, but just one sip, and who dafuck knows when you will ever get that chance again. It was such a tease. It was great to live that life for a week, but still a bit defeating.
(All right, I am going to wrap this shit up. BTW, I have been buzzogging the last half of this post.)
Irony again shines down upon me in the middle of the night. I need to dig up the Vacation 2007 posts to properly put this in perspective. So there I was. The 4th of July gave way to the 5th. It was raining pretty heavily on the beach. I guess it was 1 or 2 AM. Everyone else went to bed. There I was, last man standing on the last night I might ever be in Ocean City, NJ. A storm crashing all around me. Ironic because this is pretty much how I ended my last real vacation in OCMD.
In 2007 circumstances dictated we leave a day early, and it just crushed us. What I vividly recall from that Last Night on Earth was everyone went to bed. It was just me on the pier jutting into the bay. There was a storm rolling in from the north. It wasn’t raining. But I clearly recall seeing orange thunder rolling in against a dark blue sky. I remember the local a few houses up watching it roll in, too. Eventually, he went in-hell, he sees this shit all the time. But I stared, mesmerized. How so ironic, at a bonus week right on the beach, it’s just me. The beach, the rain. I am sure there is some sort of major message there, but fuck if I can figure it out. Maybe you can tell me.
(Sappy ending, then I can go to bed) All in all it was a good week. I learned some stuff about me; parts I knew, parts I didn’t. I learned that no matter how much chaos is awaiting me, the beach and ocean can always calm me down and fix me and make me better. I saw that it took 4 little girls to get me to the beach, and that’s the most time I’ve spent on the beach in years. I learned there is NOTHING BETTER FOR ME than time at the beach/bay. I learned T is just a big kid, too. I learned Mario & Liugi will always be special friends of mine. I learned I need to grow the fuck up in some areas. I got some truly killer pictures (which you can see as well). I felt that writing is probably something I should pursue a bit more. This trip reinforced how much I miss adult vacations with A&J and how much I miss them in general. I learned how fucking out of shape I am to run on the beach, but I can still drink like a fish. Music can also be so key and powerful; it really can be your own soundtrack to life. I missed Bauer more than I should. I know I wouldn’t trade those times with T on the beach for anything-they are my most cherished and vividly clear memories I have. I can see us flinging the lacrosse ball in the surf. I can see us kicking the ball and me silently hoping to not pull a Charlie Brown. I can see the sun in the sky. I can see us chasing the ball like a bunch of motards.
Awright, this wraps it up. Thank you so much for reading all this. And yes, I heave learned my lesson. You and I want to see more funny shit here. I agree. I think this gets all the sappiness out of me. I mean, let’s face it, who wants to see a happy Kevolution Theory? Happiness is boring. Bitterness is funny. So please come back soon to see all the vile. Peace out, mother fuckers.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Vacation Post: Tuesday Morning
(Originally written 7/14/8)
Tuesday morning/Never looked so good
I’m already in/In a daydream
It’s Tuesday morning. Monday we took and adult walk to chill us the fuck out. Tuesday morning we were going to split up. T had her own agenda, which is perfectly cool. Tuesday was my first day to do something I haven’t really done in almost a year; go for a run. Longtime readers-all 5 of you-might remember a post last year about me running in OCMD with my beloved SummerSongs remix on and how it affected me. Short version: running up to the boards, then walking back listening to these songs was a pretty powerful experience to me. Now, here is my second chance. Before we went down, I loaded some new surf albums (I highly recommend Aqualads) so I could have some new stuff. The boardwalk was like 20 blocks north, so I decided to run south. I also decided to run on the streets. Don’t ask why, I guess I hadn’t totally grasped the idea of actually running on the beach. Or to the boardwalk.
I slathered on the lotion, put the shades, hat and cue the SummerSongs on my iPod. Since it is a beautiful Tuesday morning, it gets me to search for this great song. It’s called “In a Daydream” by the Freddy Jones Band. I know you have never heard of it. It was on my player a few weeks back, and just for the sake of this post, I will put it back on. It’s a great song for such beautiful early mornings. It’s a great summer song, and it’s a great roadtrip song. And today is the perfect chance to put some summer imagery to it. I cue it up and head out.
I don’t like to run. I really can’t run to save my life. Outside of street hockey on Monday nights and the occasional bout of cardio in the gym, I don’t really do much. I like to ‘interval’; run a block walk a block. It’s actually better for your metabolism, and keeps me much more mentally into the activity. I walk 2 blocks, have In A Daydream in my ears. I am full of life and full of myself. My first interval will be two blocks. I feel that damn good.
Unfortunately, I also feel that outta shape. I am huffing and puffing like Artie Lange. I knew I was bad, but not this bad. OK, minor setback. Back to one block intervals. OK, not so bad, and it does feel good to be doing something physical. Not like I am drinking that much, but that tubfull of cheeseballs sure is disappearing quick.
On my way, I pass some people. And they are not as friendly as you would think. I have noticed with most ‘shorefolk’, they tend to be happy. Doesn’t matter if they are the locals or vacationers. People just seem to act better near the ocean. Or maybe it’s because I look like I am running while suffering some kind of seizure. Or maybe because on the blocks I walk, I am breathing heavy. It looks like I am just on a stroll and breathing heavy. (Part of me really wonders if I am breathing in nasty shit from the j*b.)
I keep intervalling. I notice a lot of these houses look relatively new. A lot of them are truly sweet; multi-million dollar homes. Not just multi-million dollar homes based on location, but also the value of the damn house itself. 2-3 decks. Monstrous rooms. Intricate window work. All kinds of hardscaping going on. It all looks really nice; I mean don’t get me wrong. These houses are fucking sweet. I would love to have one of these houses just for my real house, let alone vacation property. But something about all this bothers me. None of these houses look really –“beachy”. Again, I would take one of these houses in a heartbeat, but if you look at most of them, they just don’t really cry “beach”.
It’s all a little bit haughty-taughty for me. It almost looks like I am running in a gated community. Every once in a while, I expect a tap on the shoulder from some rent a cop asking me , “Uh, excuse me, but just how the hell did you get in here?” Every once in a while, I do pass a true blue beach house. Yea, it’s a bit older, not as monstrous, but if you saw a picture, it would scream “beach”. (And if you are the type to hear screaming from pictures, please keep that to yourself.) I’m not going to try to describe this much more, but I will just leave it with the ever vague clichés of “you know what I am talking about” and “you know what I mean”.
I guess I am just used to beach houses being a bit smaller. Most of the shacks I have rented haven’t been gihugic spaces, but they were more than adequate; and we had a blast there nonetheless. But I guess they are slowly on the way out. I don’t know, I guess kids today will see these newer, bigger and far more expensive houses and think, “yea, that’s a real beach house.”
The sun is shinin’/It’s here to wake me up
No one around/Just me and the sky
The sky is cloudless, and even though this isn’t the beach, it’s still pretty calm. I pass some people on their porch, just eating breakfast or reading the paper. Occasionally, I do pass a dog, which makes me miss Bauer terribly. I try to pet as many as I can. A lot of people down here aren’t dog friendly. A lot of yards have various cute signs asking owners to curb their dog somewhere else. Others have wood figures of a dog; some of them even have a poop coming out. They either say NO or have the circle with the line running through it. Now if I was a dog, and I saw what I thought to be another pooch cutting a deuce on a lawn, I would take that as a cue to cut one right there. If you really wanna keep a dog off of your lawn, have a big cut out of Michael Vick.
It’s their right, too. A lot of yards are meticulously kept. Edged, watered, the whole deal. I get the point, because it can’t be easy growing grass on sandy soil. Flags are a big thing, too. Lots of American flags (July 4th is 3 days away.) I also see a trend of a lot of college flags. Not just your obvious ones, but loser schools like ‘Philadelphia University’, ‘James Madison’, ‘Rutgers’, etc. Any of you guys heard of these schools? Sound like party schools to me.
I interval about 30 blocks, then start my stroll back up. There is no better feeling than not having to rush. There’s only 4 screaming little girls waiting, so why hurry. I drink in the scene; sky, houses, flags, porches and decks. It’s not the ocean, but I will associate these sights with the music in my iPod. It’s funny, I wasn’t feeling terribly active to start, but as it wore on, I felt more energized. I came back ready to go to the beach, and do some running around there, too.
The next morning, I didn’t quite fell like going for another run (cough, wuss,cough) Instead, I decided to go for a walk north. Going at a slower pace, these new-fangled houses just seemed bigger. As I kept going up, I saw the boardwalk was starting up, do it was a no-brainer to go there. Wow, just wow. I can still vividly remember going to where the boards start, and just looking out to the ocean, with the sun reflecting off of it.
I’m already in/In a daydream
The sky is callin’/It’s callin’ out my name
Telling me to stay/Stay, don’t go away
Now this part of the Bwalk is narrow, very narrow. Like dangerously narrow. Bikers are whizzing by like Lance Armstrong. Runners are cutting their way through the show moving crowd of people like me. Yea, I see no need to run now. I have the sweet ocean to my right, and soon enough, this week will have gone by. Why rush it? Still, all this fast movement is annoying. Here I am trying to stay out of the way, only to get bumped by some runner, and the bikers are so close, I can fell the air coming off of them.
I kinda worry, ‘cause some of these bikes are of the 2 man variety. So here are people that usually don’t ride bikes, let alone the 2 mans, whizzing through the walkers and the elderly, and the elderly using walkers. It got so bad, I saw some motard with their young daughter on the back of the bike. This kid was young enough that she should have been in a baby seat. But, no, SuperParent already made the decision that precious little Madison or Haley or whoever the fuck should be able to ride on the back. Even though her feet didn’t reach the pedals. But she did look so precious in the 3 dollar bike helmet.
So I watch as these 2 zoom by me. I watch as the dad slides all the way over, and even bounces off a bench. He has a yellow Live Strong t-shirt on, so he thinks he can drive as reckless as he can. After bouncing off the bench, he rolls up to 2 elderly couples walking. Clearly, these guys are not going top speed, but Dad rides right up to them before realizing this fact. He yells for his daughter to hit the breaks. It’s too late, he swerves. He viciously takes out a woman, as the bike slides down to the boardwalk. The bike keeps going and wipes out like 5 more people. It was carnage, all for an asshole driver.
OK, I totally made that last part up. There’s not enough jokes in this story, so I thought a made up bit with a young child getting hurt would make you sick perverts laugh.
Soon, the actual Boardwalk-the part with stores, etc- starts. This is a good thing, ‘cause I gotta pee like a race horse at this point. It’s just a very cool vibe to me. People just strolling around, ocean breeze blowing up. All kinds of stores selling all kinds of stuff. Sure, after a while, it all gets repetitive, but it beats the continued Wal-Martization of everywhere else. It’s just so laid back. Every new SummerSong that comes up on my iPod is meshed with another scene of summer. Even though it’s the 4th of July week, it’s not crowded at all. It’s hard to not feel like a little kid. Arcades still abound. If I had a sense of smell, I am sure I could smell the cotton candy, popcorn, pizza, etc. It’s also at this point the Old Friends post starts. (Pretty damn cool how I am keeping this whole thing linear, huh?)
It feels like it’s starting to get ‘late’. I can’t quite figure out why; there’s no need for a clock at all this week. I guess it’s because there is still so much ‘nothing’ to do back at the house. Go to the beach, read, play soccer and lacrosse, go into the ocean. It’s still early, and at least I have some of the boards scouted for cool places to go. And, of course, exactly where Mario Brothers is.
And the breeze is blowing/Blowin’ across my face
Well, I just don’t know where/But I wish I could be there
Just for a little while
So even though I didn’t run, I walked, and I got to see the ocean. It still totally relaxed me. I don’t know how it does it, but the beach does it every time. And this peace will last a little bit longer when I go back to the house with the 4 girls. But I am so better off for doing this. Makes me a better person somehow. I am just different at the beach/ocean/bay. I am somehow better. I feel free-er, more at one in my skin. I feel inspired to somehow bottle all this up, and try to let it go by writing about it.
The next day, I decide to actually run on the beach. Wow, this is a different world. It’s a totally different feel than what I have been used to. The best place is to run down by the water’s edge. The iPod provides all the musical mood I need. I see all kinds of things on the beach that I wonder about. So many in fact, I have another post planned for that. (Damn, is that a smooth segue or what?) I interval down about 25 blocks, where I see an abandoned pier just jutting out into the ocean. Those pictures are in the new Beachology album I put up this morning. For some reason, this just struck me as very cool. So on our last adult walk, I dragged T down there with me to take all those pics. Remember how I was busting on all those papa-razzi at the amusement park snapping dozens of pics? Yea, as you can see, that applies to me, too.
Now if I had an ending, I would put it here. But since I don’t have an ending, guess what? It’s still gonna be right here. Yea, I know, there wasn’t a ton of jokes, and I apologize. I just wanted to make you feel like you were there, seeing what I see, feeling what I feel, running/ walking right next to me. In which case, next time bring some more Gatorade for the runs, eh?
Tuesday morning/Never looked so good
I’m already in/In a daydream
It’s Tuesday morning. Monday we took and adult walk to chill us the fuck out. Tuesday morning we were going to split up. T had her own agenda, which is perfectly cool. Tuesday was my first day to do something I haven’t really done in almost a year; go for a run. Longtime readers-all 5 of you-might remember a post last year about me running in OCMD with my beloved SummerSongs remix on and how it affected me. Short version: running up to the boards, then walking back listening to these songs was a pretty powerful experience to me. Now, here is my second chance. Before we went down, I loaded some new surf albums (I highly recommend Aqualads) so I could have some new stuff. The boardwalk was like 20 blocks north, so I decided to run south. I also decided to run on the streets. Don’t ask why, I guess I hadn’t totally grasped the idea of actually running on the beach. Or to the boardwalk.
I slathered on the lotion, put the shades, hat and cue the SummerSongs on my iPod. Since it is a beautiful Tuesday morning, it gets me to search for this great song. It’s called “In a Daydream” by the Freddy Jones Band. I know you have never heard of it. It was on my player a few weeks back, and just for the sake of this post, I will put it back on. It’s a great song for such beautiful early mornings. It’s a great summer song, and it’s a great roadtrip song. And today is the perfect chance to put some summer imagery to it. I cue it up and head out.
I don’t like to run. I really can’t run to save my life. Outside of street hockey on Monday nights and the occasional bout of cardio in the gym, I don’t really do much. I like to ‘interval’; run a block walk a block. It’s actually better for your metabolism, and keeps me much more mentally into the activity. I walk 2 blocks, have In A Daydream in my ears. I am full of life and full of myself. My first interval will be two blocks. I feel that damn good.
Unfortunately, I also feel that outta shape. I am huffing and puffing like Artie Lange. I knew I was bad, but not this bad. OK, minor setback. Back to one block intervals. OK, not so bad, and it does feel good to be doing something physical. Not like I am drinking that much, but that tubfull of cheeseballs sure is disappearing quick.
On my way, I pass some people. And they are not as friendly as you would think. I have noticed with most ‘shorefolk’, they tend to be happy. Doesn’t matter if they are the locals or vacationers. People just seem to act better near the ocean. Or maybe it’s because I look like I am running while suffering some kind of seizure. Or maybe because on the blocks I walk, I am breathing heavy. It looks like I am just on a stroll and breathing heavy. (Part of me really wonders if I am breathing in nasty shit from the j*b.)
I keep intervalling. I notice a lot of these houses look relatively new. A lot of them are truly sweet; multi-million dollar homes. Not just multi-million dollar homes based on location, but also the value of the damn house itself. 2-3 decks. Monstrous rooms. Intricate window work. All kinds of hardscaping going on. It all looks really nice; I mean don’t get me wrong. These houses are fucking sweet. I would love to have one of these houses just for my real house, let alone vacation property. But something about all this bothers me. None of these houses look really –“beachy”. Again, I would take one of these houses in a heartbeat, but if you look at most of them, they just don’t really cry “beach”.
It’s all a little bit haughty-taughty for me. It almost looks like I am running in a gated community. Every once in a while, I expect a tap on the shoulder from some rent a cop asking me , “Uh, excuse me, but just how the hell did you get in here?” Every once in a while, I do pass a true blue beach house. Yea, it’s a bit older, not as monstrous, but if you saw a picture, it would scream “beach”. (And if you are the type to hear screaming from pictures, please keep that to yourself.) I’m not going to try to describe this much more, but I will just leave it with the ever vague clichés of “you know what I am talking about” and “you know what I mean”.
I guess I am just used to beach houses being a bit smaller. Most of the shacks I have rented haven’t been gihugic spaces, but they were more than adequate; and we had a blast there nonetheless. But I guess they are slowly on the way out. I don’t know, I guess kids today will see these newer, bigger and far more expensive houses and think, “yea, that’s a real beach house.”
The sun is shinin’/It’s here to wake me up
No one around/Just me and the sky
The sky is cloudless, and even though this isn’t the beach, it’s still pretty calm. I pass some people on their porch, just eating breakfast or reading the paper. Occasionally, I do pass a dog, which makes me miss Bauer terribly. I try to pet as many as I can. A lot of people down here aren’t dog friendly. A lot of yards have various cute signs asking owners to curb their dog somewhere else. Others have wood figures of a dog; some of them even have a poop coming out. They either say NO or have the circle with the line running through it. Now if I was a dog, and I saw what I thought to be another pooch cutting a deuce on a lawn, I would take that as a cue to cut one right there. If you really wanna keep a dog off of your lawn, have a big cut out of Michael Vick.
It’s their right, too. A lot of yards are meticulously kept. Edged, watered, the whole deal. I get the point, because it can’t be easy growing grass on sandy soil. Flags are a big thing, too. Lots of American flags (July 4th is 3 days away.) I also see a trend of a lot of college flags. Not just your obvious ones, but loser schools like ‘Philadelphia University’, ‘James Madison’, ‘Rutgers’, etc. Any of you guys heard of these schools? Sound like party schools to me.
I interval about 30 blocks, then start my stroll back up. There is no better feeling than not having to rush. There’s only 4 screaming little girls waiting, so why hurry. I drink in the scene; sky, houses, flags, porches and decks. It’s not the ocean, but I will associate these sights with the music in my iPod. It’s funny, I wasn’t feeling terribly active to start, but as it wore on, I felt more energized. I came back ready to go to the beach, and do some running around there, too.
The next morning, I didn’t quite fell like going for another run (cough, wuss,cough) Instead, I decided to go for a walk north. Going at a slower pace, these new-fangled houses just seemed bigger. As I kept going up, I saw the boardwalk was starting up, do it was a no-brainer to go there. Wow, just wow. I can still vividly remember going to where the boards start, and just looking out to the ocean, with the sun reflecting off of it.
I’m already in/In a daydream
The sky is callin’/It’s callin’ out my name
Telling me to stay/Stay, don’t go away
Now this part of the Bwalk is narrow, very narrow. Like dangerously narrow. Bikers are whizzing by like Lance Armstrong. Runners are cutting their way through the show moving crowd of people like me. Yea, I see no need to run now. I have the sweet ocean to my right, and soon enough, this week will have gone by. Why rush it? Still, all this fast movement is annoying. Here I am trying to stay out of the way, only to get bumped by some runner, and the bikers are so close, I can fell the air coming off of them.
I kinda worry, ‘cause some of these bikes are of the 2 man variety. So here are people that usually don’t ride bikes, let alone the 2 mans, whizzing through the walkers and the elderly, and the elderly using walkers. It got so bad, I saw some motard with their young daughter on the back of the bike. This kid was young enough that she should have been in a baby seat. But, no, SuperParent already made the decision that precious little Madison or Haley or whoever the fuck should be able to ride on the back. Even though her feet didn’t reach the pedals. But she did look so precious in the 3 dollar bike helmet.
So I watch as these 2 zoom by me. I watch as the dad slides all the way over, and even bounces off a bench. He has a yellow Live Strong t-shirt on, so he thinks he can drive as reckless as he can. After bouncing off the bench, he rolls up to 2 elderly couples walking. Clearly, these guys are not going top speed, but Dad rides right up to them before realizing this fact. He yells for his daughter to hit the breaks. It’s too late, he swerves. He viciously takes out a woman, as the bike slides down to the boardwalk. The bike keeps going and wipes out like 5 more people. It was carnage, all for an asshole driver.
OK, I totally made that last part up. There’s not enough jokes in this story, so I thought a made up bit with a young child getting hurt would make you sick perverts laugh.
Soon, the actual Boardwalk-the part with stores, etc- starts. This is a good thing, ‘cause I gotta pee like a race horse at this point. It’s just a very cool vibe to me. People just strolling around, ocean breeze blowing up. All kinds of stores selling all kinds of stuff. Sure, after a while, it all gets repetitive, but it beats the continued Wal-Martization of everywhere else. It’s just so laid back. Every new SummerSong that comes up on my iPod is meshed with another scene of summer. Even though it’s the 4th of July week, it’s not crowded at all. It’s hard to not feel like a little kid. Arcades still abound. If I had a sense of smell, I am sure I could smell the cotton candy, popcorn, pizza, etc. It’s also at this point the Old Friends post starts. (Pretty damn cool how I am keeping this whole thing linear, huh?)
It feels like it’s starting to get ‘late’. I can’t quite figure out why; there’s no need for a clock at all this week. I guess it’s because there is still so much ‘nothing’ to do back at the house. Go to the beach, read, play soccer and lacrosse, go into the ocean. It’s still early, and at least I have some of the boards scouted for cool places to go. And, of course, exactly where Mario Brothers is.
And the breeze is blowing/Blowin’ across my face
Well, I just don’t know where/But I wish I could be there
Just for a little while
So even though I didn’t run, I walked, and I got to see the ocean. It still totally relaxed me. I don’t know how it does it, but the beach does it every time. And this peace will last a little bit longer when I go back to the house with the 4 girls. But I am so better off for doing this. Makes me a better person somehow. I am just different at the beach/ocean/bay. I am somehow better. I feel free-er, more at one in my skin. I feel inspired to somehow bottle all this up, and try to let it go by writing about it.
The next day, I decide to actually run on the beach. Wow, this is a different world. It’s a totally different feel than what I have been used to. The best place is to run down by the water’s edge. The iPod provides all the musical mood I need. I see all kinds of things on the beach that I wonder about. So many in fact, I have another post planned for that. (Damn, is that a smooth segue or what?) I interval down about 25 blocks, where I see an abandoned pier just jutting out into the ocean. Those pictures are in the new Beachology album I put up this morning. For some reason, this just struck me as very cool. So on our last adult walk, I dragged T down there with me to take all those pics. Remember how I was busting on all those papa-razzi at the amusement park snapping dozens of pics? Yea, as you can see, that applies to me, too.
Now if I had an ending, I would put it here. But since I don’t have an ending, guess what? It’s still gonna be right here. Yea, I know, there wasn’t a ton of jokes, and I apologize. I just wanted to make you feel like you were there, seeing what I see, feeling what I feel, running/ walking right next to me. In which case, next time bring some more Gatorade for the runs, eh?
Vacation Post:Chasing the Sun
(originally written 7/8/8)
I went down to OC, NJ with very few goals. After all, what is the point of setting goals on vacation if you can’t achieve them? My goals were few yet achievable. In no particular order; see and commit the sunrise to digital, call 2 key old friends still making a living out of the physical music biz, go under the Atlantic Ocean and meet up with my old friend, hero and inspiration George Stone. This post is all about me and the sun. You know, that big red/orange planet in the sky? Fuck this shit, I am half in the bag, buzzogging my literal guts out..
I checked before we went don, and sunrise was generally 5:20 AM or so. So if you think sunrise actually happens at 5:20 or so, you would be wrong. Please let my experience guide you so as to not make any future mistake. Because sunrise over the Atlantic is truly a thing of beauty.
I can tell you of my only real sunrise witnessed. I am pretty sure it is in May of 05. I was in Long Beach Island. I somehow managed to get up early and go down to the beach. I was totally unprepared. So there I am, all dressed in black, with no chair. It totally looked like I slept there. Black hat, black sweatshirt, black jeans-I was only missing the requisite bottle of Thunderbird.
Here’s a tip for those of you who want to witness a true sunrise. Look at the time of the sun rise, and add a half hour. And by add a half hour, I mean tack on an additional half hour to your trip to the beach to watch the sunrise. For argument’s sake, let’s say the sun is scheduled to rise at 5:23 AM. It’s not like at 5:22 its total darkness. Come 5:23 the show begins. Absolutely not.
Newsflash; the sun’s rays break the horizon well before the actual sunrise. This is from dumb experience. I somehow managed to get up early enough while the Long Beach Island (LBI) beach was bathed in relative darkness. Again, motard that I am, I was totally unprepared. No camera, no chair, no looking like I actually had a place to stay. I remember walking onto that beach. There were fisherman already casting their bait out to the waves. I really don’t think there were 5 humans on the beach that I could see.
I sat, my ass on a towel on the cold beach. Just waiting. It was relatively dark. As the minutes crept on, I saw a vivid orange crack the horizon. The sun was not up yet, but the rays were breaching the horizon. It was a slow motion movie right ahead of me. Slowly, I saw more orange over the horizon. Not a full sun yet, it probably wasn’t close to sunrise yet, but the show was on.
The top of a circle became apparent over the horizon. It didn’t make a difference to the waves crashing, the birds flying, the fishermen fishing. I guess this was a regular drill (Duh). Doesn’t matter to me, this is frigging awesome. The sky grows brighter. I can see more of the beach. The sun is halfway over the horizon. I have never seen a more orange sky. It feels so personal. Like the sun is rising for only me.
The beach is almost now totally lit. The sun just needs the bottom part to crest the horizon, and I guess the sunrise is complete. Eventually, it happens. It looks like the sun has emerged from the ocean. The fishermen could care less; I guess they are locals and are somehow used to this scene. Me, I can’t get enough. There are few clouds over the horizon, but the sunrise comes through unobscured.
I sit in my hobo like state, thinking this shit is awesome. It is. It’s the first true sunrise I have seen in my life, and it is easily worth all the hassle. A few years back, at a beach house we lucked into for Memorial Day weekend, we got close. We partied the first night we got there. A few brave souls were up at sunrise, so we decided to go down to the beach. At this point, some of us were up past 24 hours. We got to the beach well after the sun was up. As I type this, the disposable camera we took to document this week sits under a cover of dust to my left. I would hope there are some killer pictures in there from 6 years ago.
Flash to present day. I know how the drill goes. I need at least a half hour before sun rise. My wife T is surprisingly cool for the concept of catching a sunrise. We skip the first morning, and if you read the Vacationing w/ Kids post, you know how that turned out. The second morning, we caught a bit of a break, as this was the morning the father of the 4 girls was sleeping in the living room right outside our room. We had made a deal to wake each other up at 4:30; him so he could leave, us so we could see the sunrise.
A quick look outside revealed a strong ribbon of clouds right at the horizon. Fuck this shit I thought, we have all week to get up at 4-fucking-30-Am to catch a sunrise. My ass is going back to bed. The second attempt reveals the same damn result; clear skies every where except the damn horizon. I make the call to go the fuck back to bed. Still plenty of time. But I am getting tired of getting up every morning at 4:30 and walking out the deck to make a call. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I would love to catch a sunrise. But it looks like the sun rises a bit to the north, and the clouds obscure it.
Weather comes into play, and I take Wednesday off for the better Thursday. At this point, I am beat to shit, so I give up the ghost. I don’t get to see that Atlantic Ocean sunrise. My mother in law swears she was up and caught the sunrise, so we shall see. And you would think my battle against the sun ends here. I am not typing this much to tell you that. So we go on.
I don’t tan well. This is a lesson I learn in my current j*b. My face has had sunburn. And let’s face it, I can’t afford to get any more ugly to be with my hottie wife. I really do have a redneck at this point. A real deal, farmer, NASCAR redneck. I try to fight it. Use sunscreen on my face and neck, and reapply. Yea, cough, pussy. I am just preventing the eventual onset of ‘more ugly’. Really, at times I worry about what I am exposed to, and what I am breathing in. No point in getting the beach house if I can’t enjoy it.
When I get to the beach, I make the decision to go for it all. I go shirtless. Now, please don’t feign to be impressed. This is not a Chippendale’s dancer going topless, this is a 210 pound blob going without a shirt. But I figure I have arrived at the point to do so. I am married, so she is stuck with me and fuck everyone else. I bravely expose my torso flesh to the ravages of the sun.
Not that I am looking for product placement, but we use Coppertone the whole week and get no real burns. So if anyone who reads this awesome blog that happens to work for Coppertone, and wants to reward me for praising their fine product, please get in touch with me. My ample belly flesh doesn’t burn. I don’t get burned on my shoulders, and I don’t get the dreaded raccoon eyes. We use the 50 lotion on our faces, and the 30 sprays everywhere else. Happily, planes don’t crash from the sun reflecting off my pasty Irish flesh. I can go into the ocean. I can stay on the beach. I can go to the boards, and even my toes don’t get burned. Ah, yes, it looks like I will escape with no real skin damage.
Enter Friday’ the last morning we will be there. It’s cloudy and overcast. We’re leaving tomorrow, and what the fuck. My wife and I slap 15 on our faces, and head down the beach to get those abandoned pier shots I want. Except, on the way down, the sun comes out. Big time. Sure, I have a cap & shades on. Surely, no damaging rays can get through. T wears a jacket with a hood, and on the way back up, she puts it up. She looks like a movie star trying to avoid attention. Not only is she beautiful (Hi, honey, thanks for reading! Love ya! Extra exclamation points!!!) but she is smart. Go figure, on the last real morning we are there, I get fucking sunburned. Right on my already redneck.
I mean to the point there is a dull pain when I put the seatbelt on. Goddamn it, I was almost outta here with no real damage. Ugh, I might as well shave a 3 in my head.
In the end, it’s a minor price to pay (for now). Just one rash of sunburn on my shoulders will hopefully lead to no permanent damage. Sucks that I didn’t catch a sunrise. I wholeheartedly endorse Coppertone. Except it takes a bit to wash off. After a few applications, it is almost like a snake peeling off your skin in the shower. It’s not quite as cool as peeling off Elmer’s Glue off your fingers in 5th grade art class. Think more along the lines of a snake shedding its skin.
Awright kids, it’s 2:25 in the morning, and I am out of rum. Peace out, yo, & I hope you enjoyed this post.
I went down to OC, NJ with very few goals. After all, what is the point of setting goals on vacation if you can’t achieve them? My goals were few yet achievable. In no particular order; see and commit the sunrise to digital, call 2 key old friends still making a living out of the physical music biz, go under the Atlantic Ocean and meet up with my old friend, hero and inspiration George Stone. This post is all about me and the sun. You know, that big red/orange planet in the sky? Fuck this shit, I am half in the bag, buzzogging my literal guts out..
I checked before we went don, and sunrise was generally 5:20 AM or so. So if you think sunrise actually happens at 5:20 or so, you would be wrong. Please let my experience guide you so as to not make any future mistake. Because sunrise over the Atlantic is truly a thing of beauty.
I can tell you of my only real sunrise witnessed. I am pretty sure it is in May of 05. I was in Long Beach Island. I somehow managed to get up early and go down to the beach. I was totally unprepared. So there I am, all dressed in black, with no chair. It totally looked like I slept there. Black hat, black sweatshirt, black jeans-I was only missing the requisite bottle of Thunderbird.
Here’s a tip for those of you who want to witness a true sunrise. Look at the time of the sun rise, and add a half hour. And by add a half hour, I mean tack on an additional half hour to your trip to the beach to watch the sunrise. For argument’s sake, let’s say the sun is scheduled to rise at 5:23 AM. It’s not like at 5:22 its total darkness. Come 5:23 the show begins. Absolutely not.
Newsflash; the sun’s rays break the horizon well before the actual sunrise. This is from dumb experience. I somehow managed to get up early enough while the Long Beach Island (LBI) beach was bathed in relative darkness. Again, motard that I am, I was totally unprepared. No camera, no chair, no looking like I actually had a place to stay. I remember walking onto that beach. There were fisherman already casting their bait out to the waves. I really don’t think there were 5 humans on the beach that I could see.
I sat, my ass on a towel on the cold beach. Just waiting. It was relatively dark. As the minutes crept on, I saw a vivid orange crack the horizon. The sun was not up yet, but the rays were breaching the horizon. It was a slow motion movie right ahead of me. Slowly, I saw more orange over the horizon. Not a full sun yet, it probably wasn’t close to sunrise yet, but the show was on.
The top of a circle became apparent over the horizon. It didn’t make a difference to the waves crashing, the birds flying, the fishermen fishing. I guess this was a regular drill (Duh). Doesn’t matter to me, this is frigging awesome. The sky grows brighter. I can see more of the beach. The sun is halfway over the horizon. I have never seen a more orange sky. It feels so personal. Like the sun is rising for only me.
The beach is almost now totally lit. The sun just needs the bottom part to crest the horizon, and I guess the sunrise is complete. Eventually, it happens. It looks like the sun has emerged from the ocean. The fishermen could care less; I guess they are locals and are somehow used to this scene. Me, I can’t get enough. There are few clouds over the horizon, but the sunrise comes through unobscured.
I sit in my hobo like state, thinking this shit is awesome. It is. It’s the first true sunrise I have seen in my life, and it is easily worth all the hassle. A few years back, at a beach house we lucked into for Memorial Day weekend, we got close. We partied the first night we got there. A few brave souls were up at sunrise, so we decided to go down to the beach. At this point, some of us were up past 24 hours. We got to the beach well after the sun was up. As I type this, the disposable camera we took to document this week sits under a cover of dust to my left. I would hope there are some killer pictures in there from 6 years ago.
Flash to present day. I know how the drill goes. I need at least a half hour before sun rise. My wife T is surprisingly cool for the concept of catching a sunrise. We skip the first morning, and if you read the Vacationing w/ Kids post, you know how that turned out. The second morning, we caught a bit of a break, as this was the morning the father of the 4 girls was sleeping in the living room right outside our room. We had made a deal to wake each other up at 4:30; him so he could leave, us so we could see the sunrise.
A quick look outside revealed a strong ribbon of clouds right at the horizon. Fuck this shit I thought, we have all week to get up at 4-fucking-30-Am to catch a sunrise. My ass is going back to bed. The second attempt reveals the same damn result; clear skies every where except the damn horizon. I make the call to go the fuck back to bed. Still plenty of time. But I am getting tired of getting up every morning at 4:30 and walking out the deck to make a call. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I would love to catch a sunrise. But it looks like the sun rises a bit to the north, and the clouds obscure it.
Weather comes into play, and I take Wednesday off for the better Thursday. At this point, I am beat to shit, so I give up the ghost. I don’t get to see that Atlantic Ocean sunrise. My mother in law swears she was up and caught the sunrise, so we shall see. And you would think my battle against the sun ends here. I am not typing this much to tell you that. So we go on.
I don’t tan well. This is a lesson I learn in my current j*b. My face has had sunburn. And let’s face it, I can’t afford to get any more ugly to be with my hottie wife. I really do have a redneck at this point. A real deal, farmer, NASCAR redneck. I try to fight it. Use sunscreen on my face and neck, and reapply. Yea, cough, pussy. I am just preventing the eventual onset of ‘more ugly’. Really, at times I worry about what I am exposed to, and what I am breathing in. No point in getting the beach house if I can’t enjoy it.
When I get to the beach, I make the decision to go for it all. I go shirtless. Now, please don’t feign to be impressed. This is not a Chippendale’s dancer going topless, this is a 210 pound blob going without a shirt. But I figure I have arrived at the point to do so. I am married, so she is stuck with me and fuck everyone else. I bravely expose my torso flesh to the ravages of the sun.
Not that I am looking for product placement, but we use Coppertone the whole week and get no real burns. So if anyone who reads this awesome blog that happens to work for Coppertone, and wants to reward me for praising their fine product, please get in touch with me. My ample belly flesh doesn’t burn. I don’t get burned on my shoulders, and I don’t get the dreaded raccoon eyes. We use the 50 lotion on our faces, and the 30 sprays everywhere else. Happily, planes don’t crash from the sun reflecting off my pasty Irish flesh. I can go into the ocean. I can stay on the beach. I can go to the boards, and even my toes don’t get burned. Ah, yes, it looks like I will escape with no real skin damage.
Enter Friday’ the last morning we will be there. It’s cloudy and overcast. We’re leaving tomorrow, and what the fuck. My wife and I slap 15 on our faces, and head down the beach to get those abandoned pier shots I want. Except, on the way down, the sun comes out. Big time. Sure, I have a cap & shades on. Surely, no damaging rays can get through. T wears a jacket with a hood, and on the way back up, she puts it up. She looks like a movie star trying to avoid attention. Not only is she beautiful (Hi, honey, thanks for reading! Love ya! Extra exclamation points!!!) but she is smart. Go figure, on the last real morning we are there, I get fucking sunburned. Right on my already redneck.
I mean to the point there is a dull pain when I put the seatbelt on. Goddamn it, I was almost outta here with no real damage. Ugh, I might as well shave a 3 in my head.
In the end, it’s a minor price to pay (for now). Just one rash of sunburn on my shoulders will hopefully lead to no permanent damage. Sucks that I didn’t catch a sunrise. I wholeheartedly endorse Coppertone. Except it takes a bit to wash off. After a few applications, it is almost like a snake peeling off your skin in the shower. It’s not quite as cool as peeling off Elmer’s Glue off your fingers in 5th grade art class. Think more along the lines of a snake shedding its skin.
Awright kids, it’s 2:25 in the morning, and I am out of rum. Peace out, yo, & I hope you enjoyed this post.
Vacation Post; Old Friends
(Originally written 7/7/8)
This is about 2 old friends of mine that I haven’t seen in many, many years, I saw them recently, in of all places, a movie theater. (Iron Man does rock by the way.) It was there that we renewed acquaintances. I hadn’t seen these 2, brothers, in a good many years. Their names are Mario and Luigi, perhaps you heard of them? They’re called the Mario Brothers. Why they’re called that when Mario is a brother’s first name is unknown me.
Now I’m talking the original arcade game Mario Brothers, not all the games that came afterwards. This didn’t have trippy shit like mushrooms and underground lairs and stuff. No need for Kart or golf or taxidermy. It was just these 2. A description of the game follows:
Mario (or Luigi) must defeat all the enemies coming out of pipes in the corners of the screen. Enemies must first be hit from below to flip them over, then touched to kick them off the screen. However, if an enemy is left upside down for too long, it will flip back over becoming faster than before. Coins also come out of the pipes, and they give the player points.
Enemies in the game include:
Shellcreeper: A turtle-like enemy that simply walks around. They take one hit to flip. In Japan they are simply called turtles.
Sidestepper: Crab-like enemies that are slightly faster than Shellcreepers. They take two hits to flip. In Japan they are simply called crabs.
Fighter Fly: Fly-like enemies that hop around on platforms. They can only be hit from below when they're touching the floor.
Slipice: A block of ice that slides around, until it stops on a random platform and freezes it. Most people today know it as a Freezie.
Additionally there is a small, square block labeled "POW" in each level. If a player hits this block from below, the screen shakes and all the enemies currently on the screen are flipped over.
It was a 2 player game, but without sounding too full of myself, I didn’t need nobody to play with. Unlike when the game originally came out, it’s now 50 cents to play. That kinda pisses me off that here’s a 15 year old game that was a quarter back then, now it’s fucking 50 cents. O well, small price to pay I guess to be playing it these days. When I first saw it at the theater, I gladly plopped down the dollar so me and the wife could play. She was clearly not enthralled with the Mario Brothers. On the other hand I was beside myself in nostalgia. Turns out I never lost my touch, I can still kick ass at this game. I played only a few more times, enough for T to start getting all pissy. God forbid I ever get to have any fun. So I sadly bid adieu –that is have you say good bye in Italian, right?-and hoped to somehow see them again soon. I was like a shark, for a few brief minutes, I smelled blood in the water; then it was gone.
There I am last week, walking by myself on the boards. On my way back, for some reason, I decide to just go through some of the arcades. By our place, there actually was an arcade. It was your typical mix of driving and shooting games. By waaaayy back, in a darkened corner, I discovered old gems like Pac Man and Centipede (yes, I know I am dating myself here). We only managed to stop there once. We played one game, then had to leave because someone had to pee. And that same someone also only brought her prescription sunglasses so she “couldn’t see”. I was promised we would return, but never did. It’s a shame, because I would have grabbed a picture of all the old videogames in the corner. You would have enjoyed it.
I stroll through one arcade, and it’s typical. All the driving games are up front, I guess it’s a way to lure people in. I go further back, and sure enough, there’s like a whole row of old school video games! And these all look original, too. There are some cabinets that actually have like 5-6 different games in them; great names like Galaga, Paperboy and Zaxxon. Hmm, I wonder if I can possibly find a Mario Brothers here? I doubt it, but I still have a few more arcades to check on the way back.
The second arcade I go into, I feel strangely drawn. I go to the very back, when, what do I see? Mario Brothers. Heavenly voices, angelic singing, all that stuff is going on, which really drowns out my iPod. Yes! I have found Mario Brothers. Good times are just ahead. I am just thrilled. Sadly, I have no money, so it is a tease, but now I know there is at least one. Not only will it be a blast to get some serious time on it, this will also be my Ocean City legacy. It all makes sense to me now.
I rush home like a little boy. I find T and start to blabber. “I have great news, awesome news! Go ahead, I will give you one guess what it is. But only one guess, because it’s so awesome, I can’t keep it from you much longer.” I even forget what she guessed. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t going to get it. “No. I found Mario Brothers! And the high score is only 12,000. I can beat that without you! So we are going to go to that arcade, and I am going to get ALL the high scores on the machine. And that will be my OC Legacy. When people go to play that game, they will see al my high scores and say, ‘Wow, that KEV sure is one bad cat! I wouldn’t want to mess around with him!’”
It’s hard to describe the look on my wife’s face. It’s not the obvious pleasure it should have been. The only word I can find that fits is ‘shame’. But maybe her shame look is the same as her thrilled look.
So we grab our boardwalk time. It starts out with her whomping my ass in mini golf. We slowly crawl down to the arcade. I hop right on the machine. I am in Mario heaven. I easily dust the high score in my first game. I am truly in my happy place now. The sun may have been bright that day, but it paled in comparison to my smile (Eew, did I really just write a line like that?) Sure, I was again paying 50 cents for a quarter game, but it didn’t matter. With the second game, I got pretty damn far. Like level 6 with glaciers far. Hey, why does it feel like there a big, glowing “L” on my forehead right now? Maybe because I am thinking of Luigi, yea, that must be it. I fall just short of breaking 100,000. It’s all the small victories in life, kids.
T will come up from time to time to check on me. It’s not like I’m gonna be anywhere else. But I sense frustration coming from her. How can she be upset? I’m having the time of my life here! She goes away, and I return to dutifully constructing my legacy. I get about 2 more games in, and T reappears. She is clearly running out of patience now. I don’t get it, she can play all day with 4 nieces. But when it comes to me and my fun, I’m good for about 20 minutes. Another dichotic moment. I am having a blast, yet she clearly isn’t. Damned if I don’t, damned if I do. I get all 5 high scores in my first-and as it turns out, only-games. Technically, my legacy is now set. But my lowest score is dangerously low, plus who only wants to play 5 games of their favorite game? I guess this is one of my few mature moments of the week. Well, ‘mature’ may be stretching it a bit.
Because what good is a legacy without proof? I have the camera with me, and take 2 shitty pictures of the high score board, all with KEV on it. DIdn’t really turn out that great. I wanted T to get a pic of me playing the game, but I knew that would be pushing it at this point. It’s a shame, because it would have been a hella funny picture. I am sure I would be crouched in an athletic stance, tongue sticking out. Woulda been great stuff. But I did make (and that is the right word ‘make’) her take a picture of me with the game. Yea, this is coming from the same guy who bitched about the papa-razzi.
I left OC, but I did it with a lasting legacy. I feel secure that my scores will stand for a long time, or at least till the power goes off. I mean, really, who else plays Mario Bros? And if they do, they sure ain’t as good as me. Undisputed Mario Bros. King of OC. So if you ever wander down to OC, be sure to go to the Kidz N Action (I believe it was called something like that, though I can’t find anything to match on Yahoo) arcade, and check out the Mario Bros game. In fact, I will pay 20 bucks to the first person who can send me a clear photograph of all my high scores. And by clear photo, I mean one suitable for framing, ‘cause that’s what I’ll do to the SOB.
DVD Bonus Material
Unseen ending
We go to the movies yesterday, so I can be massively disappointed by Indiana Jones. We go to the same theater that I originally saw Mario Bros had. We quickly flew right past it. Not even a casual mention of “Hey, Kev, would you like to play a quick game?” At least I saw what appeared to be a dad and his kids playing, so maybe someone is passing it down to their kids. And if anyone know how I can fucking download a Mario Bros simulator, please let me know. I’ve stumbled across 2, but I will be damned if I can figure out how top open that shit. I would greatly appreciate it.
This is about 2 old friends of mine that I haven’t seen in many, many years, I saw them recently, in of all places, a movie theater. (Iron Man does rock by the way.) It was there that we renewed acquaintances. I hadn’t seen these 2, brothers, in a good many years. Their names are Mario and Luigi, perhaps you heard of them? They’re called the Mario Brothers. Why they’re called that when Mario is a brother’s first name is unknown me.
Now I’m talking the original arcade game Mario Brothers, not all the games that came afterwards. This didn’t have trippy shit like mushrooms and underground lairs and stuff. No need for Kart or golf or taxidermy. It was just these 2. A description of the game follows:
Mario (or Luigi) must defeat all the enemies coming out of pipes in the corners of the screen. Enemies must first be hit from below to flip them over, then touched to kick them off the screen. However, if an enemy is left upside down for too long, it will flip back over becoming faster than before. Coins also come out of the pipes, and they give the player points.
Enemies in the game include:
Shellcreeper: A turtle-like enemy that simply walks around. They take one hit to flip. In Japan they are simply called turtles.
Sidestepper: Crab-like enemies that are slightly faster than Shellcreepers. They take two hits to flip. In Japan they are simply called crabs.
Fighter Fly: Fly-like enemies that hop around on platforms. They can only be hit from below when they're touching the floor.
Slipice: A block of ice that slides around, until it stops on a random platform and freezes it. Most people today know it as a Freezie.
Additionally there is a small, square block labeled "POW" in each level. If a player hits this block from below, the screen shakes and all the enemies currently on the screen are flipped over.
It was a 2 player game, but without sounding too full of myself, I didn’t need nobody to play with. Unlike when the game originally came out, it’s now 50 cents to play. That kinda pisses me off that here’s a 15 year old game that was a quarter back then, now it’s fucking 50 cents. O well, small price to pay I guess to be playing it these days. When I first saw it at the theater, I gladly plopped down the dollar so me and the wife could play. She was clearly not enthralled with the Mario Brothers. On the other hand I was beside myself in nostalgia. Turns out I never lost my touch, I can still kick ass at this game. I played only a few more times, enough for T to start getting all pissy. God forbid I ever get to have any fun. So I sadly bid adieu –that is have you say good bye in Italian, right?-and hoped to somehow see them again soon. I was like a shark, for a few brief minutes, I smelled blood in the water; then it was gone.
There I am last week, walking by myself on the boards. On my way back, for some reason, I decide to just go through some of the arcades. By our place, there actually was an arcade. It was your typical mix of driving and shooting games. By waaaayy back, in a darkened corner, I discovered old gems like Pac Man and Centipede (yes, I know I am dating myself here). We only managed to stop there once. We played one game, then had to leave because someone had to pee. And that same someone also only brought her prescription sunglasses so she “couldn’t see”. I was promised we would return, but never did. It’s a shame, because I would have grabbed a picture of all the old videogames in the corner. You would have enjoyed it.
I stroll through one arcade, and it’s typical. All the driving games are up front, I guess it’s a way to lure people in. I go further back, and sure enough, there’s like a whole row of old school video games! And these all look original, too. There are some cabinets that actually have like 5-6 different games in them; great names like Galaga, Paperboy and Zaxxon. Hmm, I wonder if I can possibly find a Mario Brothers here? I doubt it, but I still have a few more arcades to check on the way back.
The second arcade I go into, I feel strangely drawn. I go to the very back, when, what do I see? Mario Brothers. Heavenly voices, angelic singing, all that stuff is going on, which really drowns out my iPod. Yes! I have found Mario Brothers. Good times are just ahead. I am just thrilled. Sadly, I have no money, so it is a tease, but now I know there is at least one. Not only will it be a blast to get some serious time on it, this will also be my Ocean City legacy. It all makes sense to me now.
I rush home like a little boy. I find T and start to blabber. “I have great news, awesome news! Go ahead, I will give you one guess what it is. But only one guess, because it’s so awesome, I can’t keep it from you much longer.” I even forget what she guessed. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t going to get it. “No. I found Mario Brothers! And the high score is only 12,000. I can beat that without you! So we are going to go to that arcade, and I am going to get ALL the high scores on the machine. And that will be my OC Legacy. When people go to play that game, they will see al my high scores and say, ‘Wow, that KEV sure is one bad cat! I wouldn’t want to mess around with him!’”
It’s hard to describe the look on my wife’s face. It’s not the obvious pleasure it should have been. The only word I can find that fits is ‘shame’. But maybe her shame look is the same as her thrilled look.
So we grab our boardwalk time. It starts out with her whomping my ass in mini golf. We slowly crawl down to the arcade. I hop right on the machine. I am in Mario heaven. I easily dust the high score in my first game. I am truly in my happy place now. The sun may have been bright that day, but it paled in comparison to my smile (Eew, did I really just write a line like that?) Sure, I was again paying 50 cents for a quarter game, but it didn’t matter. With the second game, I got pretty damn far. Like level 6 with glaciers far. Hey, why does it feel like there a big, glowing “L” on my forehead right now? Maybe because I am thinking of Luigi, yea, that must be it. I fall just short of breaking 100,000. It’s all the small victories in life, kids.
T will come up from time to time to check on me. It’s not like I’m gonna be anywhere else. But I sense frustration coming from her. How can she be upset? I’m having the time of my life here! She goes away, and I return to dutifully constructing my legacy. I get about 2 more games in, and T reappears. She is clearly running out of patience now. I don’t get it, she can play all day with 4 nieces. But when it comes to me and my fun, I’m good for about 20 minutes. Another dichotic moment. I am having a blast, yet she clearly isn’t. Damned if I don’t, damned if I do. I get all 5 high scores in my first-and as it turns out, only-games. Technically, my legacy is now set. But my lowest score is dangerously low, plus who only wants to play 5 games of their favorite game? I guess this is one of my few mature moments of the week. Well, ‘mature’ may be stretching it a bit.
Because what good is a legacy without proof? I have the camera with me, and take 2 shitty pictures of the high score board, all with KEV on it. DIdn’t really turn out that great. I wanted T to get a pic of me playing the game, but I knew that would be pushing it at this point. It’s a shame, because it would have been a hella funny picture. I am sure I would be crouched in an athletic stance, tongue sticking out. Woulda been great stuff. But I did make (and that is the right word ‘make’) her take a picture of me with the game. Yea, this is coming from the same guy who bitched about the papa-razzi.
I left OC, but I did it with a lasting legacy. I feel secure that my scores will stand for a long time, or at least till the power goes off. I mean, really, who else plays Mario Bros? And if they do, they sure ain’t as good as me. Undisputed Mario Bros. King of OC. So if you ever wander down to OC, be sure to go to the Kidz N Action (I believe it was called something like that, though I can’t find anything to match on Yahoo) arcade, and check out the Mario Bros game. In fact, I will pay 20 bucks to the first person who can send me a clear photograph of all my high scores. And by clear photo, I mean one suitable for framing, ‘cause that’s what I’ll do to the SOB.
DVD Bonus Material
Unseen ending
We go to the movies yesterday, so I can be massively disappointed by Indiana Jones. We go to the same theater that I originally saw Mario Bros had. We quickly flew right past it. Not even a casual mention of “Hey, Kev, would you like to play a quick game?” At least I saw what appeared to be a dad and his kids playing, so maybe someone is passing it down to their kids. And if anyone know how I can fucking download a Mario Bros simulator, please let me know. I’ve stumbled across 2, but I will be damned if I can figure out how top open that shit. I would greatly appreciate it.
Marketing Coors Light
(Originally written 6/5/8)
Why is drinking Coors Light like making love in a canoe?
They’re both fucking close to water.
Right, so you’re thinking why in the blue hell would I want to do a marketing campaign post? Well, the question I ask you is why would you want to read about it? Well, I think I can make it interesting and funny. I think I can use my 8 years in music marketing (back when there was good music to market-ZING!) to provide you some key insight. Plus I hate their shitty beer. And I get the vibe I’m running out of steam of the “pity me” posts.
I don’t like Coors Light. Never have and never will. I think it’s a truly shitty beer. And this ain’t coming from no beer snob; I had more than my fair share of Natty Ice Light at Dover this past weekend. There is no bigger bummer than to go to a party and find out that the only beer there is CL. Yuck, that ain’t no party. How can you get fired up for that? I have been to those parties, and have actually declined the fucking CL and drank soda or something lame. For some reason CL has positioned itself as the hip beer fit adults should drink. I have 2 problems with this. 1) CL is barely a ‘beer’ and 2) most of the fit adults I have seen drinking it are just fooling themselves. It’s like Andy Reid wearing UnderArmour. It just ain’t right. Just because you drink CL doesn’t mean you can now go and wolf down the bowl of Cheez-Itz.
Lately, Coors Light has been all about marketing everything but their actual beer. I have a big problem with that. It’s nice to have a few bells and whistles and all, but when there ain’t no main substance, I got a problem. Their first big innovation was labels that are cold sensitive. So when the beer is cold, the mountains on the label turn blue. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Your rat ass beer is now cold, go enjoy it, junior.
Next it was something that is pretty useful. When you pop open a can, there is now an extra vent that allows you to have an even pour. OK, that’s a good idea. But I think Mickey’s Big Mouth had this problem beat years ago. I think if I was forced to drink a CL, I would opt for the can, just to hope to get a better taste with the aluminum.
CL really seems to pride itself on being ‘cold’. Duh. The more hardcore alcoholics out there will take me to task by saying that some beers are meant to be drunk warm. Most beers in Britain are served warm. To which I reply, the only time you will see warm beer come across my lips is when I am vomiting it out. Surely you remember all the ‘ice train’ commercials CL airs during football games. “O look, it’s the shitty beer train!” Funny how CL rarely says anything about the taste. Cold shitty beer is still shitty beer.
Light beers are tricky if you’re a dude. I maintain real men don’t drink CL. There are a few other options, though. I think Bud Light is actually the best selling beer in the US. I can’t drink Bud too much, I get that “Bud Mud” the day after, and that is never pleasant. I think it’s OK to drink Miller Lite. Again, I think it’s marketing, and they’ve done a good job saying how they have the lowest calories, carbs, and won’t make your nuts shrivel. I cop to going after a case the first Sunday of fantasy football. Amstel Light is a high faluting choice. Anyone ever see a regular Amstel? No, because they were smart and never made one? Why? Because they didn’t want their Light to look lame. That is some pretty shrewd marketing right there. I like Corona (hey, if that the sound of beer snobs looking down their noses?), but that’s light enough to drink, there’s really no need for a light. But the chicks seem to dig it. I haven’t tried the new Heineken Light, but the commercial with the Pussycat Doll song does a good job of making the bottle look, well, I don’t know. The commercial looks all pretty-like. That sure looks like one happening beer.
I would be remiss to leave out all the beers like Beast, Natty Ice, etc. Let’s face it, you’re really not drinking those beers to keep slim. You’re drinking those beers to get hammered, and maybe some attractive person is also drinking it, and you might be able to go out of your league for one night. Now that’s fucking marketing right there. If I was in charge of say Beast Ice Light, here would be the major points of my campaign
You’re not drinking this to be healthy
You don’t have a ton of money
But you will get FUBARed
And maybe that hot chick over there is getting FUBARed, too
You might be able to hit a homerun. Or at least score a BJ
And I would make sure any models I used were human looking. The guys would have beer bellies, and the girls would be the next door type, not the supermodel type. Really, is it that hard? Now if you will excuse me, I have to go get some PBR for my old lady.
Why is drinking Coors Light like making love in a canoe?
They’re both fucking close to water.
Right, so you’re thinking why in the blue hell would I want to do a marketing campaign post? Well, the question I ask you is why would you want to read about it? Well, I think I can make it interesting and funny. I think I can use my 8 years in music marketing (back when there was good music to market-ZING!) to provide you some key insight. Plus I hate their shitty beer. And I get the vibe I’m running out of steam of the “pity me” posts.
I don’t like Coors Light. Never have and never will. I think it’s a truly shitty beer. And this ain’t coming from no beer snob; I had more than my fair share of Natty Ice Light at Dover this past weekend. There is no bigger bummer than to go to a party and find out that the only beer there is CL. Yuck, that ain’t no party. How can you get fired up for that? I have been to those parties, and have actually declined the fucking CL and drank soda or something lame. For some reason
Lately, Coors Light has been all about marketing everything but their actual beer. I have a big problem with that. It’s nice to have a few bells and whistles and all, but when there ain’t no main substance, I got a problem. Their first big innovation was labels that are cold sensitive. So when the beer is cold, the mountains on the label turn blue. Whoop-de-fucking-do. Your rat ass beer is now cold, go enjoy it, junior.
Next it was something that is pretty useful. When you pop open a can, there is now an extra vent that allows you to have an even pour. OK, that’s a good idea. But I think Mickey’s Big Mouth had this problem beat years ago. I think if I was forced to drink a CL, I would opt for the can, just to hope to get a better taste with the aluminum.
CL really seems to pride itself on being ‘cold’. Duh. The more hardcore alcoholics out there will take me to task by saying that some beers are meant to be drunk warm. Most beers in Britain are served warm. To which I reply, the only time you will see warm beer come across my lips is when I am vomiting it out. Surely you remember all the ‘ice train’ commercials CL airs during football games. “O look, it’s the shitty beer train!” Funny how CL rarely says anything about the taste. Cold shitty beer is still shitty beer.
Light beers are tricky if you’re a dude. I maintain real men don’t drink CL. There are a few other options, though. I think Bud Light is actually the best selling beer in the US. I can’t drink Bud too much, I get that “Bud Mud” the day after, and that is never pleasant. I think it’s OK to drink Miller Lite. Again, I think it’s marketing, and they’ve done a good job saying how they have the lowest calories, carbs, and won’t make your nuts shrivel. I cop to going after a case the first Sunday of fantasy football. Amstel Light is a high faluting choice. Anyone ever see a regular Amstel? No, because they were smart and never made one? Why? Because they didn’t want their Light to look lame. That is some pretty shrewd marketing right there. I like Corona (hey, if that the sound of beer snobs looking down their noses?), but that’s light enough to drink, there’s really no need for a light. But the chicks seem to dig it. I haven’t tried the new Heineken Light, but the commercial with the Pussycat Doll song does a good job of making the bottle look, well, I don’t know. The commercial looks all pretty-like. That sure looks like one happening beer.
I would be remiss to leave out all the beers like Beast, Natty Ice, etc. Let’s face it, you’re really not drinking those beers to keep slim. You’re drinking those beers to get hammered, and maybe some attractive person is also drinking it, and you might be able to go out of your league for one night. Now that’s fucking marketing right there. If I was in charge of say Beast Ice Light, here would be the major points of my campaign
You’re not drinking this to be healthy
You don’t have a ton of money
But you will get FUBARed
And maybe that hot chick over there is getting FUBARed, too
You might be able to hit a homerun. Or at least score a BJ
And I would make sure any models I used were human looking. The guys would have beer bellies, and the girls would be the next door type, not the supermodel type. Really, is it that hard? Now if you will excuse me, I have to go get some PBR for my old lady.
Goddamn Miley Cyrus
(Originally written 5/28/8)
I got my sight set on you/And I’m ready to wait
I have a hear t that will/Never be tamed
I know what you’re thinking. You’re glad to see another music post, but does it have to be about Miley Cyrus? Hannah Montana? (Or, as she’s marketed to the Latino community Hannah Santana. Or as she’s marketed to the health market Hannah Banana. Or as she’s marketed to the gang bangers Hannah Red Bandana. Or as she’s marketed to…aw forget it.) Right now I can see my metal friends like Goatt and Bravo smacking their heads. “Christ, we used to talk about bands like Down and Slayer, and he’s fucking writing about Miley Cyrus?” Yes, guys, yes, I am. But as you can imagine, there’s more to the story.
I knew you were something special/When you spoke my name
Now I can’t wait to see you again
So the Mrs.comes bopping here into my office. She goes on to tell me that she has a Miley Cyrus song in her head. Since I have a nutsack, I tell her I have never heard a Miley Cyrus song. “What?” she exclaims, “You’ve never heard that song?” Again I tell her no. Big mistake, as this now prompts her to sing me this song I have never heard. I do not know the song she is singing. Honestly, she could be singing the national freaking anthem, and I wouldn’t be able to recognize it. The difference between hearing the song, and hearing her sing it is best explained like this. Imagine the band playing the song in a studio, where everything sounds pitch perfect. Then imagine Corky from Life Goes on singing the same song.
You know what? Wait. That’s just wrong. And mean. I really shouldn’t say stuff like that. That’s pretty insensitive. I apologize. Corky is a much better singer. Probably a better dancer as well.
A day or 2 later, she calls me into the office because she has found the song online, and wants me to hear it. Another big mistake. Much like some science fiction inspired mind virus, the fucking song worms its way into my head instantly. Fuck. It’s like going into It’s a Small World After All and having that damn song stuck in your head. Now I can appreciate a good, hooky pop song. I compare it to Pink’s Get This Party Started. While that’s not my type of music, I can hear that it will be a huge hit right away. (In fact I was in a wedding where the bridal party came out to the Pink song. The bride and groom picked Pantera’s “Walk” Yea, I got the shaft there.) And it worms its way into your head like Heather Mills to Paul McCartney. Another example that springs to mind is Del Amitri’s “Roll To Me”. It’s a great, catchy pop song that’s like 2 and a half minutes long, but can instantly change your bad mood. Light, airy, nothing serious, just a damn catchy song that bores its way into your head for days and days. Thankfully, this is the only virus the wife has ever given me.
I’ve got a way of knowing/When something is right
I feel like I must of known you/In another life
Bang! This fucking song is now in my head. Miley fucking Cyrus. O, how the music gods have moved to punish me. To say this is awkward is an understatement to say the least. Kind of because I have always considered myself more of a Lizzie McGuire type of guy. Yea, I am familiar with her as well. I was first hipped to her when she was putting albums out. As I pointed out to someone who then agreed with me and who shall remain nameless but might be or not be one of my friends here, “this Lizzie McGuire chick looks like a young Jenna Jameson. You know before all the bad ink and plastic.” Right, I compared a 13 year old girl to a hardened porn star. Ooops, please excuse me, there’s a knock at my door. Hey it looks like Chris Hanson from NBC’s To Catch a Predator! Man, I wonder what he wants?
‘Cause I felt this deep connection/When you looked into my eyes
Now I can’t wait to see you again
And I guess it’s my own fault since I can’t figure out how to get my damned Sirius cradle to stay the hell on the window. I’m stuck, suffering, listening to regular radio. Wanna guess what song starts following me? Right before I got to “work”, even the rock station was playing it, riffing on it. Fuck, now it’s gonna be in my head all day. A few days later as I am flicking through stations, guess what the last song I hear is? Right. Lemme tell ya, there is no cool way to be bopping out to that song in traffic when you’re me. I have to turn down the volume like it’s some sort of audio porn. Again, it gets lodged in my head. There is no way to be masculine on the jobsite if you’re humming goddamn Hannah Montana. The last thing you wanna hear is some older guy saying “Is that Miley Cyrus? My 10 year old daughter loves her!”
The last time I freaked out/I just kept looking down
I st-st-stuttered when you asked me what I’m thinkin’ ‘bout
Felt like I couldn’t breathe/You asked what’s wrong with me
My best friend Leslie said/O she’s just being Miley
That’s a great phrase, O, Joe’s just being Joe.” That’s saying Joe really isn’t acting like an asshole, he really is an asshole. O, Miley’s not being a self important drama queen, she really is a self important drama queen. That’s like a license to act like a douchebag if you’re friends stand up for you like that.
The next time we hang out/I will redeem myself
My heart can’t rest until then
Oo oh oo oh I can’t wait to see you again
It’s funny the things you accumulate along the way. As such, you can imagine how many thousands of CDs I have. Some bought, but a lot were free. From other labels, friends at retail (BTW feel free to still hook a brother up). And let’s just say one of my retail friends supplied me with a copy of the Lizzie McGuire soundtrack. Now I think it’s fair to say that it deserved a curiosity listen. Again, in the cowardly privacy of my car, I listened to the Hilary Duff songs. They were OK. Pure sugar coat pop, but OK. However not OK to add to my iPod. Why? Well, I have my iPod, and Mrs. has hers. However, we only have this one PC with our iTunes on it. So 1 iTunes browser has both our libraries on it. Remember how she used to yell at me for spending hours adding songs in? Yea, well that pretty much stopped after she realized she could cherry pick my hours and hours of work to get her favorite songs and add them to hers. So that stopped her bitching. But that also gave her license to raid my iPod for songs. iPods are very personal. I mean she’s the only other person who I can imagine who would be going through my playlists. So can you imagine the rash of shit I would catch if she came across a few Hilary Duff songs? (Like blabbing about this on Blogger will help me either. I think I’m doing this wrong.) So I have to deprive myself to save face in the name coolness. Or maybe I have to deprive myself to keep up the illusion of cool. So even if I wanted to, I can’t buy the song on iTunes. O, if only there was someplace on the internet where one could anonymously go to download songs for free…
I got this crazy feeling/Deep inside
When you called and asked to see me/Tomorrow night
I’m not a mind reader/But I’m reading the signs
That you can’t wait to see me again
You just know Billy Ray Cyrus is having a good laugh at all this. I am sure he still has a lot of money from the “Achy Breaky Heart” days. You know, now that I think about it, Achy Breaky is another one of those songs that worms into your head. I can’t name the 5th President of the country, find North Dakota on the map or who wrote Wuthering Heights because See You Again is taking up space in my gray matter. Anyway, back to Captain Mullet. I am sure Miley is making more money now than he ever did. I hope she at least gets 50 bucks a week allowance. He’s just sitting back, laughing at how uncool he was 15 years ago, and now how all these people think of him as the hip dad.
Who played Lizzie’s dad? The head nerd from Revenge of the Nerds. That’s a pretty fair fight if you ask me. You might wanna ask me how I know this. It’s simple. I used to run with Lizzie McGuire. I can explain. Back when I had to used to force myself to do cardio at the gym-now I don’t bother-I would get up to the cardio deck on Saturday morning right about the same time the Lizzie McGuire show came on ABC. I ask you, who would you rather watch for a half hour? Some talking head on CNBC, or lil Lizzie and her Punky Brewster-like friend, her brother and his friend who never said a word, and her guy friend who was obviously falling for her the whole time? I think the choice is clear. Every Saturday was another chance to watch young Lizzie grow..and…mature..blossom, really….into a fine young woman. O, excuse me a minute. What’s that honey? NBC is back at the front door again? Do they still have cameras?
So to admit to liking a Miley song is a shot at Lizzie. I am a loyal guy that way. A perverted loyal guy, but loyal nonetheless. I didn’t even know what Hannah Montana looks like until today at 5 Below. All I can say is she’s sure no Hilary. Listen to me, 30 something year old guy talking about 2 young girls. I should be ashamed. Although I wonder if they would be impressed to know that I have received numerous calls from both Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama over the last week or so. Yea, so don’t say I’m not important.
I can only hope this week, the song runs its course, and my feeble mind can go back to more important things like not putting the drill bit through my thumbnail (again) or falling off a rickety ladder. As always, thanks for reading. I will write again. My heart can’t rest till then. I can’t wait-to write again.
(From the behind the scenes file; I was originally gonna title this post Fucking Miley Cyrus, but was afraid Blogger would throw me off obvious reasons. Also, the punchline to the Corky joke is one of my favorite lines of mine this year. Right up there with ‘sprocket science’ from the Bikers post. And for the record, I had to get (most of) the lyrics from the web, it’s not like I memorized them.)
I got my sight set on you/And I’m ready to wait
I have a hear t that will/Never be tamed
I know what you’re thinking. You’re glad to see another music post, but does it have to be about Miley Cyrus? Hannah Montana? (Or, as she’s marketed to the Latino community Hannah Santana. Or as she’s marketed to the health market Hannah Banana. Or as she’s marketed to the gang bangers Hannah Red Bandana. Or as she’s marketed to…aw forget it.) Right now I can see my metal friends like Goatt and Bravo smacking their heads. “Christ, we used to talk about bands like Down and Slayer, and he’s fucking writing about Miley Cyrus?” Yes, guys, yes, I am. But as you can imagine, there’s more to the story.
I knew you were something special/When you spoke my name
Now I can’t wait to see you again
So the Mrs.comes bopping here into my office. She goes on to tell me that she has a Miley Cyrus song in her head. Since I have a nutsack, I tell her I have never heard a Miley Cyrus song. “What?” she exclaims, “You’ve never heard that song?” Again I tell her no. Big mistake, as this now prompts her to sing me this song I have never heard. I do not know the song she is singing. Honestly, she could be singing the national freaking anthem, and I wouldn’t be able to recognize it. The difference between hearing the song, and hearing her sing it is best explained like this. Imagine the band playing the song in a studio, where everything sounds pitch perfect. Then imagine Corky from Life Goes on singing the same song.
You know what? Wait. That’s just wrong. And mean. I really shouldn’t say stuff like that. That’s pretty insensitive. I apologize. Corky is a much better singer. Probably a better dancer as well.
A day or 2 later, she calls me into the office because she has found the song online, and wants me to hear it. Another big mistake. Much like some science fiction inspired mind virus, the fucking song worms its way into my head instantly. Fuck. It’s like going into It’s a Small World After All and having that damn song stuck in your head. Now I can appreciate a good, hooky pop song. I compare it to Pink’s Get This Party Started. While that’s not my type of music, I can hear that it will be a huge hit right away. (In fact I was in a wedding where the bridal party came out to the Pink song. The bride and groom picked Pantera’s “Walk” Yea, I got the shaft there.) And it worms its way into your head like Heather Mills to Paul McCartney. Another example that springs to mind is Del Amitri’s “Roll To Me”. It’s a great, catchy pop song that’s like 2 and a half minutes long, but can instantly change your bad mood. Light, airy, nothing serious, just a damn catchy song that bores its way into your head for days and days. Thankfully, this is the only virus the wife has ever given me.
I’ve got a way of knowing/When something is right
I feel like I must of known you/In another life
Bang! This fucking song is now in my head. Miley fucking Cyrus. O, how the music gods have moved to punish me. To say this is awkward is an understatement to say the least. Kind of because I have always considered myself more of a Lizzie McGuire type of guy. Yea, I am familiar with her as well. I was first hipped to her when she was putting albums out. As I pointed out to someone who then agreed with me and who shall remain nameless but might be or not be one of my friends here, “this Lizzie McGuire chick looks like a young Jenna Jameson. You know before all the bad ink and plastic.” Right, I compared a 13 year old girl to a hardened porn star. Ooops, please excuse me, there’s a knock at my door. Hey it looks like Chris Hanson from NBC’s To Catch a Predator! Man, I wonder what he wants?
‘Cause I felt this deep connection/When you looked into my eyes
Now I can’t wait to see you again
And I guess it’s my own fault since I can’t figure out how to get my damned Sirius cradle to stay the hell on the window. I’m stuck, suffering, listening to regular radio. Wanna guess what song starts following me? Right before I got to “work”, even the rock station was playing it, riffing on it. Fuck, now it’s gonna be in my head all day. A few days later as I am flicking through stations, guess what the last song I hear is? Right. Lemme tell ya, there is no cool way to be bopping out to that song in traffic when you’re me. I have to turn down the volume like it’s some sort of audio porn. Again, it gets lodged in my head. There is no way to be masculine on the jobsite if you’re humming goddamn Hannah Montana. The last thing you wanna hear is some older guy saying “Is that Miley Cyrus? My 10 year old daughter loves her!”
The last time I freaked out/I just kept looking down
I st-st-stuttered when you asked me what I’m thinkin’ ‘bout
Felt like I couldn’t breathe/You asked what’s wrong with me
My best friend Leslie said/O she’s just being Miley
That’s a great phrase, O, Joe’s just being Joe.” That’s saying Joe really isn’t acting like an asshole, he really is an asshole. O, Miley’s not being a self important drama queen, she really is a self important drama queen. That’s like a license to act like a douchebag if you’re friends stand up for you like that.
The next time we hang out/I will redeem myself
My heart can’t rest until then
Oo oh oo oh I can’t wait to see you again
It’s funny the things you accumulate along the way. As such, you can imagine how many thousands of CDs I have. Some bought, but a lot were free. From other labels, friends at retail (BTW feel free to still hook a brother up). And let’s just say one of my retail friends supplied me with a copy of the Lizzie McGuire soundtrack. Now I think it’s fair to say that it deserved a curiosity listen. Again, in the cowardly privacy of my car, I listened to the Hilary Duff songs. They were OK. Pure sugar coat pop, but OK. However not OK to add to my iPod. Why? Well, I have my iPod, and Mrs. has hers. However, we only have this one PC with our iTunes on it. So 1 iTunes browser has both our libraries on it. Remember how she used to yell at me for spending hours adding songs in? Yea, well that pretty much stopped after she realized she could cherry pick my hours and hours of work to get her favorite songs and add them to hers. So that stopped her bitching. But that also gave her license to raid my iPod for songs. iPods are very personal. I mean she’s the only other person who I can imagine who would be going through my playlists. So can you imagine the rash of shit I would catch if she came across a few Hilary Duff songs? (Like blabbing about this on Blogger will help me either. I think I’m doing this wrong.) So I have to deprive myself to save face in the name coolness. Or maybe I have to deprive myself to keep up the illusion of cool. So even if I wanted to, I can’t buy the song on iTunes. O, if only there was someplace on the internet where one could anonymously go to download songs for free…
I got this crazy feeling/Deep inside
When you called and asked to see me/Tomorrow night
I’m not a mind reader/But I’m reading the signs
That you can’t wait to see me again
You just know Billy Ray Cyrus is having a good laugh at all this. I am sure he still has a lot of money from the “Achy Breaky Heart” days. You know, now that I think about it, Achy Breaky is another one of those songs that worms into your head. I can’t name the 5th President of the country, find North Dakota on the map or who wrote Wuthering Heights because See You Again is taking up space in my gray matter. Anyway, back to Captain Mullet. I am sure Miley is making more money now than he ever did. I hope she at least gets 50 bucks a week allowance. He’s just sitting back, laughing at how uncool he was 15 years ago, and now how all these people think of him as the hip dad.
Who played Lizzie’s dad? The head nerd from Revenge of the Nerds. That’s a pretty fair fight if you ask me. You might wanna ask me how I know this. It’s simple. I used to run with Lizzie McGuire. I can explain. Back when I had to used to force myself to do cardio at the gym-now I don’t bother-I would get up to the cardio deck on Saturday morning right about the same time the Lizzie McGuire show came on ABC. I ask you, who would you rather watch for a half hour? Some talking head on CNBC, or lil Lizzie and her Punky Brewster-like friend, her brother and his friend who never said a word, and her guy friend who was obviously falling for her the whole time? I think the choice is clear. Every Saturday was another chance to watch young Lizzie grow..and…mature..blossom, really….into a fine young woman. O, excuse me a minute. What’s that honey? NBC is back at the front door again? Do they still have cameras?
So to admit to liking a Miley song is a shot at Lizzie. I am a loyal guy that way. A perverted loyal guy, but loyal nonetheless. I didn’t even know what Hannah Montana looks like until today at 5 Below. All I can say is she’s sure no Hilary. Listen to me, 30 something year old guy talking about 2 young girls. I should be ashamed. Although I wonder if they would be impressed to know that I have received numerous calls from both Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama over the last week or so. Yea, so don’t say I’m not important.
I can only hope this week, the song runs its course, and my feeble mind can go back to more important things like not putting the drill bit through my thumbnail (again) or falling off a rickety ladder. As always, thanks for reading. I will write again. My heart can’t rest till then. I can’t wait-to write again.
(From the behind the scenes file; I was originally gonna title this post Fucking Miley Cyrus, but was afraid Blogger would throw me off obvious reasons. Also, the punchline to the Corky joke is one of my favorite lines of mine this year. Right up there with ‘sprocket science’ from the Bikers post. And for the record, I had to get (most of) the lyrics from the web, it’s not like I memorized them.)
Of Motrin and Monsters
Originally written 7/27/8 Today!
“You don’t feel any pain.”
I had someone tell me that recently. And it’s certainly flattering in a caveman/athlete superhero kinda way. “Grrr me feel no pain! Me smash!” But it’s not entirely true. I do feel pain. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever felt the amount of pain that I am feeling these days. Not just physical, either, in other areas as well. For the sake of this post, let’s keep it Olivia Newton John. You know, physical, physical. I wanna get into physical. Let me hear your body…talk..let me…um…hear your….body …talk. OK, I’m getting lost in an 80s flashback to that video. Dayum, ONJ sure was the hawtness back then.
I get along with pain just fine. It turns out I have a pretty high tolerance for pain. When I was a kid, I broke my wrist, and somehow managed to talk my parents out of taking me to the emergency room for a day. I broke my ankle playing basketball, and still hopped the fence and walked all the way to the parking lot. (Those of you who know Roslyn Park know how long of a haul it is from the courts to the parking lot.) Even though my ankle blew up to the size of said basketball, I still somehow managed to delay the inevitable trip to the ER by a few hours. (Besides, I had a Heart concert the next day. Long story short, they ended up postponing the show so I still got to see them.) Now that I look back, I wonder why the state didn’t take me away from my parents for their neglect of my well being.
A few years ago, I was playing football and tore my ACL. I still manly walked off the field (take that, stretcher riding football pansies) and sucked it up for a few hours. It wasn’t the pain that drove me to the ER (it was my wife, actually), but just the growing sense of something is seriously wrong here. So I guess a side effect of being impervious to pain is also that drugs seem to not work on me. After my knee surgery, I was prescribed Toredal (sp? BTW, it’s ironic that I get some thing that is basically pronounced “tore it all” when I tore my ligament) for pain and Percocet for sleep.
I stopped taking both in 2 days, because they weren’t making any difference for me. Which is odd, because my sister loves Percocet. I went back to the doc in a week, and my biggest complaint was that I still wasn’t sleeping. I have heard good things about Ambien and Vicodan, so I was angling to get some of those. He nodded, and said he would take care of me. Then he wrote me another prescription for Percocet. Well fuck me.
It now troubles me that I seem to really be feeling pain these days. It’s not like a dramatic broken bone or collapsing lung kinda pain, but more like a general fatigue and soreness kind of pain. And yes, it’s all because of ‘doing what I do’ to get by these days. I know that is a by-product of it. But, goddamn, I don’t want it to dictate what else I do. I am lucky to go to the gym more than 3 nights most weeks. Yes, I am sure being in a broken down state can make my pain worse, but I also know some time at the gym also heals me. It’s an outlet, a release, it’s something I do that makes me feel a lot better about myself. So when I can’t do that, it only adds to the pain. In those situations, I tend to call in Dr. Captain Morgan to ease the pain, and no real good comes of that. There’s only so many times the neighbors think it’s “cute” when they find me passed out on their picnic table in the backyard.
So now I find myself turning to (dramatic dum dum dum DUMMM) drugs. The recluse of the loser. Hitting rock bottom. Yes, readers, like most great writers, I have started experimenting with (dum dum dum DUMMM) drugs. Right now I am doing a little dance with something called Aleve. I admit to feeling pretty foolish about even trying this stuff. I come home with back “pain” and leg “pain” and T has this stuff lying around. I am beyond beat, and just want relief. So I pop 2 and wait. Surely, this has to be dramatic. Surely, this will be the first chemical rush that I will spend the rest of my unemployed days chasing. How sweet this euphoria will be. I wait to feel and finally, I do! I slowly feel…..pretty much nothing. And not the nothing that means my pain has gone down to nothing. I mean the nothing that nothing has changed. I still feel everything I did before. This is kind of a buzzkill.
Surely, there has to be something out there that can work for me. I start to search for “strongest OTC painkiller I can buy” and it appears that you can damage your liver if you abuse OTCs. See, look at that potential life saving info I just gave ya. Not only do you laugh, but you learn here, too. It also appears that you should take them with food as well. This is of course from scouring 2 message boards populated by anonymous Internet folks. I am sure no one is lying on the Internet anymore. Most importantly, I have learned that I probably should take 4 OTC and wash them down with rum and Coke Zero. Or maybe the potential damage to the liver will be muted out by both the pills and the booze. Yea, that makes sense.
Shit, what’s that stuff Bret Favre hawks? If it’s good enough for a Hall of Fame, MVP Super Bowl winning QB, then it must be able to work for me. But I do hear it has a nasty side effect of making you wishy-washy and you can develop a huge ego and alienate all those who supported you your entire career. At least that’s what I hear.
Another by-product of this pain, toil and trouble is a sever lack of energy. Again, this can be directly attributed to ‘doing what I have to do’ these days. At home, most nights I am a wastoid. I walk around like a broken old man, longing only for the couch or the easy chair. I dead the days I have to be ‘busy’. On Sunday night, I literally curl up in a ball and just chill (read in silence) just to mellow me out for another week of this shit. I don’t think I can keep doing this, so the prospect of 5 more fucking days of it is pretty heavy, and I just try to prepare mentally and physically for it.
Miraculously, weekends do arrive, and I find myself feeling down. Like I just need a little shot or kick of something to get me to that edge where I really feel ‘normal’. Which leads me to my next embarrassing confession. I have started drinking various “energy” drinks. Good Lord, let me just throw the towel in now, OK? Again, I temper this because I know this is just something I have to do these days. I never started drinking this stuff till just this year. I was doing monotonous shit in a cold warehouse. I mean mind-deadening stuff, spirit killing repetitive labor. I was a zombie. I sent to the soda machine, and got something called Full Throttle. Yes, Coke puts it out, and it was the only such thing they had. SO I drank it. I actually found I did get a clear kick from it. I felt more awake, and a spike in energy that got me over that edge. OK, this wasn’t so bad.
So there I am the next day doing the same damn thing, and I decide to drink it again. Only this time the rush is clearly less. I am disappointed as I return to eating brains. These last few weeks have seen my energy level drop as quickly as most record labels’ creditability. (ZING!) I have had to resort to trying more energy drinks. I imagine getting this massive rush of energy. I want to feel my heartbeat in my eyes. I want to feel my pulse in my toes. I want to become super focused and feel like I can run a marathon.
Yea, right. I know I will get none of that. Instead, I just want a little kick so I can just feel a bit more normal. It just needs to push me over that edge, and I will be fine. I know this isn’t what most people ask of these miracle elixirs. But it’s what I need out of the deal. As we’ve gone out and about these last few weekends, I make T stop so I can pick up something. Honestly, I think she’s getting annoyed by now. And I’ve stopped teasing her about her coffee consumption. Can‘t call the kettle black now.
It just pisses me off that I am doing this. I know it’s all marketing. You get energy from food, so essentially all food and drink is “energy”. I feel so lame for going this route. I know I can probably get the same burst of “energy” from doing something far more healthy. Like, I don’t know, boiling a carrot in seaweed or something as organic sounding. But no, I allow myself to do this.
And what I’ve found so far is that the drinks do kinda work for me. Again, it’s not the Herculean burst or anything, just a little nudge. I’ve had Monster and Rockstar the last few weeks, and they are pretty much the same. I find I do get an initial bout of giddiness in the first few minutes. This translates to me being funoxious and annoying my wife. Always a great thing to do when you’re stuck in a car with her.
All in all, I am not happy that I have to resort to this. I feel suckered. I hate having to do this, and why I have to do this. I refuse to believe all the solutions I need can be found in 2 aisles in fucking CVS. I try no to do it. Hopefully, I won’t have to do this much longer.
Yea, I feel pain. Every day.
DVD Extras
Yea, I know Motrin is in the title, when I’m taking Aleve, but I went with that for the alliteration with Monster.
Alternate Titles
Of Painkillers and Energy Drinks
Of Aleve and Energy
None of This Can be Just Me Getting Older
“You don’t feel any pain.”
I had someone tell me that recently. And it’s certainly flattering in a caveman/athlete superhero kinda way. “Grrr me feel no pain! Me smash!” But it’s not entirely true. I do feel pain. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever felt the amount of pain that I am feeling these days. Not just physical, either, in other areas as well. For the sake of this post, let’s keep it Olivia Newton John. You know, physical, physical. I wanna get into physical. Let me hear your body…talk..let me…um…hear your….body …talk. OK, I’m getting lost in an 80s flashback to that video. Dayum, ONJ sure was the hawtness back then.
I get along with pain just fine. It turns out I have a pretty high tolerance for pain. When I was a kid, I broke my wrist, and somehow managed to talk my parents out of taking me to the emergency room for a day. I broke my ankle playing basketball, and still hopped the fence and walked all the way to the parking lot. (Those of you who know Roslyn Park know how long of a haul it is from the courts to the parking lot.) Even though my ankle blew up to the size of said basketball, I still somehow managed to delay the inevitable trip to the ER by a few hours. (Besides, I had a Heart concert the next day. Long story short, they ended up postponing the show so I still got to see them.) Now that I look back, I wonder why the state didn’t take me away from my parents for their neglect of my well being.
A few years ago, I was playing football and tore my ACL. I still manly walked off the field (take that, stretcher riding football pansies) and sucked it up for a few hours. It wasn’t the pain that drove me to the ER (it was my wife, actually), but just the growing sense of something is seriously wrong here. So I guess a side effect of being impervious to pain is also that drugs seem to not work on me. After my knee surgery, I was prescribed Toredal (sp? BTW, it’s ironic that I get some thing that is basically pronounced “tore it all” when I tore my ligament) for pain and Percocet for sleep.
I stopped taking both in 2 days, because they weren’t making any difference for me. Which is odd, because my sister loves Percocet. I went back to the doc in a week, and my biggest complaint was that I still wasn’t sleeping. I have heard good things about Ambien and Vicodan, so I was angling to get some of those. He nodded, and said he would take care of me. Then he wrote me another prescription for Percocet. Well fuck me.
It now troubles me that I seem to really be feeling pain these days. It’s not like a dramatic broken bone or collapsing lung kinda pain, but more like a general fatigue and soreness kind of pain. And yes, it’s all because of ‘doing what I do’ to get by these days. I know that is a by-product of it. But, goddamn, I don’t want it to dictate what else I do. I am lucky to go to the gym more than 3 nights most weeks. Yes, I am sure being in a broken down state can make my pain worse, but I also know some time at the gym also heals me. It’s an outlet, a release, it’s something I do that makes me feel a lot better about myself. So when I can’t do that, it only adds to the pain. In those situations, I tend to call in Dr. Captain Morgan to ease the pain, and no real good comes of that. There’s only so many times the neighbors think it’s “cute” when they find me passed out on their picnic table in the backyard.
So now I find myself turning to (dramatic dum dum dum DUMMM) drugs. The recluse of the loser. Hitting rock bottom. Yes, readers, like most great writers, I have started experimenting with (dum dum dum DUMMM) drugs. Right now I am doing a little dance with something called Aleve. I admit to feeling pretty foolish about even trying this stuff. I come home with back “pain” and leg “pain” and T has this stuff lying around. I am beyond beat, and just want relief. So I pop 2 and wait. Surely, this has to be dramatic. Surely, this will be the first chemical rush that I will spend the rest of my unemployed days chasing. How sweet this euphoria will be. I wait to feel and finally, I do! I slowly feel…..pretty much nothing. And not the nothing that means my pain has gone down to nothing. I mean the nothing that nothing has changed. I still feel everything I did before. This is kind of a buzzkill.
Surely, there has to be something out there that can work for me. I start to search for “strongest OTC painkiller I can buy” and it appears that you can damage your liver if you abuse OTCs. See, look at that potential life saving info I just gave ya. Not only do you laugh, but you learn here, too. It also appears that you should take them with food as well. This is of course from scouring 2 message boards populated by anonymous Internet folks. I am sure no one is lying on the Internet anymore. Most importantly, I have learned that I probably should take 4 OTC and wash them down with rum and Coke Zero. Or maybe the potential damage to the liver will be muted out by both the pills and the booze. Yea, that makes sense.
Shit, what’s that stuff Bret Favre hawks? If it’s good enough for a Hall of Fame, MVP Super Bowl winning QB, then it must be able to work for me. But I do hear it has a nasty side effect of making you wishy-washy and you can develop a huge ego and alienate all those who supported you your entire career. At least that’s what I hear.
Another by-product of this pain, toil and trouble is a sever lack of energy. Again, this can be directly attributed to ‘doing what I have to do’ these days. At home, most nights I am a wastoid. I walk around like a broken old man, longing only for the couch or the easy chair. I dead the days I have to be ‘busy’. On Sunday night, I literally curl up in a ball and just chill (read in silence) just to mellow me out for another week of this shit. I don’t think I can keep doing this, so the prospect of 5 more fucking days of it is pretty heavy, and I just try to prepare mentally and physically for it.
Miraculously, weekends do arrive, and I find myself feeling down. Like I just need a little shot or kick of something to get me to that edge where I really feel ‘normal’. Which leads me to my next embarrassing confession. I have started drinking various “energy” drinks. Good Lord, let me just throw the towel in now, OK? Again, I temper this because I know this is just something I have to do these days. I never started drinking this stuff till just this year. I was doing monotonous shit in a cold warehouse. I mean mind-deadening stuff, spirit killing repetitive labor. I was a zombie. I sent to the soda machine, and got something called Full Throttle. Yes, Coke puts it out, and it was the only such thing they had. SO I drank it. I actually found I did get a clear kick from it. I felt more awake, and a spike in energy that got me over that edge. OK, this wasn’t so bad.
So there I am the next day doing the same damn thing, and I decide to drink it again. Only this time the rush is clearly less. I am disappointed as I return to eating brains. These last few weeks have seen my energy level drop as quickly as most record labels’ creditability. (ZING!) I have had to resort to trying more energy drinks. I imagine getting this massive rush of energy. I want to feel my heartbeat in my eyes. I want to feel my pulse in my toes. I want to become super focused and feel like I can run a marathon.
Yea, right. I know I will get none of that. Instead, I just want a little kick so I can just feel a bit more normal. It just needs to push me over that edge, and I will be fine. I know this isn’t what most people ask of these miracle elixirs. But it’s what I need out of the deal. As we’ve gone out and about these last few weekends, I make T stop so I can pick up something. Honestly, I think she’s getting annoyed by now. And I’ve stopped teasing her about her coffee consumption. Can‘t call the kettle black now.
It just pisses me off that I am doing this. I know it’s all marketing. You get energy from food, so essentially all food and drink is “energy”. I feel so lame for going this route. I know I can probably get the same burst of “energy” from doing something far more healthy. Like, I don’t know, boiling a carrot in seaweed or something as organic sounding. But no, I allow myself to do this.
And what I’ve found so far is that the drinks do kinda work for me. Again, it’s not the Herculean burst or anything, just a little nudge. I’ve had Monster and Rockstar the last few weeks, and they are pretty much the same. I find I do get an initial bout of giddiness in the first few minutes. This translates to me being funoxious and annoying my wife. Always a great thing to do when you’re stuck in a car with her.
All in all, I am not happy that I have to resort to this. I feel suckered. I hate having to do this, and why I have to do this. I refuse to believe all the solutions I need can be found in 2 aisles in fucking CVS. I try no to do it. Hopefully, I won’t have to do this much longer.
Yea, I feel pain. Every day.
DVD Extras
Yea, I know Motrin is in the title, when I’m taking Aleve, but I went with that for the alliteration with Monster.
Alternate Titles
Of Painkillers and Energy Drinks
Of Aleve and Energy
None of This Can be Just Me Getting Older
Monday, July 14, 2008
Dover
(originally written 5/28/8)
This weekend is another rite of summer. Another annual event that announces to me that, yes, summer is really here. This is the weekend I go to Dover, DE. For the big NASCAR race. Yup, 43 cars going around in circles all day. And before I catch any shit for this, I will say I would gladly watch cars going around in circles all days than steroided out cheaters swatting at a ball with a stick and running around in circles. Or “ballers” running up and down a court and throwing a ball into a hoop. Unless they can use ladders and buckets of confetti like the Globetrotters do. In which case, count me in.
I have been going to “the races” as people call them even though there’s only one race, since fall 1989. Shit, almost 20 fucking years. Ironically, all of this is due to my brother, John. And while I originally went to see my favorite driver, over the years, I have found myself looking more forward to it just to spend time with him. And let’s face it, when 43 cars get revved up, you can’t talk at all. Kind of funny how things change over time.
I can’t tell you the exact year, it had to be mid 80’s. My brother (the oldest of all us kids, I am the youngest, and best looking, and best writer, and most charming, and most full of shit) had been into racing for as long as I can remember. I never really got into it. Like most people, fuck, it was just a bunch of cars going around in circles. At this time, NASCAR was on TBS, a channel his cable didn’t have. So I said he can come over and watch it. I had nothing to do, so I decided to check out this racin’ thing. This race was on a road course. (Most traces are on ovals or something similar. Road courses have both left and right turns. Obviously the object is to stay on the paved course.) I was watching as their favorite driver was making his way around. Out of nowhere, this black car intentionally drove off the track, shortcut through the grass, rode beneath him and took the spot.
Dale Earnhardt.
Man, my brother threw a fit. “Goddamn, you can’t do that! He should be parked. That’s ridiculous.” In the span of 3 seconds, I saw John go from calm to ballistic. All because of this black car.
Dale Earnhardt.
Best part is he was never penalized. He, in fact, ‘got away with it’. This drove poor John even more nuts. I did what most brothers do. I antagonized him. I started busting his chops. I started rooting for this Earnhardt character. I did it to get under his skin-which I did. But I also did it because I thought it was pretty frigging cool he did get away with it.
Next week, I found myself tuned in, just to see what he would do next. I learned quick. Dale was a polarizing figure. Most fans hated him. I mean really hated him. Hated him like John hated him. Me being a new fan and all, found this fascinating. I didn’t put the dues in to see some of the things he’d done on his career. For a time, he had the nickname Ironhead, because he would just as much tap you out of the way than just pass you. On top of that, he was just plain good. He had won Rookie of the Year, and then the championship the very next year. He already had 3 or 4 titles by the time I started watching him. This drove fans even more nuts. He was good, and knew how to get his hands dirty. It was a great figure for a new fan to root for. Or at least just to call his brother every time he won a race. That’s what brothers do. Recall, it was my brother who turned me onto NASCAR in the first place.
I started following it every week. Dale’s legend grew and grew. He had an uncanny way of winning at the superspeedways (i.e. Daytona and Talladega where speed could reach almost 200 MPH), and always seemed to do something inhuman and put on a show. I would call John when Dale won. I would send articles of the win from the paper to him. But it just served to draw me closer in. I was now a fan, and could watch cars go around and around in circles all day. As long as Dale was there, there was the chance to raise hell.
For my high school graduation, John gave me my first Earnhardt t-shirt that he bought at Dover. This is fucking HUGE. It meant that when he went down there, he had to go to Dale’s trailer (just about every name driver sells their souvenirs, t-shirts, hats, etc from a tractor trailer that goes to every track), and buy the shirt. I know this had to kill him. He HATED Dale, so it had to burn him that he had to wait in line to buy a Dale shirt and carry it around. I knew this. To this day, I still have the shirt.
At this time, John had been going to both the spring and fall races at Dover for years and years. It just so happened that a ticket for the fall race was open and he wanted me to go. (Even though this is still years before the NASCAR boom of the late 90s, tickets were still hard to get, and they did have waiting lists.) I said yes, and got my first taste of the circus.
It was like the Grateful Dead of sporting events. As many others did (and still do), we parked in someone’s yard. I mean it was a huge yard that went back for a country mile, and hundreds of cars parked there. They parked at this yard every year, another rite for next summer. There were a few hours before the race started. Everyone seemed to be dressed in their favorite drivers’ gear. Hats, t-shirts, jackets, seat pads, coolers. Bill Elliott fans (like John. By this time, Elliott was clearly in decline, and to piss John off, I called him Bill Idiot), Richard Petty fans, Davey Allison fans, Rusty Wallace fans. I came out of the car to dozens of people just tailgating. Listening to country music, drinkin’ cheap beer from a can. Dads throwing footballs to their sons. And this wasn’t a sausagefest either. Plenty of women, dressed for the heat. In some cases this was a good thing, but in many, it was not. Grills going, Frisbees and baseballs flying by.
Everyone happy. Wallace fans hanging out with Darrel Waltrip fans. Even though everyone had their favorite, and may hate the driver of the next guy, it didn’t matter, everyone got along. When ya had to pee, there were plenty of trees and groves to do your business. I remember and old, rusted out car hull and plow thingie in the trees which were favored with my urine. I don’t even think I drank that day. It was just such a new world to me. Airplanes with banners behind them and helicopters above us. John had a bunch of ‘regulars’ come down for the fall race. We got our shit together, and headed out to the track.
Which is approximately 2 miles away. Kinda sucks, but this is new territory to an 18 year old. Just rivers and rivers of people, most with hats of their favorite driver, streaming to Dover Downs International Speedway. Along the way, there were huge fields where RVs could park for the weekend. It was here I saw my first, honest to goodness “SHOW US YOUR TITS” sign in an RV window. I argued to hang out here a bit, but they said to keep moving, because no one ever does. As we kept walking, laded down with coolers, binoculars, headphones, bags, there were more and more parking lots of RVs and campers. Just like our ‘lot’, you just saw tons of people having a blast. The closer you got to the track, the roads were closed except for emergency services, etc. Crowds jammed up to thin down to walk downhill to the track property. More, like thousands RVs, campers, vans parked here. Most had flagpoles with their favorite drivers name, number, car, sponsor, signature. The track was huge! Of course, we came in where we needed to go halfway around the track to get to our Turn 1 seats. Dover christened itself the “Monster Mile” Remember, it’s 1989, so pastel and dinosaurs were all the rage. You could buy bright green or yellow Monster Mile hats or tees, with the feyest looking dino you’d ever wanna see.
(I’ll cut through some of the BS racing things here, since it really isn’t the point) We get to our seats. Our metal, hot, uncomfortable seats. Sure, it’s September, but once you get up into the track, the heat and sun just bounce everywhere. I think my butt still has seat grooves burned into it. From quiet to 43 cars ‘starting their engines’. No TV captures this moment properly. You will not be able to hear the person next to you. Cars take a few parade laps, the green flag drops, and they’re off. Coming right at me. Hmm, a bit unnerving, and the catch-fence in front of our row 1 seats doesn’t look like it can stop a wayward pigeon, let along a 2000 pound racecar. As the cars pass, I am hit with a wave. A wave of rubber. I never would have thought of this. Rubber flies off the track and tires. I can feel it sticking to my sun screened face. Rubber and heat. Yum.
Silly me, never having gone to a race, I don’t have a headset, so it will be hours of loud cars assaulting my ears. Mental note for next time, bring something more than a Walkman, pansy. At the end of the day, there is one winner. And as luck would have it, it’s his first win at Dover, his last win at Dover, his only win at Dover.
Dale Earnhardt. The Man in Black.
I still remember his victory interview blaring over the PA as we left. “Great race track, great fans.” Yup, he must be talking to me. I am sure I am an interminable prick on the long ride home to John. I am sure he wanted to throw me on Route 1 and root for one of his beloved Ford drivers to run me over. So, all in all, good time, I am hooked.
As the years go on, I only go to the spring race, which is fine with me. There are only 3 guys that go to the spring race. Me, John and his lifelong friend Fred. Every year, it’s the same deal. Meet at my parents at 7, BS for a bit, then hit the road. Stop for ice and gas. John had managed to find a backroads way to the track. Saves us a ton of time. Every year, we park at the same place. In the same general location. I make sure to piss near the car hull and plow-thingie. Gotta honor the tradition. I wise up as I go down. Bring headphones, food, and beer. Always cans, since the track doesn’t allow glass. You gotta love any sport where you can bring in your own swill.
The Dover weekend is always a sign that it’s summer. The race is traditionally run the first Sunday after Memorial Day, so summer is in full swing. It almost becomes like Xmas Eve to me. I like Xmas Eve a lot more than Xmas, because everything is all in front of you. The best is yet to come. That’s what this day becomes to me. Not because I can watch Dale go around in circles, but because I find I really enjoy the time with John and Fred.
Fred’s a real guy. No pretense, no illusion. Married to the same girl for as long as I can remember, coupla kids that come down to the fall race. Fred works in a machine shop (the same place John now works). Works long hard hours. Smokes the cheapest cigarettes the Getty Mart sells. Drinks the cheapest beer, and it doesn’t bother him. (One time I brought Yuengling cans down. Fred pulls one out, holds it out to examine it and says, “I’ve never heard of this. Is this one of them microbeers, Kev?”) He knows just how to pepper his speech with the properly placed “Goddamn” or “shit”. Talks about guy stuff. “Shit, John, I was driving down the street the other day, and I saw this sweet ’76 Mustang for sale. Pfft, I shoulda pulled over and looked at the Goddamn thing.” Doesn’t believe in such modern ideas as recycling. “Aw, shit, Kev, I don’t do that.” Never used a computer, despite how much porn I tell him there is. Never uses sunscreen, even when I repeatedly offer. Some years he didn’t even wear a hat. (Which I didn’t do that fall ’89 race. The result? Sun poisoning on my face. Only me could find a less of a way to turn off the chickies.) Comes out beet red, but never complains. Always brings PB&J and Slim Jims to eat during the race.
He will offer you his beer when you get to the track. He will offer you his food as you’re watching the race. That’s the kind of guy he is. I really enjoy just listening to the 2 of them talk on the way down. It’s real man talk; about cars, and tools and machines and the broads at work. I can’t properly do them justice. In a world of guys shaving their backs, using ‘body washes’ and going all metrosexual, this is a bastion of real men talk. I start to find I enjoy this almost as much as the race.
As the years go on. I realize this is about the only time I spend with my brother, and probably the most time anyone in my family spends with the guy. He’s a pretty smart guy. I am sure he’s one of those guys that’s like worth $15 million dollars already, but you would never know it. He’s the one that told me to start a Roth IRA ASAP. (Which I did, and recommend you do, too.) The funny part is we are so different. Beside the huge age difference. He’s quiet and reserved, very shy. I am too, but to a point. He’s very regimented. He goes to bed the same time every night. Buys the same exact things at the supermarket every week. We’ve often joked that he goes to the market with exact change. He sowed his wild oats when he was young, but has since really cleaned up his act. I probably drink more in one weekend than he drinks all year. He has short hair, and looks younger than me. In fact, at a strip club, I convinced the dancer that I was the old one, and he was the young one. Guess I look like shit.
He likes the Ford guys, I like the Chevy guys. He probably doesn’t have a single DVD. He still uses a rotary phone. He washes his car-Ford Mustang, of course once a week. I am lucky if I wash KevAmPire once a year. He doesn’t go out and get blasted. He was smart and never got married, and I…uh…I shouldn’t finish that one.
He also shocked the hell out of me at Xmas. He really did the nicest thing for me and my situation. I was totally floored, was so surprised at what he did for me. Goes to show, help sometimes comes from the least likely places…
Spring races just kept coming. As we perfected taking shortcuts, we also found the perfect place to pee on our way down. Every year, we honor the tradition, and piss in this open parking lot. Sometimes there are trucks and cars parked in there, but we must honor tradition. It would not feel like Dover, like summer if we ignored it. Although I am sure that tour bus didn’t appreciate us bum rushing the trees. Back into the car, and careening down to the same parking lot. As the years have gone on, this house as gotten more sophisticated. They added portapotties (goodbye plow-thingie), ice machines, trash and recycle and you need reservations to get in. Some years we make them, other ones we don’t but we almost always get in. This is also I think one of the funnest times of the year.
The car is barely off, and me and Fred are in the trunk, getting beers. John doesn’t drink at the races. He’s straight edge that way. Me and Fred just start pounding. The atmosphere is great. Everyone is having a great time, throwing balls or horseshoes. Some people really bring elaborate set ups for their tailgating. Me and Fred drink Natty Lights and Molson Ices, John eats his sandwich and drinks his OJ. And we just have so much fun. John will give me financial advice. Fred will talk like a real guy. Fred wears his Earnhardt or Earnhardt Jr stuff. I wear all my Dale Sr stuff. John, every year, the same ratty ass yellow Matt Kenseth t-shirt. John is not one for bright colors, but every year, he’s rocking the yellow. I even tried to buy him a new shirt, and he said no. Off we go to the track after I have figured out the best possible way to cram as many beers in my cooler as possible.
Race starts, and there’s really not much talking. John will flip off Dale as he goes by. I’ll elbow him when Dale passes one of his drivers. We’ll yell back and forth at cautions. We’ll point when we think we see an accident brewing. Good times, good times. We’ll fry in the sun. A few years back, Dover repaved the track in white cement, and I will tell ya, a few hot hours getting the sun bouncing off white concrete will fucking fry your retinas. But I realize that of the whole day, the thing I enjoy most is that time hanging out, BS-ing in the lot with John. It’s time that is so fleeting; it goes by too fast, and the actual race is almost an afterthought. I have fun and all, but it feels like we’re past the most fun point.
John calls me up one year, and says he has an extra ticket to the fall race, if I wanna go. I kinda hemmed and hawed a bit, weather was looking shitty, and money and all. He does cajole me into going. A gray overcast day. We were with the bigger crowd. Still fun and all, but not as much as when it’s just us 3. I don’t even remember where Dale finished that day. It was September 2000.
Dale was killed in February 2001.
John had gotten me to see Dale one last time.
During these years, me and John had developed another informal racing tradition. I would drive up to him, and he had a bar right down the street that had the Daytona on, and catered to race fans. Beer was dirt fucking cheap. We did it a lot of Daytonas, but not every. As the years went on, the bartender and crowd moved to another bar. I went there for Daytona 2001. Got pie eyed, saw Dale hit the wall. There were a bunch of Dale fans there, and none of us were concerned in the least. We had seen him emerge from scarier crashes. Most of us were still saying he could win another championship. We really didn’t pay much attention as the ambulance slowly made its way. If it was going slow, that meant there was no cause for concern, right?
Thought nothing of it, as I left. Came home, hung out for a bit, when John called me. “Hey, man, I just want to say I’m sorry about Dale” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “What do you mean? He’s dead!” That John, always one with tact.
John had gotten me to see Dale for the last time.
I found out that I wasn’t much a race fan as I was a Dale fan. The races just didn’t seem the same without The Intimidator in his black car lurking. The races stopped being fun. I rapidly lost interest. June was coming up, and I had my mind made up that I wasn’t going to go. I lost sight that while the race would be boring as fuck without Dale, this was also my time with John (and Fred). My heart still wasn’t into it, but I went. We didn’t even get the usual lot that day. I found I still really enjoyed my time with John. I wasn’t looking forward to the race. It’s one thing to watch a race on TV when you can flick channel in search of boobies. But live at the track, there is literally nothing to do but watch cars go around in circles all day. How would I get through that part? O yea, beer.
So the race itself became an expensive cover to pay to drink beers all day. I mean get plastered, more so than when Dale was alive. Good Lord, watching 43 cars go in 400 circles can drive one batty. But there me and Fred would be, losing track of what lap it was and who was in the lead. Even though the leader board is right in front of us. Dover would later add huge TV screens to show highlights and accidents. Even though I don’t follow NASCAR like I used to, I always look forward to John calling me to ask if I can go. I get all giddy that Saturday night, trying to sleep. It’s bad enough I have to get up early during the week, but to do it on Sunday is a bit of a challenge for me. But there the three of us are, meeting at my parents. Fred, always the last, always with the big 3 mug of coffee, always the last one to show, always the one to drive down. There I am in the back seat, with weather forecasts, point standings, starting grid. And it all begins again. John and Fred, talking and bullshitting like the last of the real guys they are. There I am, just happy to listen, maybe to learn something. Looking at my brother thinking he is a hell of a guy.
Make the left, make the quick right, and here is the Traditional Parking Lot of Pee. The last few years, about 300 yards on the other side of the road, a carnival has been. It’s a bit surreal to pee near a fog encased Ferris wheel on a Sunday morning. Here we get to the usual lot, with the usual girl taking our money, and calling Fred ‘honey’. I am sure she does that to all the guys, but Fred falls for it every year. The last few years, they’ve kept pushing the start of the race back and back. For years, it always started at noon. Now, it doesn’t start till 1 fucking 30. Which is good and bad. Bad because that makes the day that much later, and traffic that much more of a bitch as you run into shore traffic. Good because that gives you precious more time to hang and drink. If I got a 2 mile hike, I better be well buzzed to make it go by quicker. And like I said above, with no real favorite driver, the race can be boring as fuck. Pop another one open. And please don’t let a fucking Hendrick car win.
I find myself wanting this week to be over so I can go to Dover with John.
DVD Extras
Alternate Ending
Right after I got laid off, the Dale documentary was in theaters. For the movie, they created 10 special die casts of important Dale cars. Cars he won titles with, the Daytona car, etc. One of the cars was from Dover, spring 1990. I was at that race. There was nothing overtly spectacular about the car. In fact, it blew up. Twice. I am sure John was elbowing me when it happened. So why the need to immortalize it in 1:24 form? Turns out that the team fixed it. While they didn’t get a lot of points towards the season ending championship, they did get some as a result of fixing the car. Dale did win the championship that year, but only by a few points. And they look at this car as an example of being down, but not out. It didn’t win this race. But as the season went on, they won the championship.
I saw them advertising the car on QVC. (I know, I have quite a life to be watching QVC.) I had just gotten laid off, and money would be a factor. Still, I wanted it. Not only because it’s pretty wicked cool to say “I saw that car”, also, because I had identified with it. I felt broken down. I felt beat. But I knew there was a bigger race to be run, to be won. Irony made it something that I suddenly saw myself in. I mean, I usually only see myself in mirrors. I intended to display here at my desk, as some sort of inspiring sign that I may be down, but not out. One year later, it still proudly resides in a pile with my 13 other Dale die-casts. Still in the box like the rest of them. I never put it out on my desk, for fear of fucking it up. Or spilling a drink on it. Or sneezing on it, like I just did on the screen. EEIIWWW. But I still glance over to it. It’s still a sign. I didn’t think this shit would be going on for a year, but it still does inspire me. Maybe if I take it out of the box, my luck will change….
This weekend is another rite of summer. Another annual event that announces to me that, yes, summer is really here. This is the weekend I go to Dover, DE. For the big NASCAR race. Yup, 43 cars going around in circles all day. And before I catch any shit for this, I will say I would gladly watch cars going around in circles all days than steroided out cheaters swatting at a ball with a stick and running around in circles. Or “ballers” running up and down a court and throwing a ball into a hoop. Unless they can use ladders and buckets of confetti like the Globetrotters do. In which case, count me in.
I have been going to “the races” as people call them even though there’s only one race, since fall 1989. Shit, almost 20 fucking years. Ironically, all of this is due to my brother, John. And while I originally went to see my favorite driver, over the years, I have found myself looking more forward to it just to spend time with him. And let’s face it, when 43 cars get revved up, you can’t talk at all. Kind of funny how things change over time.
I can’t tell you the exact year, it had to be mid 80’s. My brother (the oldest of all us kids, I am the youngest, and best looking, and best writer, and most charming, and most full of shit) had been into racing for as long as I can remember. I never really got into it. Like most people, fuck, it was just a bunch of cars going around in circles. At this time, NASCAR was on TBS, a channel his cable didn’t have. So I said he can come over and watch it. I had nothing to do, so I decided to check out this racin’ thing. This race was on a road course. (Most traces are on ovals or something similar. Road courses have both left and right turns. Obviously the object is to stay on the paved course.) I was watching as their favorite driver was making his way around. Out of nowhere, this black car intentionally drove off the track, shortcut through the grass, rode beneath him and took the spot.
Dale Earnhardt.
Man, my brother threw a fit. “Goddamn, you can’t do that! He should be parked. That’s ridiculous.” In the span of 3 seconds, I saw John go from calm to ballistic. All because of this black car.
Dale Earnhardt.
Best part is he was never penalized. He, in fact, ‘got away with it’. This drove poor John even more nuts. I did what most brothers do. I antagonized him. I started busting his chops. I started rooting for this Earnhardt character. I did it to get under his skin-which I did. But I also did it because I thought it was pretty frigging cool he did get away with it.
Next week, I found myself tuned in, just to see what he would do next. I learned quick. Dale was a polarizing figure. Most fans hated him. I mean really hated him. Hated him like John hated him. Me being a new fan and all, found this fascinating. I didn’t put the dues in to see some of the things he’d done on his career. For a time, he had the nickname Ironhead, because he would just as much tap you out of the way than just pass you. On top of that, he was just plain good. He had won Rookie of the Year, and then the championship the very next year. He already had 3 or 4 titles by the time I started watching him. This drove fans even more nuts. He was good, and knew how to get his hands dirty. It was a great figure for a new fan to root for. Or at least just to call his brother every time he won a race. That’s what brothers do. Recall, it was my brother who turned me onto NASCAR in the first place.
I started following it every week. Dale’s legend grew and grew. He had an uncanny way of winning at the superspeedways (i.e. Daytona and Talladega where speed could reach almost 200 MPH), and always seemed to do something inhuman and put on a show. I would call John when Dale won. I would send articles of the win from the paper to him. But it just served to draw me closer in. I was now a fan, and could watch cars go around and around in circles all day. As long as Dale was there, there was the chance to raise hell.
For my high school graduation, John gave me my first Earnhardt t-shirt that he bought at Dover. This is fucking HUGE. It meant that when he went down there, he had to go to Dale’s trailer (just about every name driver sells their souvenirs, t-shirts, hats, etc from a tractor trailer that goes to every track), and buy the shirt. I know this had to kill him. He HATED Dale, so it had to burn him that he had to wait in line to buy a Dale shirt and carry it around. I knew this. To this day, I still have the shirt.
At this time, John had been going to both the spring and fall races at Dover for years and years. It just so happened that a ticket for the fall race was open and he wanted me to go. (Even though this is still years before the NASCAR boom of the late 90s, tickets were still hard to get, and they did have waiting lists.) I said yes, and got my first taste of the circus.
It was like the Grateful Dead of sporting events. As many others did (and still do), we parked in someone’s yard. I mean it was a huge yard that went back for a country mile, and hundreds of cars parked there. They parked at this yard every year, another rite for next summer. There were a few hours before the race started. Everyone seemed to be dressed in their favorite drivers’ gear. Hats, t-shirts, jackets, seat pads, coolers. Bill Elliott fans (like John. By this time, Elliott was clearly in decline, and to piss John off, I called him Bill Idiot), Richard Petty fans, Davey Allison fans, Rusty Wallace fans. I came out of the car to dozens of people just tailgating. Listening to country music, drinkin’ cheap beer from a can. Dads throwing footballs to their sons. And this wasn’t a sausagefest either. Plenty of women, dressed for the heat. In some cases this was a good thing, but in many, it was not. Grills going, Frisbees and baseballs flying by.
Everyone happy. Wallace fans hanging out with Darrel Waltrip fans. Even though everyone had their favorite, and may hate the driver of the next guy, it didn’t matter, everyone got along. When ya had to pee, there were plenty of trees and groves to do your business. I remember and old, rusted out car hull and plow thingie in the trees which were favored with my urine. I don’t even think I drank that day. It was just such a new world to me. Airplanes with banners behind them and helicopters above us. John had a bunch of ‘regulars’ come down for the fall race. We got our shit together, and headed out to the track.
Which is approximately 2 miles away. Kinda sucks, but this is new territory to an 18 year old. Just rivers and rivers of people, most with hats of their favorite driver, streaming to Dover Downs International Speedway. Along the way, there were huge fields where RVs could park for the weekend. It was here I saw my first, honest to goodness “SHOW US YOUR TITS” sign in an RV window. I argued to hang out here a bit, but they said to keep moving, because no one ever does. As we kept walking, laded down with coolers, binoculars, headphones, bags, there were more and more parking lots of RVs and campers. Just like our ‘lot’, you just saw tons of people having a blast. The closer you got to the track, the roads were closed except for emergency services, etc. Crowds jammed up to thin down to walk downhill to the track property. More, like thousands RVs, campers, vans parked here. Most had flagpoles with their favorite drivers name, number, car, sponsor, signature. The track was huge! Of course, we came in where we needed to go halfway around the track to get to our Turn 1 seats. Dover christened itself the “Monster Mile” Remember, it’s 1989, so pastel and dinosaurs were all the rage. You could buy bright green or yellow Monster Mile hats or tees, with the feyest looking dino you’d ever wanna see.
(I’ll cut through some of the BS racing things here, since it really isn’t the point) We get to our seats. Our metal, hot, uncomfortable seats. Sure, it’s September, but once you get up into the track, the heat and sun just bounce everywhere. I think my butt still has seat grooves burned into it. From quiet to 43 cars ‘starting their engines’. No TV captures this moment properly. You will not be able to hear the person next to you. Cars take a few parade laps, the green flag drops, and they’re off. Coming right at me. Hmm, a bit unnerving, and the catch-fence in front of our row 1 seats doesn’t look like it can stop a wayward pigeon, let along a 2000 pound racecar. As the cars pass, I am hit with a wave. A wave of rubber. I never would have thought of this. Rubber flies off the track and tires. I can feel it sticking to my sun screened face. Rubber and heat. Yum.
Silly me, never having gone to a race, I don’t have a headset, so it will be hours of loud cars assaulting my ears. Mental note for next time, bring something more than a Walkman, pansy. At the end of the day, there is one winner. And as luck would have it, it’s his first win at Dover, his last win at Dover, his only win at Dover.
Dale Earnhardt. The Man in Black.
I still remember his victory interview blaring over the PA as we left. “Great race track, great fans.” Yup, he must be talking to me. I am sure I am an interminable prick on the long ride home to John. I am sure he wanted to throw me on Route 1 and root for one of his beloved Ford drivers to run me over. So, all in all, good time, I am hooked.
As the years go on, I only go to the spring race, which is fine with me. There are only 3 guys that go to the spring race. Me, John and his lifelong friend Fred. Every year, it’s the same deal. Meet at my parents at 7, BS for a bit, then hit the road. Stop for ice and gas. John had managed to find a backroads way to the track. Saves us a ton of time. Every year, we park at the same place. In the same general location. I make sure to piss near the car hull and plow-thingie. Gotta honor the tradition. I wise up as I go down. Bring headphones, food, and beer. Always cans, since the track doesn’t allow glass. You gotta love any sport where you can bring in your own swill.
The Dover weekend is always a sign that it’s summer. The race is traditionally run the first Sunday after Memorial Day, so summer is in full swing. It almost becomes like Xmas Eve to me. I like Xmas Eve a lot more than Xmas, because everything is all in front of you. The best is yet to come. That’s what this day becomes to me. Not because I can watch Dale go around in circles, but because I find I really enjoy the time with John and Fred.
Fred’s a real guy. No pretense, no illusion. Married to the same girl for as long as I can remember, coupla kids that come down to the fall race. Fred works in a machine shop (the same place John now works). Works long hard hours. Smokes the cheapest cigarettes the Getty Mart sells. Drinks the cheapest beer, and it doesn’t bother him. (One time I brought Yuengling cans down. Fred pulls one out, holds it out to examine it and says, “I’ve never heard of this. Is this one of them microbeers, Kev?”) He knows just how to pepper his speech with the properly placed “Goddamn” or “shit”. Talks about guy stuff. “Shit, John, I was driving down the street the other day, and I saw this sweet ’76 Mustang for sale. Pfft, I shoulda pulled over and looked at the Goddamn thing.” Doesn’t believe in such modern ideas as recycling. “Aw, shit, Kev, I don’t do that.” Never used a computer, despite how much porn I tell him there is. Never uses sunscreen, even when I repeatedly offer. Some years he didn’t even wear a hat. (Which I didn’t do that fall ’89 race. The result? Sun poisoning on my face. Only me could find a less of a way to turn off the chickies.) Comes out beet red, but never complains. Always brings PB&J and Slim Jims to eat during the race.
He will offer you his beer when you get to the track. He will offer you his food as you’re watching the race. That’s the kind of guy he is. I really enjoy just listening to the 2 of them talk on the way down. It’s real man talk; about cars, and tools and machines and the broads at work. I can’t properly do them justice. In a world of guys shaving their backs, using ‘body washes’ and going all metrosexual, this is a bastion of real men talk. I start to find I enjoy this almost as much as the race.
As the years go on. I realize this is about the only time I spend with my brother, and probably the most time anyone in my family spends with the guy. He’s a pretty smart guy. I am sure he’s one of those guys that’s like worth $15 million dollars already, but you would never know it. He’s the one that told me to start a Roth IRA ASAP. (Which I did, and recommend you do, too.) The funny part is we are so different. Beside the huge age difference. He’s quiet and reserved, very shy. I am too, but to a point. He’s very regimented. He goes to bed the same time every night. Buys the same exact things at the supermarket every week. We’ve often joked that he goes to the market with exact change. He sowed his wild oats when he was young, but has since really cleaned up his act. I probably drink more in one weekend than he drinks all year. He has short hair, and looks younger than me. In fact, at a strip club, I convinced the dancer that I was the old one, and he was the young one. Guess I look like shit.
He likes the Ford guys, I like the Chevy guys. He probably doesn’t have a single DVD. He still uses a rotary phone. He washes his car-Ford Mustang, of course once a week. I am lucky if I wash KevAmPire once a year. He doesn’t go out and get blasted. He was smart and never got married, and I…uh…I shouldn’t finish that one.
He also shocked the hell out of me at Xmas. He really did the nicest thing for me and my situation. I was totally floored, was so surprised at what he did for me. Goes to show, help sometimes comes from the least likely places…
Spring races just kept coming. As we perfected taking shortcuts, we also found the perfect place to pee on our way down. Every year, we honor the tradition, and piss in this open parking lot. Sometimes there are trucks and cars parked in there, but we must honor tradition. It would not feel like Dover, like summer if we ignored it. Although I am sure that tour bus didn’t appreciate us bum rushing the trees. Back into the car, and careening down to the same parking lot. As the years have gone on, this house as gotten more sophisticated. They added portapotties (goodbye plow-thingie), ice machines, trash and recycle and you need reservations to get in. Some years we make them, other ones we don’t but we almost always get in. This is also I think one of the funnest times of the year.
The car is barely off, and me and Fred are in the trunk, getting beers. John doesn’t drink at the races. He’s straight edge that way. Me and Fred just start pounding. The atmosphere is great. Everyone is having a great time, throwing balls or horseshoes. Some people really bring elaborate set ups for their tailgating. Me and Fred drink Natty Lights and Molson Ices, John eats his sandwich and drinks his OJ. And we just have so much fun. John will give me financial advice. Fred will talk like a real guy. Fred wears his Earnhardt or Earnhardt Jr stuff. I wear all my Dale Sr stuff. John, every year, the same ratty ass yellow Matt Kenseth t-shirt. John is not one for bright colors, but every year, he’s rocking the yellow. I even tried to buy him a new shirt, and he said no. Off we go to the track after I have figured out the best possible way to cram as many beers in my cooler as possible.
Race starts, and there’s really not much talking. John will flip off Dale as he goes by. I’ll elbow him when Dale passes one of his drivers. We’ll yell back and forth at cautions. We’ll point when we think we see an accident brewing. Good times, good times. We’ll fry in the sun. A few years back, Dover repaved the track in white cement, and I will tell ya, a few hot hours getting the sun bouncing off white concrete will fucking fry your retinas. But I realize that of the whole day, the thing I enjoy most is that time hanging out, BS-ing in the lot with John. It’s time that is so fleeting; it goes by too fast, and the actual race is almost an afterthought. I have fun and all, but it feels like we’re past the most fun point.
John calls me up one year, and says he has an extra ticket to the fall race, if I wanna go. I kinda hemmed and hawed a bit, weather was looking shitty, and money and all. He does cajole me into going. A gray overcast day. We were with the bigger crowd. Still fun and all, but not as much as when it’s just us 3. I don’t even remember where Dale finished that day. It was September 2000.
Dale was killed in February 2001.
John had gotten me to see Dale one last time.
During these years, me and John had developed another informal racing tradition. I would drive up to him, and he had a bar right down the street that had the Daytona on, and catered to race fans. Beer was dirt fucking cheap. We did it a lot of Daytonas, but not every. As the years went on, the bartender and crowd moved to another bar. I went there for Daytona 2001. Got pie eyed, saw Dale hit the wall. There were a bunch of Dale fans there, and none of us were concerned in the least. We had seen him emerge from scarier crashes. Most of us were still saying he could win another championship. We really didn’t pay much attention as the ambulance slowly made its way. If it was going slow, that meant there was no cause for concern, right?
Thought nothing of it, as I left. Came home, hung out for a bit, when John called me. “Hey, man, I just want to say I’m sorry about Dale” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “What do you mean? He’s dead!” That John, always one with tact.
John had gotten me to see Dale for the last time.
I found out that I wasn’t much a race fan as I was a Dale fan. The races just didn’t seem the same without The Intimidator in his black car lurking. The races stopped being fun. I rapidly lost interest. June was coming up, and I had my mind made up that I wasn’t going to go. I lost sight that while the race would be boring as fuck without Dale, this was also my time with John (and Fred). My heart still wasn’t into it, but I went. We didn’t even get the usual lot that day. I found I still really enjoyed my time with John. I wasn’t looking forward to the race. It’s one thing to watch a race on TV when you can flick channel in search of boobies. But live at the track, there is literally nothing to do but watch cars go around in circles all day. How would I get through that part? O yea, beer.
So the race itself became an expensive cover to pay to drink beers all day. I mean get plastered, more so than when Dale was alive. Good Lord, watching 43 cars go in 400 circles can drive one batty. But there me and Fred would be, losing track of what lap it was and who was in the lead. Even though the leader board is right in front of us. Dover would later add huge TV screens to show highlights and accidents. Even though I don’t follow NASCAR like I used to, I always look forward to John calling me to ask if I can go. I get all giddy that Saturday night, trying to sleep. It’s bad enough I have to get up early during the week, but to do it on Sunday is a bit of a challenge for me. But there the three of us are, meeting at my parents. Fred, always the last, always with the big 3 mug of coffee, always the last one to show, always the one to drive down. There I am in the back seat, with weather forecasts, point standings, starting grid. And it all begins again. John and Fred, talking and bullshitting like the last of the real guys they are. There I am, just happy to listen, maybe to learn something. Looking at my brother thinking he is a hell of a guy.
Make the left, make the quick right, and here is the Traditional Parking Lot of Pee. The last few years, about 300 yards on the other side of the road, a carnival has been. It’s a bit surreal to pee near a fog encased Ferris wheel on a Sunday morning. Here we get to the usual lot, with the usual girl taking our money, and calling Fred ‘honey’. I am sure she does that to all the guys, but Fred falls for it every year. The last few years, they’ve kept pushing the start of the race back and back. For years, it always started at noon. Now, it doesn’t start till 1 fucking 30. Which is good and bad. Bad because that makes the day that much later, and traffic that much more of a bitch as you run into shore traffic. Good because that gives you precious more time to hang and drink. If I got a 2 mile hike, I better be well buzzed to make it go by quicker. And like I said above, with no real favorite driver, the race can be boring as fuck. Pop another one open. And please don’t let a fucking Hendrick car win.
I find myself wanting this week to be over so I can go to Dover with John.
DVD Extras
Alternate Ending
Right after I got laid off, the Dale documentary was in theaters. For the movie, they created 10 special die casts of important Dale cars. Cars he won titles with, the Daytona car, etc. One of the cars was from Dover, spring 1990. I was at that race. There was nothing overtly spectacular about the car. In fact, it blew up. Twice. I am sure John was elbowing me when it happened. So why the need to immortalize it in 1:24 form? Turns out that the team fixed it. While they didn’t get a lot of points towards the season ending championship, they did get some as a result of fixing the car. Dale did win the championship that year, but only by a few points. And they look at this car as an example of being down, but not out. It didn’t win this race. But as the season went on, they won the championship.
I saw them advertising the car on QVC. (I know, I have quite a life to be watching QVC.) I had just gotten laid off, and money would be a factor. Still, I wanted it. Not only because it’s pretty wicked cool to say “I saw that car”, also, because I had identified with it. I felt broken down. I felt beat. But I knew there was a bigger race to be run, to be won. Irony made it something that I suddenly saw myself in. I mean, I usually only see myself in mirrors. I intended to display here at my desk, as some sort of inspiring sign that I may be down, but not out. One year later, it still proudly resides in a pile with my 13 other Dale die-casts. Still in the box like the rest of them. I never put it out on my desk, for fear of fucking it up. Or spilling a drink on it. Or sneezing on it, like I just did on the screen. EEIIWWW. But I still glance over to it. It’s still a sign. I didn’t think this shit would be going on for a year, but it still does inspire me. Maybe if I take it out of the box, my luck will change….
Summer's Here
(Originally written 5/26/8)
It’s not a surprise. I’ve seen it coming for weeks now. I can’t describe it (so geez, Kevolution Theory, let’s just try to write a blog about it. Sounds like fun, dipshit.) I’ve seen it, but have been too busy to write to point it out. So what better time than now? Now being 12:11 AM on Memorial Day Monday. The fuel of coconut rum is now in danger of running dry. So that means I will surely catch a ration of shit. Last time I did this was Friday night, where I Klogged my guts out for you’s, silent, fucking unappreciative readers. 2 posts (just re-edited the last one and put it up, really believing it was as funny as it could be.) There have been signs. And now I choose to point them out, as long as the rum lasts. BTW, I am misspelling like a motherfucker, so y’all better appreciate this shit and Kudo me out the ass.
The first time I can really recall seeing signs that summer was on its way was in the bucket with Scotty. When we were up that high, the sunshine and clear blue skies just had ‘the look’. It was it the way the sun reflected off of..well anything. The glare, the reflection, the sky, the breeze, it just had that teasing quality of ’yea, KT, it’s me summer, and I am coming.’ I am sure Scotty didn’t see it. I am sure he didn’t feel it. It was almost just a personal sign to Kevin Almighty. “Get ready to break out the board shorts and buy new flip flops. I am just a few weeks away, and I just might be able to heal you.” And this is not to say the subsequent sunburn and peeling of flesh was not a de facto sign. (I don’t know why I italicized ‘de facto’ other than I’ve almost only seen it that way.)
Since then, I’ve created my own signs. Take for instance, the breaking out of the grill. O, it’s been a sweet few weeks. It first started with one of my best friends in this world, we’ll call him Flyin’, since that is in fact what I call him. He came over to watch a Wings game on line (which they lost, motherfuckers). It was a beautiful day and the Mrs. was off doing…something. When inviting him over, I said let’s barbecue. I take my grill seriously. It’s almost an inherent gift. I don’t read no books or study or whatnot. It’s an intrinsic gift that I just know when the meat in question is done. Burgers, chicken, pork, buffalo, shrimp, crab, etc. Me and fire get along well. In fact, if I had to say I had a personal logo, it would be blue flames. But that is a topic for another post.
As such, I feel an inherent competition amongst my fellow loser neighbors. I want to be the first. So Flyin’ did me a great favor by coming over. He gave me an excuse to fire up the old grill first. There’s a guy right next to use that is probably similar in age (but looks far older). He’s a griller, too. His grill will drift right into our kitchen window. Man, that pisses me off. I smell it and feel like I lost this imaginary battle. So to be the first free and clear to burn dead animal on the grill is a huge stroke to the ego. I was a proud papa to take the cover off the grill, shake the winter months off, and fire that motherfucker up. No one else within the vicinity of my yard did so yet, so score points for me. Me and Flyin’ ate the sweetest chicken and burgers in the ‘hood that day. The rest of the grills sat in quiet jealousy. Not even Lou, the guy right behind us, christened his grill yet. This is the same Lou that you hear dumping the weekend worth’s of empties in the recycle can every Sunday night. Point and match me.
I’ve been wearing shorts more and more. And by shorts, I mean the 2-3 pair that I didn’t put in the crawlspace last fall. Yes, all the boardshorts are still safe in storage bins in the crawlspace. A few weeks ago, I made it official by dragging out the hammock. That is, until I realized I somehow lost an all important S-hook. So the hammock looked like a deflated balloon. Defeated, hanging by one S-hooked metal chain; the other end limply on the ground. My, my, my, so sad, and such a tease. I took days for me to get the Mrs. to run to Lowe’s and get another Goddamn S-hook that can hold my fat ass in hammocked-bliss.
The days have been getting longer. The glorious sun hangs longer in the evening sky. Bauer looks at us like, “yo, seriously, let’s get the hell out there. I have new yards to piss and poop on.” When I take him out by myself, I wear the iPod, looking to create new spring/summer memories for the songs being played. Speaking of which, I will tell you I have not rearranged the order of my SummerSongs mix since I was in OCMD last year. Sure, I’ve added a bunch of songs (including a bunch of Southern Culture on the Skids surf instrumentals. Do yourself a favor, and check out this band, as I added almost every single song from their last 8 CDs today.) but have not changed the order since the last time I was walking/running in OCMD. Call me superstitious or nostalgic.
I feel it in me. The last few weeks, I have been hawking out ocean/boardwalk cams online, just to try to feel like I’m there. I have found a few favorites. And as a service to you, dear reader, I am ready to reveal some of the best places to go on the web to feel a bit closer to Mother Ocean. We’ll start in Wrightsville. This camera was way better a few years ago. It was off line for a long time, but I kept track of it, off of my WEA PC to here. They have change the camera angle, almost daily now. Not as good or as clear as it was. A slight bonus is that they loop ocean sound effects, so it does make you feel a little bit more like you are there. Worth the browser pointing, so visit:
http://www.wrightsville.com/bchcam.htm
Longtime readers know I have spent some time in OCMD, so here are a few good cameras that I’ve been viewing. First one if from the Kite Loft. I’ve run/walked by this cam many times. It almost hurts to watch, because I can visualize everything around it. It’s a painful tease. Every time I went by it, I made sure to look up; in the vain hope that someone else was watching me. That they were jealous that I was that close to the beach. Or they wanted to run like they had a stick up their ass. Either way. Not a live cam feed, but every 5 seconds, and worth it. See what I’m talking about at:
http://www.kiteloft.com/beach_webcam.asp
Let’s stay in OC. This is a great cam. Not live, but updates quite frequently. And there’s a great shortcut, too. There’s a dropdown menu in the center that says ‘view more cams’ and allows you to view multiple cams. Again, I have personally been through many of these locations, and they are almost all great views. Sucks that they are not streaming. I look at many of these cams and get insanely jealous that I am not there. Insanely jealous.
http://www.ococean.com/webcam.html
Good God, I miss this so much right now, it’s almost causing me pain. OK, maybe it’s that or the orange creamsicles, coconut rum & cokes and now just Captain Morgan and Coke Zeros. Seriously, kids, I am growing depressed, which might beget brilliant writing or melancholy writing. Either way I soldier on. You guys even care?
This used to be another good picture cam. Alas, it was the victim of a fire, and at least they let you know, and show you a picture of the cam getting ready to be swallowed by flame. If/when it gets back on line, it’s worth a look. See this one at:
http://www.oceancitycam.com/
This is a wicked cool camera. It’s pretty much live. Not only can you pick a few predetermined points, you can also control the cam and zero in and out. Its reliability is questionable, but well worth it when it’s on (Hey, just like me!) Prob the best streaming cam on the OCMD boardwalk I have stumbled across so far. Check it out at:
http://www.ocmdhotels.com/oceancityinletcam/
Just don’t bitch at me when it doesn’t work. (It doesn’t appear to be working now at 1:50 at night. Or maybe it’s just really, really dark. Whatever. Hey, who’s drinking my Captain & Coke Zero? It can’t be me. Shit, I’m toast tomorrow.)
So let’s go a bit further south. I fully plan a long, melancholy, painful post about me and Virginia Beach. Here I go, setting myself up to write another post, so please hold me to it. I expect some of my MySpace friends to encourage me. Look for that post in about 2 weeks when we would usually be down there. Until then, feel free to view these cameras, and imagine a drunken K Theory stumbling by.
We’ll start here. The Raven is a place we’ve walked past dozens of times over the years. Along with a bunch of friends last year, I finally ate there. And some of us got sick. Not me and my iron stomach mind you, but a few more of the weaker bitched about some shit like “undercooked meat” or some such pansy shit. So that was the first and last time I ever darkened that doorway. (Would I love to in 2 weeks? FUCK YEAH! But again, that a different story for another hopefully upcoming post.) This site is cool because they’ve upgraded it to 4 views around the restaurant. I particularly enjoy the street view. Many times I’ve passed there, and waved to the camera. Again, I was hoping there was some other loser jealous fuck watching the camera and hoping to be me. And if you want to see where I sat my lone time in there, check out the bar cam. We were slightly over and under to the bottom right. You’ll have to imagine the puke later in the hotel. Regardless, still a good cam that updates every second.
http://www.theraven.com/barfly/
Let’s bring it up a bit back north, to the lovely Wildwoods, NJ. Now, excuse Grandpa Theory, as I lean back in my rocking chair on the porch. Now back when I was a kid, it was just “Wildwood”, with minor emphasis placed on Wildwood Crest and North Wildwood. In fact, back then, it was called “Childwood”, in reference to all the partying kids that lived and pissed in the streets there every summer. There was something that was called “the block that rocks” which was highlighted by a club called the Playpen (if I recall correctly, I never had the pleasure to go.) Wildwood was the place that high school and college kids went and made drunken asses of themselves. Boy, am I jealous. Without getting too deep, Wildwood was my first real, adolescent experience to the shore.
Just to be that close, to sniff the action, to pick up on the clues of all that I saw happening hooked me. My sisters had a place down there for a few years. It was literally a converted garage, the driveway ran right up to the steps. It was 5 rooms: kitchen, bathroom (with only a shower stall with a mirror complete with a 1940’s pinup model painted on), living room, and 2 bedrooms. And that’s not counting the ‘screened in porch’. The living room was carpeted in Astroturf. No AC, black and white TV. Yea, it sounds like a dump, and it probably was, but I swear to you, I had life changing events there. Shit that molded my mind to where it is today. I could go on…..
But let’s just stick to a cool webcam I found that appears to be offline right now. There were 2 cams here that pretty much updated every second. Boardwalk view and I believe Ferris Wheel. I haven’t been back to Wildwood since the fall of ’98. I miss it desperately. Feel my pain at:
http://www.gwcoc.org/webcam_2.html
Here’s some other cool cams that I drop into when I need those Calgon moments to take me away. A streaming one from Hawaii complete with music:
http://www.honolulu.gov/multimed/waikiki.asp
This is a good streaming one from Santa Monica. Wish I could say more, but as I type it’s dark as shit. Since I saved it, I am sure it must be spectacular in the day. Prove me wrong at:
http://www.hermosawave.net/webcam/newcamvideo.php
There’s 2 streaming cams here that are generally pretty good. Surf cams from Florida.
http://www.hermosawave.net/webcam/newcamvideo.php
Last, I will leave you with a great search site for various beach cams. I am getting too tired to explain much more, so have your lazy ass check it out yourself. Me goings to bed.
http://www.webcamplaza.net/
It’s not a surprise. I’ve seen it coming for weeks now. I can’t describe it (so geez, Kevolution Theory, let’s just try to write a blog about it. Sounds like fun, dipshit.) I’ve seen it, but have been too busy to write to point it out. So what better time than now? Now being 12:11 AM on Memorial Day Monday. The fuel of coconut rum is now in danger of running dry. So that means I will surely catch a ration of shit. Last time I did this was Friday night, where I Klogged my guts out for you’s, silent, fucking unappreciative readers. 2 posts (just re-edited the last one and put it up, really believing it was as funny as it could be.) There have been signs. And now I choose to point them out, as long as the rum lasts. BTW, I am misspelling like a motherfucker, so y’all better appreciate this shit and Kudo me out the ass.
The first time I can really recall seeing signs that summer was on its way was in the bucket with Scotty. When we were up that high, the sunshine and clear blue skies just had ‘the look’. It was it the way the sun reflected off of..well anything. The glare, the reflection, the sky, the breeze, it just had that teasing quality of ’yea, KT, it’s me summer, and I am coming.’ I am sure Scotty didn’t see it. I am sure he didn’t feel it. It was almost just a personal sign to Kevin Almighty. “Get ready to break out the board shorts and buy new flip flops. I am just a few weeks away, and I just might be able to heal you.” And this is not to say the subsequent sunburn and peeling of flesh was not a de facto sign. (I don’t know why I italicized ‘de facto’ other than I’ve almost only seen it that way.)
Since then, I’ve created my own signs. Take for instance, the breaking out of the grill. O, it’s been a sweet few weeks. It first started with one of my best friends in this world, we’ll call him Flyin’, since that is in fact what I call him. He came over to watch a Wings game on line (which they lost, motherfuckers). It was a beautiful day and the Mrs. was off doing…something. When inviting him over, I said let’s barbecue. I take my grill seriously. It’s almost an inherent gift. I don’t read no books or study or whatnot. It’s an intrinsic gift that I just know when the meat in question is done. Burgers, chicken, pork, buffalo, shrimp, crab, etc. Me and fire get along well. In fact, if I had to say I had a personal logo, it would be blue flames. But that is a topic for another post.
As such, I feel an inherent competition amongst my fellow loser neighbors. I want to be the first. So Flyin’ did me a great favor by coming over. He gave me an excuse to fire up the old grill first. There’s a guy right next to use that is probably similar in age (but looks far older). He’s a griller, too. His grill will drift right into our kitchen window. Man, that pisses me off. I smell it and feel like I lost this imaginary battle. So to be the first free and clear to burn dead animal on the grill is a huge stroke to the ego. I was a proud papa to take the cover off the grill, shake the winter months off, and fire that motherfucker up. No one else within the vicinity of my yard did so yet, so score points for me. Me and Flyin’ ate the sweetest chicken and burgers in the ‘hood that day. The rest of the grills sat in quiet jealousy. Not even Lou, the guy right behind us, christened his grill yet. This is the same Lou that you hear dumping the weekend worth’s of empties in the recycle can every Sunday night. Point and match me.
I’ve been wearing shorts more and more. And by shorts, I mean the 2-3 pair that I didn’t put in the crawlspace last fall. Yes, all the boardshorts are still safe in storage bins in the crawlspace. A few weeks ago, I made it official by dragging out the hammock. That is, until I realized I somehow lost an all important S-hook. So the hammock looked like a deflated balloon. Defeated, hanging by one S-hooked metal chain; the other end limply on the ground. My, my, my, so sad, and such a tease. I took days for me to get the Mrs. to run to Lowe’s and get another Goddamn S-hook that can hold my fat ass in hammocked-bliss.
The days have been getting longer. The glorious sun hangs longer in the evening sky. Bauer looks at us like, “yo, seriously, let’s get the hell out there. I have new yards to piss and poop on.” When I take him out by myself, I wear the iPod, looking to create new spring/summer memories for the songs being played. Speaking of which, I will tell you I have not rearranged the order of my SummerSongs mix since I was in OCMD last year. Sure, I’ve added a bunch of songs (including a bunch of Southern Culture on the Skids surf instrumentals. Do yourself a favor, and check out this band, as I added almost every single song from their last 8 CDs today.) but have not changed the order since the last time I was walking/running in OCMD. Call me superstitious or nostalgic.
I feel it in me. The last few weeks, I have been hawking out ocean/boardwalk cams online, just to try to feel like I’m there. I have found a few favorites. And as a service to you, dear reader, I am ready to reveal some of the best places to go on the web to feel a bit closer to Mother Ocean. We’ll start in Wrightsville. This camera was way better a few years ago. It was off line for a long time, but I kept track of it, off of my WEA PC to here. They have change the camera angle, almost daily now. Not as good or as clear as it was. A slight bonus is that they loop ocean sound effects, so it does make you feel a little bit more like you are there. Worth the browser pointing, so visit:
http://www.wrightsville.com/bchcam.htm
Longtime readers know I have spent some time in OCMD, so here are a few good cameras that I’ve been viewing. First one if from the Kite Loft. I’ve run/walked by this cam many times. It almost hurts to watch, because I can visualize everything around it. It’s a painful tease. Every time I went by it, I made sure to look up; in the vain hope that someone else was watching me. That they were jealous that I was that close to the beach. Or they wanted to run like they had a stick up their ass. Either way. Not a live cam feed, but every 5 seconds, and worth it. See what I’m talking about at:
http://www.kiteloft.com/beach_webcam.asp
Let’s stay in OC. This is a great cam. Not live, but updates quite frequently. And there’s a great shortcut, too. There’s a dropdown menu in the center that says ‘view more cams’ and allows you to view multiple cams. Again, I have personally been through many of these locations, and they are almost all great views. Sucks that they are not streaming. I look at many of these cams and get insanely jealous that I am not there. Insanely jealous.
http://www.ococean.com/webcam.html
Good God, I miss this so much right now, it’s almost causing me pain. OK, maybe it’s that or the orange creamsicles, coconut rum & cokes and now just Captain Morgan and Coke Zeros. Seriously, kids, I am growing depressed, which might beget brilliant writing or melancholy writing. Either way I soldier on. You guys even care?
This used to be another good picture cam. Alas, it was the victim of a fire, and at least they let you know, and show you a picture of the cam getting ready to be swallowed by flame. If/when it gets back on line, it’s worth a look. See this one at:
http://www.oceancitycam.com/
This is a wicked cool camera. It’s pretty much live. Not only can you pick a few predetermined points, you can also control the cam and zero in and out. Its reliability is questionable, but well worth it when it’s on (Hey, just like me!) Prob the best streaming cam on the OCMD boardwalk I have stumbled across so far. Check it out at:
http://www.ocmdhotels.com/oceancityinletcam/
Just don’t bitch at me when it doesn’t work. (It doesn’t appear to be working now at 1:50 at night. Or maybe it’s just really, really dark. Whatever. Hey, who’s drinking my Captain & Coke Zero? It can’t be me. Shit, I’m toast tomorrow.)
So let’s go a bit further south. I fully plan a long, melancholy, painful post about me and Virginia Beach. Here I go, setting myself up to write another post, so please hold me to it. I expect some of my MySpace friends to encourage me. Look for that post in about 2 weeks when we would usually be down there. Until then, feel free to view these cameras, and imagine a drunken K Theory stumbling by.
We’ll start here. The Raven is a place we’ve walked past dozens of times over the years. Along with a bunch of friends last year, I finally ate there. And some of us got sick. Not me and my iron stomach mind you, but a few more of the weaker bitched about some shit like “undercooked meat” or some such pansy shit. So that was the first and last time I ever darkened that doorway. (Would I love to in 2 weeks? FUCK YEAH! But again, that a different story for another hopefully upcoming post.) This site is cool because they’ve upgraded it to 4 views around the restaurant. I particularly enjoy the street view. Many times I’ve passed there, and waved to the camera. Again, I was hoping there was some other loser jealous fuck watching the camera and hoping to be me. And if you want to see where I sat my lone time in there, check out the bar cam. We were slightly over and under to the bottom right. You’ll have to imagine the puke later in the hotel. Regardless, still a good cam that updates every second.
http://www.theraven.com/barfly/
Let’s bring it up a bit back north, to the lovely Wildwoods, NJ. Now, excuse Grandpa Theory, as I lean back in my rocking chair on the porch. Now back when I was a kid, it was just “Wildwood”, with minor emphasis placed on Wildwood Crest and North Wildwood. In fact, back then, it was called “Childwood”, in reference to all the partying kids that lived and pissed in the streets there every summer. There was something that was called “the block that rocks” which was highlighted by a club called the Playpen (if I recall correctly, I never had the pleasure to go.) Wildwood was the place that high school and college kids went and made drunken asses of themselves. Boy, am I jealous. Without getting too deep, Wildwood was my first real, adolescent experience to the shore.
Just to be that close, to sniff the action, to pick up on the clues of all that I saw happening hooked me. My sisters had a place down there for a few years. It was literally a converted garage, the driveway ran right up to the steps. It was 5 rooms: kitchen, bathroom (with only a shower stall with a mirror complete with a 1940’s pinup model painted on), living room, and 2 bedrooms. And that’s not counting the ‘screened in porch’. The living room was carpeted in Astroturf. No AC, black and white TV. Yea, it sounds like a dump, and it probably was, but I swear to you, I had life changing events there. Shit that molded my mind to where it is today. I could go on…..
But let’s just stick to a cool webcam I found that appears to be offline right now. There were 2 cams here that pretty much updated every second. Boardwalk view and I believe Ferris Wheel. I haven’t been back to Wildwood since the fall of ’98. I miss it desperately. Feel my pain at:
http://www.gwcoc.org/webcam_2.html
Here’s some other cool cams that I drop into when I need those Calgon moments to take me away. A streaming one from Hawaii complete with music:
http://www.honolulu.gov/multimed/waikiki.asp
This is a good streaming one from Santa Monica. Wish I could say more, but as I type it’s dark as shit. Since I saved it, I am sure it must be spectacular in the day. Prove me wrong at:
http://www.hermosawave.net/webcam/newcamvideo.php
There’s 2 streaming cams here that are generally pretty good. Surf cams from Florida.
http://www.hermosawave.net/webcam/newcamvideo.php
Last, I will leave you with a great search site for various beach cams. I am getting too tired to explain much more, so have your lazy ass check it out yourself. Me goings to bed.
http://www.webcamplaza.net/
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