Total BullShit Facts 12/21

Stuff that sounds so real, it can't be made up

Milk causes your bones to grow more brittle.

Actually, every fifth snowflake is exactly alike.

Clarissa really did know it all.

Indians celebrate Thanksgiving.

Rumored new singers for Aerosmith; David Lee Roth, Chris Jericho, Flavor Flav, Vince Neil, Billy Idol and that kid who won Rockstar:INXS

Virgos tend to have a better sense of smell.

All baseball stats are made up.

Boogers are nutritious.

In the famous scene in Rocky, the chicken was originally going to be a Jack Russell terrier.

Kari Byron’s baby is mine.

There is a difference between the water in your bathroom, and the water in your kitchen.

Every time someone types LOL, they actually are laughing out loud.

High School Reunion pt 3 The FInal Chapter

Amidst loud 80s music, the room started to fill. I found myself chatting with all kinds of people. I felt I was very social, which is not how I would describe myself at all in such a situation. I found myself using a line with a lot of former classmates, and it was totally true; “I don’t think I ever talked to anyone this much during high school.” The best thing about (re)meeting such a number of people in a short amount of time is it allows me to constantly use my best jokes. I found myself talking to people I knew and clearly recalled. But I also spent a decent amount of time talking to people I didn’t really know or have any specific memories of. Usually, my walls would be up and I would be coming across as extremely awkward in such a situation. Not here, I was on. Maybe those Coronas were helping my cause, too.

I had more than one person come up to me, look at my name and say, “I don’t remember you.” I was fine with this, as this was pretty much my MO in school anyway. And a lot of times, I didn’t remember them. And it was cool, no one got offended.

I really thought going in, my BS detector would be going off. Maybe it’s from all the swimming with sharks in the music biz, but I think it was more just my incorrect preconceived notions. There was a very cool vibe going through the room. I really felt everyone was real and genuine. Yea, that kinda surprised me.

For example, one of the jocks actually came up to me, introduced himself and we had a nice conversation. I don’t think that ever happened during HS. There was no antagonism. Wow, color me surprised. And as long as we’re talking about the jocks, they were all there, and damn it, if they still looked to be in shape. I was really hoping for pot bellies and hairy ears, but they all looked good.

I was happy to see that quite a few couples who were together in HS are still happily together today. I think that’s very admirable in this day and age. I was also surprised about how many classmates ended up marrying each other. Then again, I was such a loser then, I had no real idea of who was going out with who, so they coulda been together back then anyway. I’m not a big sucker for romantic stories, but ya always gotta root for the high school sweethearts to stay together.

I ran into an old classmate (well, I guess we’re all old these days) who I went to grade school with. She remembered me as being Charlie Brown in the 3^rd grade Xmas play. See, I even had talent back then. We were talking, and a guy ran up to me to see what my name was, then ran off. OK, a bit strange. A few seconds later he reappears, pointing at me and laughing in a Nelson Muntz like manner. OK, again, not all that strange, since I recall kids did this to me all the time in HS. I follow him, and a group has the yearbook. I prefer to think they were laughing at how I looked before, and not now. At least that’s the hope I cling to.

You didn’t have to go to my school to figure out who went there. All my classmates heads were on constant swivels to check everyone else out. “I don’t remember him. Wow, she turned out good.” A few hours in, and I haven’t had anything to eat yet, so I duck over to the munchies table for food that was many levels more edible than the crap we had at the cafeteria. I sit down for a bit, and some girl that I swore I never talked to in HS sat next to me and we had more conversation than we ever had before. T came to steal food off my plate, just like she always does, then leaves like nothing ever happened. Then 3 girls sit down across from me. Like most girls, they don’t recall my undistinguished HS career. One girl calls me over and asks, “I have to ask, are you a musician?” I reply with my stock answer, “Well, I play the radio and the iPod, and that’s about it.” Upon hearing my answer, all 3 girls split like I have swine flu. I sat down to finish my crumbs by myself. How apropos, the nerd sitting all by himself eating. Sheesh, some things never change.

I am surprised how many of my classmates went on to be teachers. It’s not like anyone back then was pro-teacher. No, I can’t recall any kids that thought teaching was so cool, that they would devote their life to it. T goes to the bar, where she encounters a colleague of hers. Now, I had gone to HS with this girl. It goes without saying she was popular, and I was a nerd, so we had limited interaction. Since that time, she went on to be a teacher, and I’ve run into her and spoke many, many times with her at various teacher functions. “What are you doing here,” she asks T. “I’m here with Kev,” T answers matter of factly. “Kevin?” Yes, that’s right. After all these years, she had no idea I was that nerdy Kev from HS. I guess I should be complimented.

All in all, I was very pleasantly surprised about the whole night. It went far better than I could have imagined. I think I put in a good accounting of myself. Maybe I changed a few people’s perception of me. I think I was pretty social, which is a big accomplishment for me. I talked to a lot of people, old friends, folks from FB, folks who I have forgotten about. I saw a lot of laughing, which is always a good sign. I was really glad I blew off my family obligation to go. It was good/cool to see how everyone turned out. I have to say, it looks like everyone turned out pretty good.

In fact, I probably have more positive memories of the reunion than of the four years anyway. I really enjoyed catching up with different people, and laughed harder and longer than I thought I would. It was a fun trip back. Not enough to make go down in the crawlspace to dig out the ol’ yearbook; you should see the size of the spiders down there.

High School Reunion part 2

In fact, I was set to skip the reunion. It just so happened to fall on the usual date of a big family get together. But since I got on Facebook, I have been truly surprised at the number of folks from HS who have friended me. Some I spent significant amounts of time “growing up” with; others mere acquaintances that I am surprised remember my meager existence.

Morbid curiosity is strong that way, isn’t it? There’s some sort of curiosity to see how everyone turned out. How did that nerd that sat with us in lunch turn out? Are the hot girls still hot? Hell, did any of the quiet girls get hot? And I will admit to having a crush the whole 4 years on a girl. I really hope she shows up to the 20^th (she didn’t show for the 10^th). If only for her to breathlessly come up to me to say, “O, I knew it was you all along. I have pined for you all these years, saving myself for this fateful evening.” I would then raise my left hand to show her my ring. Nearby, a digital camera would capture the image that would be captioned on Flickr with “The moment a heart breaks. I still cry when I see this pic.” I would even have to rebuff her feeble offer for a handjob out by the dumpster. I would then triumphantly return to my beautiful wife, where she would rebuke my plea for a handjob out by the dumpster.

I have decided to attend the 20^th, at the expense of my previous family obligation. I am actually kind of looking forward to it. I would imagine after 20 years, the stereotypes have faded. While I am sure some of the cliques would reunite just out of familiarity, I also hope lots of people who didn’t hang out together in HS hang out a bit here.

The morning of the reunion, I was a bit nervous. All along, I had been looking forward with positive feelings, this was the first real twinge of nervousness. Unfounded fears of cliques reuniting; jocks looking to pants the nerds, etc. I went to the gym to get one last workout in of all the vanity muscles. Yes, I have become that vapid, even if only for one day. I don’t think I will be the only one. So I came back, where T asked me the all important question, “What are you going to wear?” I had a few shirts picked out-some of her favorites-all that were a bit tight, looking to show of that vest of Hulk muscles I bought for Halloween. Instead she picks out a shirt that will need to be ironed. So I pretty much pissed away the morning workout. I could have had my usual big bowl of Lucky Charms with extra sugar and lard, and there would have been no difference. At least I wouldn’t have to spend the whole night sucking my gut in. T then told me what she was going to wear. I had very little input. Damn her, wanting to look all classy and shit.

Good Irish we are, we show up right on time. We don’t fuck around when there’s an open bar. Plus a little social lube would do me good. Right away, I meet 2 old grade school classmates. I guess we learned to be punctual. The bar and room were very nice, lots of space (much nicer than the HS dances at the shitty Knights of Columbus room), and the only way in was via the elevator. You can do some serious drinking in a bar with an elevator. We exchanged pleasantries, followed by what most likely will be the most asked questions at such an occasion; what are you doing these days, where do you live, what have you been up to, were those charges ever dropped, etc.

We realize we are at a prime position. Not only are we barside, but we can clearly see everyone else who comes in. It’s almost like we’re those Muppet judges. I felt like we were on Let’s Make a Deal; “do you know the people at the table, or do you know the people ….behind the door?” All classmates were given stickers with their names on them. I thought it would be funny if I swiped the name of a black classmate. That would really screw with people’s heads. But I was so bad off with not knowing anyone in HS, that I didn’t recognize half the damn names anyway. Spouses didn’t get any badge or recognition. By default, they all became DDs.

Suddenly, it was like a bus dropped everyone off. Old faces started streaming in. It’s really funny how people who I have not thought one iota about in over 20 years would come in, and some sort of glint of recognition would go off in my mind.

Thank god for the tags, because I was only good with their faces. I think everyone felt a bit rude as they walked around. If you didn’t recall someone’s name, you had to take a quick glance at their chest to get their names. “O, Fred, yes, of course, how the hell ya doin’?” But it was a great excuse to check out racks.

The Lost Fingers Review (with the answers)

OK, motards, a few weeks ago, I pointed your browsers away from porn, and to my review of the Lost Fingers. In that stellar review, I hid no less than 18 80's song titles. And here is the review, with the answers. Surely, you can now see my brilliance.

The Lost Fingers sprang to life in a northern town (Dream Academy) of Quebec, where they actually sold more albums than Nickelback. No lie. The Fingers’ music can best be termed as gypsy jazz; a genre generally credited as being pioneered by guitarist Django Reinhardt. (In fact, the band took their moniker from a Reinhardt nickname.) While being available in Canada for some time, the Fingers covers disc, Lost in the 80s is just starting to break out (Swing Out Sister) here in the States. Despite some of the suspect choices for source material-does the world need a Technotronic cover?-members Christian Roberge and Byron Mikaloff have roots in classical music, while bassist Alex Morissette holds a degree in jazz.

I am not a big fan of cover albums. It’s a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don’t proposition. You can’t sound too close to the original (Fab Faux), nor can you totally disrespect it. Sometimes doing a cover helps launch a decent career; acts like Cowboy Junkies and Faith Hill first started their ball rolling with covers. On the flip side, cover songs also gave us the careers of such luminaries as Marilyn Manson and Limp Bizkit. Cover albums have come along in the careers of bands whose star seems to be falling (Joan Jett, Queensryche). Alas, cover albums have also resurrected the careers of Manilow, Stewart and Cash. Generally, cover albums are novelties that garner only a few curiosity listens before fading off into your collection. So if you ever wondered what “Black Velvet” might sound like as a gypsy jazz number, then your search is over (Survivor), let the good times roll (The Cars).

Using the same acappella opening, “You Give Love a Bad Name” stays true to the original structure. Instead of rampant keys and runaway (Bon Jovi for the Bon Jovi song. Get it?)percussion, the Fingers use guitars and almost constant backing vocals. Anyone remember when Hayseed Dixie was hot on rock radio for all of a week? Well, if you do, then you should enjoy “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Skewing a bit more to the jazz/blues side with a touch of Russian folk, the tempo certainly won’t shake your foundations (AC/DC). The delivery is boozy, and a bit of Roberge’s accent peeks through.

You might think (Cars, again)there is no need to revisit Kool & the Gang’s “Fresh”, but the Fingers breathe life into the song. “Billie Jean” is a fast take, complete with the requisite backing ‘bop bops,’ ‘hee hees’ and even the high pitched squeal. They deliver a far more masculine version of “Careless Whisper” than Seether could ever muster. The Fingers transform “Straight Up” from a song you’d be embarrassed to know to a hip take on an otherwise forgettable tune. They add drama to the bridge by slowing it down over a guitar. Who knew you could create drama in a Paula Abdul song? Crazy (Paula Abdul, along with like a zillion other bands), right?

Lost in the 80s is an interesting listen. The material is disparate enough that there’s bound to be at least one familiar song for anyone born after 1980. The album is done well, with a solid mix of tongue in cheek, cheese and tight musicianship. The point here is not to be pretentious, but to have fun; a celebration (Kool & The Gang, kinda) of an age gone by. As far as replay value, it’s decent. The musicianship is solid, song structures generally remain true (Spandau Ballet)to the original and the delivery is unique. Most of the songs are spry; and good music for walking on sunshine (Katrina & the Waves), walking in LA (Missing Persons)or walking in Memphis (mark Cohn). Despite all the above, the style of music might wear thin for some; 12 songs all done in gypsy jazz can grow a tad monotonous. The most obvious shortcoming would be that the band never really deviates too much from the guitar driven sound; nary a bang on the drum (Todd Rundgren)to be heard. Vocally, there are a few limits. At times, the voice (Moody Blues)of Roberge sounds like a boozy Tom Waits; another acquired taste not everyone has. More than this (Roxy Music), it’s a great album to play at a party or for your music snob friends. You can put it on and have everyone guess, “who can it be now?” (Men at Work)The kids in America (Kim Wilde)should dig it.

High School Reunion Pt 1

I wanna go back/And do it all over, but I can’t go back I know
I wanna go back/Because I’m feeling so much bolder
But I can’t go back I know


Am I really starting a Klog by quoting an Eddie Money song? Man, o man, I really need to work on my openings. I have found myself in a weird state of mind lately. The fact of the matter, that never in a million years would I ever want to go back. It was such an awkward time for me in so many ways. There are stretches-very long stretches-where I cannot recall a thing. Maybe it’s some sort of deep psychological defense, maybe it’s the passage of time, maybe it’s from all the drinking. I still have almost nightmare like dreams every September. I cringe at some of those times. I hated so much of my time there.


Because it wasn’t me.


I mean, sure, I was there those four years. I did experience a lot; learn a lot, too, I guess. But it just wasn’t me. I never looked at it like the golden time so many others do. I blended in, but never stood out. I just made my way through. The few friendships I did make there pretty much ended soon afterwards. I hated those days, and I hated me those days. I was never comfortable in my geek skin. I had no confidence, surely no sense of style, no luck with the women folk. So why the hell would I want to go back? Why would I want to spend a night with these people? Simple.




Because it wasn’t me.


In case you haven’t figured it out yet; or stopped reading after the Eddie Money reference, I am talking about high school. It was 20 years ago for me. Exactly 20 years. As in the reunion is this Friday 20 years. So what has happened these last 20 years for me to want to see these people? Well, I think I have some answers. I don’t have all the answers, but maybe by writing it out, I will discover them.




High school is a wealth of stereotypes and storylines. While we all went to different schools, with different people, I assure you, some things are exactly the same. Every school has it’s jocks, its nerds, it’s smart kids, popular girls, etc. I’m willing to bet some of the situations you found yourself in are no different than any other kid. I am sure you had an ‘impossible class’ with a ‘dickhead teacher.’ I am sure you failed tests, fought with friends, had awkward social situations, came of age, even had a crush on someone for the whole 4 years and never told them.


I’m sure we all had the same stereotypical teachers; the easy ones, the funny ones, the strict ones, the yellers, the eccentrics etc. For example, our eccentric was our chem teacher who didn’t wear deodorant because he thought there was some sort of foreign chemical in it. Chem was never fun when it was spring, because my HS was so ghetto, we didn’t have AC or even fans. I remember after I handed in one lab report, he wrote ‘see me’ on it. I was so chickenshit, I never did. This went on for months.




A lot of it-not so surprisingly-has to do with me. I know I have grown so much (I won’t say matured, per se) since then. The Kev 20 years ago was shy, nervous, unconfident, quiet, unsure…geez, as I go on, I can understand why I never had a date in high school.


And to be honest, I still possess some of those traits to this day. I am still shy, a bit quiet at times. Ultimately, I think the biggest difference is I am now more confident in myself these days. Sure the last 2 years of being relatively jobless can wreck serious havoc, but I feel that will be resolved very soon. Notwithstanding, I am very comfortable in my skin. I know my weaknesses and shortcomings. And while I may never beat them, I have learned to live with them and manage them.


I say it took me years to grow into my coolness; to be OK with who I am. I am still a nerd and a geek, but the difference is I now accept it. I don’t fight things like this anymore. I think we probably all harbor some sort of perfect image of who we can be one day. All kinds of “One day I will…” scenarios. I am convinced everybody thinks this way. Few of us ever realize that vision, and you know what? That’s OK. Sometimes there are just things you can’t ever change about yourself. But if you can step back and realize it, man, I’m tellin’ ya, that’s half the battle. For example, I find fart jokes eternally funny; like laugh out loud funny. Most other ‘people my age’ probably got over that years ago. OK, so that’s a bad example. But, tough, I yam what I yam a sailor once told me.


And let’s face it. I am sure there is a big element of “look at me” at these things. I get that. I am sure all the girls that were hot back in the day, still want to be thought of as that way. Even if their picture regularly appears on PeopleOfWalmart.com. I am vain enough-and confident enough- to say we all secretly hope everyone else looks like shit while we don’t. It’s not coincidence that I am posting old pics of me with rock stars on FB this week. Ha, take that anonymous internet stalker. Jealous much?


I’ve grown a few inches (that’s what she said), and have spent some time in the gym the last nine years. So I reckon to say that I will be in better shape than most of the jocks. Yea, bench pressing 120 POUNDS OF IRON, with no spotter I might add, really piles the muscle on. Not that I am going to get too caught up in the image thing. But for the rest of the week, I will be popping runway model strength fat burners and WWE level steroids. Just don’t tell any of them that.




I’ve often joked that I would go to the 20 if my hair was still long and my girl was smoking hot. Well, my hair isn’t as long as it used to be, but my wife is smoking hot. And I would still say that, even if I didn’t think she read these Klogs. And she’s going to be even hotter in the little number I picked up for her to wear at Fredericks. Fringe and animal print never go out of style. Giggity.




Speaking of the wife, checking out who married who will be another spectator sport. To wit, I am sure many are expecting my wife to have one eye bigger than the other, have a humpback, walk with a pronounced limp and only know rudimentary English. The assumption is fair, as I, myself, can’t wait to see what some of these spouses look like. O what sweet revenge it would be to see the former hot chick with her third husband, who speaks fluent Klingon and has pre-existing mustard stains on his shirt. I would really hope to see one of the nerds marrying outside his league. But, , c’mon, that shit only happens in the movies, right?


I am sure we will be in the minority. I am sure most of my classmates are married with kids. Perusing the profile shots on the guestlist, I am shocked at who had offspring. I guess we will be the odd ones as others blather on about how many books Madison reads and how young Logan is the smartest non Asian kid in class. Aside from that, hearing that these now adults-who for years had been filed away in my mind frozen as ‘18 year old dipshit’-will most likely be fine upstanding members of society. Well, that, and hearing how all these people have 2-4 kids in their midteens-almost the same age as when I knew their parents-will make me feel interminably OLD. And while I may feel old, I assure you those same little angels have aged their loving parents exponentially. Game, set, match-us.



Bonus Material

Commentary

Since I believe long posts turn people off, I have chopped up this post to be in 3 Klogs. Look for Pt 2 in a day or two.

Heroes part 2

Disclaimer; perhaps before reading this, you might want to read this:http://kevolutiontheory.blogspot.com/2009/01/heroes.html And yes, you would be correct to say that most great writers never write sequels. And while that may be true-there was never Catcher in the Rye 2: Electric Bugaloo, I am not that ‘great writer’. Yet. So maybe consider this an occasional series-like Harry Potter or Chicken Soup.

Being chronically unemployed, I pass my days doing one of three things. 1) Looking for jobs. 2) Crashing the local VFW where I pretend to be a vet in order to drink quarter beers. 3) Walking the dog. You can guess which activity usually wins out. Today, #3 wins out. So I put the lead on Bauer, and out we traipse to a nice fall day.

I have my iPod on-Bauer’s iPod battery is home getting charged-and we walk to the top of the street and start our walk. Now this is a pretty busy street here in Theoryville. We’re on the sidewalk on the right side of the road. Ironically enough, we’re right across the street from the aforementioned VFW. From my left I hear a panicked, “Hey! Come back here! Stop! Come back!” I look to my left. Running down from the top of the hill is a Jack Russell terrier. Clearly, he is running to see Bauer.

Shit, this is not good. This is a major street, and there is almost always traffic on it. Deep down I feel some immediate responsibility as the Jack is running because he (for the sake of the story, we will assume it is a he and he is in fact named Jack, as most JR terriers seem to be.) sees Bauer across the street. Not that it would be ‘my fault’ in any way, but just the common bond dog owners have. I quick check both directions, and miraculously no traffic is coming.

We go out in the middle of the street. I want to take every chance to at least grab Jack at the earliest possible chance and get him-and us-out of the street. For those of you who don’t know, Jacks are known for being fast, elusive and have almost squirrel like reflexes. In fact, the original plan in Rocky was to have him chase a Jack, but that plan was abandoned for later use in my next BS Facts klog.

We get to Jack, and he has a collar on. His owner is still running down the hill to him. Bau and Jack sniff around a bit as I get ready to make an attempt. They keep nosing around each other, but Bau always seems to be between me and Jack. I wait to make a snag, knowing it will surely be seconds before we all get run over by some dickwad who was too busy texting to see us in the middle of the damn street. At least Bauer is keeping Jack close to us so he won’t dart off anywhere else.

The owner makes it to the street and grabs Jack up. We quickly get out of the street. Clearly, the owner was worried and relieved at the same time. I was just glad that nothing happened to Jack or us. She was very appreciative to us as she held Jack in her arms. I sat Bauer, fervently petting him, and telling him what a brave boy he was. And maybe it’s just the dog owner in me. Or maybe it’s just the human in me. I looked into Bauer’s brown eyes. I could see it. I could tell it, as I was showering him with praise. The look told me-

“What did I do?”

Ok, so obviously Bau didn’t know I risked our lives to help another dog. Had he even had known, he might not have approved of such a thing. But I’m proud of him nonetheless. It may not seem like that big of a deal to you, but it is to me, and just you wait to hear how much I embellish the story when my wife comes home. “Honey, you should have seen it. This poor dog-I think he was blind, too-comes barreling down the hill into the street. I see a 2 ton semi bearing down on him. I think the driver was texting. Me and Bauer run out into the street just as a telephone pole starts to fall in the dog’s direction…”

Bauer got a few ‘bonus blocks’ in on the way back. When we got back, I gave him a big ol’ treat that he promptly devoured faster than any dog should be capable of. Right now, my little hero is happily sleeping on the floor next to me as I am on the couch relaying the event. There will be no news coverage of this event. No “And the big story at 4 is hero man and dog save the life of another dog.” Instead, the lead story will no doubt be something negative and depressing, probably with many fatalities. But just know, everyday you are among heroes; you just might not know it.

Now how do I put this shit on my resume?

Dr. Kev

On the whole, sure, the Internet has given us many great things. But like most good things, there is a dark side as well. With the rise of the internet has also come with things such as identity theft, cyber stalking, Carpal Tunnel, eye strain and wasting huge amounts of company time. I have recently found a new downfall.

It allows me to become a doctor.

Over the years, I have generally been lucky when it comes to getting hurt. Which isn’t to say that I haven’t gotten hurt, I surely have. It’s like my mom says; generally I am too dumb to get hurt. The times I have been hurt have suspiciously almost always been on my left side. Broke my ankle and wrist. I was taking a boxing class and pretty sure I cracked a rib. Gallantly, I returned the next week, where my biggest struggle was to not squeal like a girl every time I got hit on my left side. I tore the ACL in my left knee. I think over 38 years, that list doesn’t seem so bad. Except for that ACL business.

Aches and pains-what I like to call dings-are inevitable as you get older, especially if you are active. For example, I play street hockey on Mondays, and it’s not unusual to be sore for most of Tuesday. It’s nothing a handful of Advil and a swig of Jack can’t handle. OK, that’s a lie, I don’t take Advil. I try to hit the gym 4-5 times a week, and again it’s not odd to pick up the occasional ding. Apparently, you can add extra weight on the bars, who knew?

Another example, one morning I woke up with a sore neck. I wish it could have attributed it to something more manly like saving an orphan from a fire my using my neck muscles or something like that. It was really because I fell asleep on the floor with Bauer the night before. See, I told you I lead an active life.

Lately, I have had a ding in my right arm. It feels like it is at the bottom of my triceps. I believe the proper medical term in an “owie” on my arm. I’ve had it for a few weeks. While there has been no real pain, I can’t lift as much weight in the gym. When you can’t even lift the normal amount in the gym, it’s always a source of frustration. If I get much weaker, I’ll be forced to use the 5 pound pink dumbbells. Today I was on this wondrous thing called the Internet. In between sessions of Facebook and LinkedIn, I decided to put the ol’ stethoscope on and see just what the dealio is. Switch the shingle on the front of my house to say ‘doctor is in.’

You would think such things would be easy to research on WebMD. Alas, apparently not. Maybe I shouldn’t use the term “ouchie” in my search. I finally find the info I am searching for. Speaking as Dr. Kevie, I can now resoundly say it doesn’t appear I tore anything. The pain I’ve been feeling doesn’t correlate with a torn muscle. Thusly, I can now declare myself to be “healed” and go to the gym tomorrow confident that I can hoist massive weights over my chest with no fear of pain or failure. That’s the power of the Net my friends.

I can hear the worrywarts out there saying, “Well, don’t you still have pain?” To which I reply, “Step back, dipshit, didn’t you just read the Net says I’m fine?” OK, maybe that should be a cause for slight concern. Further searching didn’t yield any results. I don’t need the Net to tell me my job here is done.

Since I’ve officially become a writer this year –OK, so it’s for free, but it’s online, so again, the Net tells me I am a writer-I’ve become accustomed to doing reams of research. Because surely all the information on the Net must be true. So I look for a second opinion.

I Google terms that fit my malady. For as focused WebMD can be, Google is just various crap. After clicking the first 5 links (they must be the closest match because they are the top 5, right?) I again find nothing that matches what I’m feeling. Just to be sure, I Google pictures of “hot chicks”. Because I am right handed.

I am left with only one conclusion; I am being a big pansy. I believe the term is psychosomatic. Yes, I learned that term from previous WebMD searches. I am secure in the knowledge that I can go big in the gym tomorrow (or maybe Saturday…or Sunday) with no fear of making my situation any worse. The Net is awesome.

Tomorrow I will search rampant ignorance, gross indifference, disillusionment, severe internal injuries and alcoholism.

The Halloween That Hallowasn't

There is no guarantee in life, they say. You can plan, hope, dream and scheme, but sometimes, it is just not in the cards for you. I suppose my unemployed ass could somehow come up with the next brilliant idea to prevent such a fiasco, but I just can’t figure a way. Somehow arrange some sort of rebate, a do-over or mulligan of some sort. But I just don’t know how I could do it.

It rained on Halloween.

I mean, it’s bound to happen sometimes. And for the life of me, I cannot remember the last time Halloween got rained out. Shouldn’t the township have some sort of back-up plan? Every year when they send out their calendars, there should be some sort of notice if Hween gets rained out. I really don’t need a township calendar to tell me when the next school budget meeting is, or that the storm water committee meets every third Wednesday. There should be a clear and concise backup plan in case Hween gets rained out.

Which reminds me of a story from my childhood, about a neighbor kid named Dave. I swear this is a true story. It was the day after Hween, early evening while the sun was still out. There was a knock from our front door. We opened it up to see a costumed little cowboy. “Trick or treat,” Dave said. “But Hween was yesterday,” my mom said. “I know,” Dave piped up, “but today is the day after Hween!” Of course, we still had the candy bowl nearby. I watched as my mom was in some sort of trance, and gave him some candy. Then he left, off to another house. Damn, what ingenuity from a little kid. I am sure he made out that day. I still remember, because he had on the freakiest cowboy mask I have ever seen. It still haunts me in my dreams. And then some blue Russian unicorn reciting Tolstoy comes by to save me.

The signs were there. The weekend before was going to be my town’s Hween celebration. They do it up right. They close down the main road for a few hours, and most of the merchants give out treats. Tons of kids come out, and parents come in costume as well. We take Bau and have a grand old time. For the last two years, it has rained furiously on this day.

The week leading up to Hween was fun. I never watch AMC or TCM except for this week. Both show cool old B&W horror movies. I listened to the Halloween channel on Sirius all week. There were all kinds of spooky sounds coming out of my office; screaming, yelling, howling, chains rattling, crying, etc. And then I turned the radio on. (Rimshot, thank you very much.)

Maybe I should have known when last Hween fell on a Friday. We should have had a ton more kids for me to scare the bejesus out of. But no, the GD Phils have to have their victory parade that night. Baseball again conspired against me, as this year there was a home Phils game on at 8. Why does baseball hate Hween so? Plus, there damn near was a full moon, too. Should have known.

This year, Mischief Night fell on a Friday. The neighborhood tradition is for a small group of kids to TP the houses of people they know. It’s all in good fun, and no one gets pissed. The kids usually don’t start till 8, so I was downstairs, looking for a mask I could throw on so I could scare the kids. Last year, I put on a wolf mask, and ran out screaming from the back yard. That scared the hell out of them, and got an inordinate amount of jollies off for me. There was a knock on the door. I open the door up to see the kids had already “gotten” us. Damn it. I see the lone tree in our front yard awash in Charmin. It took 4 kids and just one roll to be Ninja quiet and get the tree. They looked so proud, “Yea, we did all this with only one roll!” They did so good, how could I not encourage their malfeasance? I got them 3 more rolls and told them to go to town. Soon, our bushes were covered, and I encouraged them to hit the house across the street. Ah yes, Hween is just a night away.

I woke up Saturday morning with visions of Sugar Daddies dancing in my head, and what to my wandering eyes should appear, but an overcast sky; the day, it was not clear. My otherwise blackened and dead heart sunk. Yes, I had known the forecast wasn’t good, but surely the weather gods would not take away my Hween, right? Man this is suckage with a capital SUCK. I didn’t set the yard up for my usual night of scares. If it’s drizzling now, with almost 100% chance of rain come darkness, I have to make a decision. This is a night I look forward to every year, much like motards look forward to Xmas morning. This is my Xmas, my 4th of July. Hell, it’e even my Arbor Day and President’s Day. If I was going to do it, I need to start setting up now.

After much inner turmoil and debate, somehow the rational side won out. I know, I know, it’s so rare for that to happen. In the end, I decided it was too much of a risk to spend hours setting up. A lot of my props are cheap and made of paper. The electrical props I have were wired in some 4th world country, so there’s no point in risking a fire. Crestfallen, I give up the ghost. Which seems apropos this time of year.

But all is not lost, as we head to another nearby town for their Hween celebration. They have a cool little dog place that we always take Bauer to. They do a first Friday type thing there, and always do a different scene for you to get your pic taken with your dog. (Yes, this is where all the profile pics come from). It was a cool scene, and kinda made up for the previous week’s rainout. I did get in a Hween mood (finally) and got the general feeling that Hween wouldn’t suck this year.

Finally, dusk came. I plugged in what Hween lights I already had up. And just about right on cue, it started drizzling. The kids, well, they came, much like the rain. I saw some really good costumes, but no really killer ideas. I did see a kid come as Jigsaw, which was cool. Always gotta wonder about parents who let their kids dress up like butchering bad guys from movies they are technically too young to have seen. Shit, you should have seen the kid that came as Dirk Diggler…

Kids could come to our house and get free candy with no worry of being scared. I reckon the feeling I had to the same one Superman had when he gave up his super powers. I don’t like to ‘blend’ in on Hween; I want to have the whole production happening. We would watch packs of kids come down the street, hit our neighbor right across from us, then totally blow us off! WTF! Just because I’m not doing the whole production this year? You spoiled little bastards. We literally watched kids go to our neighbors, look at our house and just keep walking. I am the only one I know who can feel cheap, used and tawdry on Hween, and not in just the sexual way I am already accustomed to. I even went over to my neighbor’s house to see if she was giving away quarters, or at the very least better candy than us. She wasn’t, same crap we’re giving out. So apparently now my candy is only good when I do the whole presentation, THEN my house is only good enough for you little snots to get free candy from?

Man, how can I love Hween so much and get so worked up?

I was a good boy, and held off from eating any of the candy, lest we run out. The same can’t be said for coconut rum and coke, but, hey, we all got our flaws. Around 8 o’clock-still prime trick or treating time-lights started to get turned off. Huh? O right, damn Phillies game. My neighbor asked me if we were going to watch the game. “No way,” I said “Night of the Living Dead is on all night.” “What? You’re going to watch Night of the Living Dead instead of the Phillies game?” Sheesh, it’s not my fault you don’t get how great of a movie it is, and perfect for Hween night viewing. If you’ve never seen it, you’re really missing out, pansy.

Odds are now, we won’t have another Hween rainout for many years. And hopefully, all those unappreciative little snots will forget about my Hween production; all the places I hide. O, they will pay. They will pay.

F the Ph

OK, something has been bothering me. I’ve seen it all over the news, and from a bunch of my FaceBook friends. It ticks me off, and I need to vent.

Lately, it seems the ability to spell certain words has gone by the wayside. Now, I’m not saying it’s an indictment of the current public school system, ‘cause that’s far too easy of a target. There has been a very conscious effort on the part of the media to deliberately misspell words. And I declare it’s time to stop.

I don’t know why I’m such a stickler for spelling. Maybe it’s because I fancy myself a writer. Maybe it’s because any motard can use SpellCheck. Maybe it’s because the one word I seem to misspell the most is, ironically enough, ‘learn’. Maybe it’s because I was the 6th grade spelling champ. (Yea, take that, Timmy Craig. What gas station are you working at now? And are they hiring?) It’s making my city look bad, and it needs to stop.

It’s spelled ‘fever’. There is no ph.

It’s spelled ‘fun’. There is no ph.

It’s spelled ‘fucking’. There is no ph.

It’s spelled ‘fanatic’. There is no ph. Unless you are talking about the Phillie Phanatic. OK, I’ll give you that one. He’s my favorite player. Ooh, there’s another one.

It’s spelled ‘favorite’. There is no ph.

It’s spelled ‘fan’. There is no ph.

It’s spelled ‘finally’. There is no ph.

I think you get my point. When I turn on the news, and see a glaring headline like “Phillies Phever”, I can’t help but feel like a motard. Enouph is enouph. Using ’ph’ makes you look like you are an 8 year old girl with a crush. Are the ‘i’s in Phillies dotted with little pink hearts? I can’t help but cringe when I see men, grown men, with wives and kids and jobs spelling ‘fan’ as ‘phan’. Honestly put, the behavior is rather ‘phay’. Besides, that poor guy who works down at the China Garden is getting all paranoid because everyone else is wearing his name on their shirts. My wall on FB is littered with such atrocities. (And, yes, I sound phay bitching about my FB wall.)

Look, I am not actively rooting against the Phils. I actually hope they win. I think it would be great for the city, great for the fans and great for morale. Plus, I absolutely love watching sports fans doing stupid things when their team wins the championship. Fighting, rowdiness, drunken mayhem, general destruction. I’m not ragging on Philly here, it happens in every town; yes, it’s even happened with my beloved Avalanche as well. I just don’t know whose fans are more obnoxious; Philly’s or New York’s. Yea, I’ll pull for the Phils here. But it won’t be enough tonight to take me away from my usual Wednesday night routine of Ghost Hunters, The Ultimate Fighter, then crawling up into a ball and crying myself to sleep. But I might tune in between commercials.

Halloween Costume Crisis Pt 2 Electric Bugaloo

So where did I leave off?

I was debating about going to the party or not. Then, in a scene eerily reminiscent of Adrian telling Rocky to go fight in Rocky II, T rose from her bed and told me I should go. With her blessing and possibly dementia in hand, I was now faced with the challenge of just what to be. I ran the single guy idea by her, and she was kind of meh. She recommended I go as something totally different. She told me to go get a short hair wig, and wear a suit.

Apparently she wanted me to go as a nerd. I don’t know what kind of meds she’s on, but I gotta try me some. Plus, I don’t think it would be a wise idea to get a beer stain on my only good suit. “So, Mr. Theory, we are prepared to offer you this totally posh job where you just sit on your ass all day and make well into the six figures, but is that Miller Lite I smell?” I Googled last minute costume ideas. I didn’t see anything horribly creative or offensive enough to use. I was a desperate man. I read an article that basically said look at everything you have and figure something out.

I swivel my chair around here in the former Missile Command office. By my window is a tie rack full of ties I never wear. For some reason this hit a chord with me. In the garage I know I have boxing headgear. So if I put the ties on my arms, legs, etc, and put on the Everlast headgear and handwraps, I could be……

Wait for it….

Wait for it….

A Tie Fighter! It reeks of the appropriate stench of last minutedness. It’s cheap and, I guess, creative on a level. Sure I am down with the single guy idea, but the tie fighter idea grows on me. Plus, how often do I wear ties, anyway? T votes for the tie fighter. I knew that should have been the kiss of death, but I went for it anyway.

I go about tying ties-in the proper tie knot, no less-all over my body. I used a tie as a belt. I tie ties on my arms and legs. I look like an under steroided Ultimate Warrior. I look like an over steroided member of the Rock n Roll Express. OK, this is as good as it’s gonna get. Now I am faced with another problem. Getting from my house into my car with no neighbor seeing me and thinking, “What the fuck?” I manage to do it, and drive to the par-tay.

I go to the garage, where beer pong is in full swing. I’m talking to someone, and now is time for the true test. I ask them if they know what I am. This is make or break, because this will give me a sign if people will get the joke, or think I’m just some motard who tied ties all over himself. He doesn’t get it.

It’s like I laid a big, giant, sloppy turd. GD it, I am stuck in a dud costume. Right on cue comes another guy known for dressing in obtuse costumes. Last year, he wore a Hawaiian shirt, and strung prescription bottles around his neck. He was a tropical depression. So, surely, he will get my costume, right?

Wrongo. Not even obtuse guy gets me, this doesn’t bode well. He then asks me to guess what he is. He is wearing all black, with paper cutouts of ears all over. Not out of spite at all, but I don’t know what he is. He is “all ears”. Yea, I’ll be drinking tonight. I ask his wife if she knows what I am. “Hmm…something with ties,” she says as a strike a boxing pose, point to the headgear. “Tie bo?” No, but actually not a bad guess; if that’s what most people will guess, then I will say, yes, I am in fact tie bo. Next year I plan to be callansthetics.

I wander inside, only to be met with more people who don’t know what I am. I get a few chuckles when I tell them what I am. But I think they are pity laughs for sure. At least I can quickly get rid of all the ties so I don’t look totally motarded.

I have to give credit to this bunch. There are always a lot of great ideas at this party. And since I like to offer something back to you, dear reader, I will now tell you some of the ideas I saw so you can steal them and use them for your Halloween party. First off, this douchebag was dressed as a tie fighter…

I saw 2 Jons, but oddly only 1 Kate. Octomom had hooked up with swine flu (a nurse uniform I think, with H1N1 written on it, pig ears, snout and tail) and absolutely ran beer pong for a good hour and a half. And then when they finally lost, we all used the same damn cups, so I am sure we will all now get sick. Slash and a groupie. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. Now that the Phillies are hot, there is always at least one guy who just slaps on a Phillies shirt, and wears his pants and cleats from softball and becomes some random Phillie. To keep with that theme, another guy came as one of the TBS broadcasters. We had a Santa Claus, and he said he still won’t bring me a pony for Xmas. A couple dressed as Fonzie (him) and Richie (her) that I thought was a pretty original idea. We had a sea cap’n and a jellyfish, Popeye and Olive Oyl. Another couple came dressed as Stepbrothers. I did see and really like that movie, but don’t remember their idea for it. It always seems there is one Will Ferrell costume at this party. No, no one bit on Land of the Lost; that would imply someone actually saw that movie. We had Spock and whoever the chick is from Star Trek. I didn’t see Hangover yet, but someone came as the character that was constantly hurting the baby he was carrying, I thought that was pretty creative as infant abuse is always funny on Halloween. We had an almost full scale Teen Wolf. A couple came dressed as green eggs and ham. The best costume I thought was a couple who came as Seal and Heidi Klum. I thought that was funny and original.

Brad the host always does a bang up job decking out the house. The front yard is all done with lights, graves, webs and fog. The garage, where beer pong is, always has lights, props and decorations up. He even has a giant clown that peeks in from the deck. It’s such a shame the weather has been shitty the last two years, but that doesn’t stop the fun from flowing. You have to be a motard to not have a good time at Brad’s party. Even if you are wearing six ties.

I had a really good time, although I really wish T was able to have gone. We had a really great idea for a costume, but at least we can just use it for next year. And if we’re smart, we should go hit the stores after Halloween and pick out 2011’s costume. Hmm, what celebrities will be dead by then…

Halloween Costume Crisis

So here’s the deal, it seems life has thrown us a curveball, on this most holy and sacred of days. Tonight is the annual Halloween party. As we were out shopping for our costumes, T uttered those dreaded words, “I think I am getting sick.” And she was right. She soldiered through yesterday, but will now be recouping for the next few days. I know she’s really sick, I see all the germs she coughed up crawling all over the keyboard.
Now, of course I can’t go. I can’t leave my sickened pookie in her hour of need. And as long as I can watch an old B&W horror flick tonight, I will be OK. But what if I was going? So, under that pretense, let’s assume I am going.
I think we had a really good idea with our costumes this year. It’s retro, but still has a very 2009 edge. I think they will still work well in 2010, but be a bit more relevant this year. She is unable to go, so now I’m stuck; I need ideas. Much how I like my women, the cheaper, the better. And I obviously don’t have a lot of time to throw something together. In what I’m sure is an idea that other, far less talented bloggers have tried to execute, and much like Jack Bauer, I have decided to do a stream of consciousness, real time debate of ideas as they hit me. It’s almost like you will be right here beside me. By the way, was that you that just totally cut one? Dude.
1:27 my first rush of ideas are pretty existential (look it up, doofus). Low key on the actual costume, but more so in the execution. My first though is to go handing out flyers saying that I lost my dog. The flyers will have pictures of Bauer on them. I could bring an empty dog leash. Or does anyone know where I can get those stiff dog leashes for the ‘invisible dog’ that were all the rage when we were growing up? After a few hours, I will call my sick wife and drag her and the dog out in the rain to deliver the dog to the house.
Pros; very little costume on my part, just make a few flyers
Cons; I don’t think the hosts will appreciate a wet dogs running through their clean house, Bau getting spooked by the people and costumes. O, and dragging T out in the rain, that’d be a con as well
1:30 same basic idea, except hand out flyers saying that my wife has disappeared. I’d put our phone number, and encourage people to call the house. I s’pose this could have been a great idea around the time of The Runaway Bride a few years ago.
Pros; very little costume on my part, just make a few flyers
Cons; drunks calling my house and waking T up
1:32 turning one of those big brown paper lawn bags inside out, possibly spraying it black-don’t ask me where-and tape the monkey from last year’s costume to the bottom. Go as the monolith from Planet of the Apes
Pros; I am sure it will be quite a struggle to turn one of those bags inside out (to hide the print on it) if I am too lazy to spray it black
Cons; paint would most likely not dry in time, people constantly asking, “What are you supposed to be?” trying to pee
1:34 and I like this idea the best so far. Go as a single guy. I don’t wear my ring and carry a stick to “beat all the women off of me.” I would also memorize 20 or so corny come on lines.
Pros; very little costume on my part, possibly get laid
Cons; more mental work than actual costume
1:38 go as Stretch Armstrong. I actually had this idea before as well
Pros; seems funny enough
Cons; trying to find XXXL sweats –in flesh tone no less-to pull this off, trying to hold my drink, not tripping over myself
1:39 going as balloon boy. Same idea with the yard bag, just write something like ‘Henne’ and ‘stuff to put in attic’ on the side. I suppose I could finagle it so that I actually disappear in the box like I’m hiding.
Pros; Seemingly minor prep, very current reference, I could pass out for a bit to recharge, and no one would know
Cons; the pain of hearing people go, “I don’t get it.”, possibly ending up the attic regardless
1:51 on a totally different thing, I come across this Balloon Boy costume on the net
http://www.upi.com/Odd_News/2009/10/22/Sales-of-balloon-boy-costumes-take-flight/UPI-23971256270264/
2:01 I discover Soupy Sales just died.
Pros; can’t get much more recent that a few hours ago,
Cons; too embarrassed to do a Google Image Search to see what he looked like, the pain of 1) no one knowing who the hell Soupy Sales is 2) Thusly not caring if he just died, not a big fan of dressing up as dead celebrities
2:15 go as the Unknown Comic
Pros; all I need is a bag to put over my head
Cons; no one under the age of 32 know who the Unknown Comic is, who wants to wear a suit to a party, chance of getting beer and vomit on my only good suit
2:18 go as the State Representative from North Dakota
Pros; no one knows who that is anyway so I can totally make it up
Cons; no one knows who that is anyway so I can make it up, again the wearing of a suit, beer and vomit on suit, the chance of getting into a heated debate over Prop 182
2:27 going as an earlicker. Go wearing nothing special. When some one asks me who I am, I tell them to lean in as I whisper, “The earlicker” in their ear and lick their ear
Pros; uh……
Cons; I would be licking someone’s damn ear, possibility of getting tongue stuck on earring, likelihood of getting slugged, just being overall disgusting.
2:28 I officially worry myself.
3:29 Why doesn’t College Humor have any damn Halloween pics up? Those college kids come up with some great ideas.
4:00 I am really considering just wrapping myself in TP and going as a mummy
Pros: Seems relatively easy
Cons; When I get wet, it will just fall apart, having less TP for Mischief Night
4:31 All hope is lost
Tune in tomorrow for more.

Wedding Survival

So we went to a wedding last week. I say ‘went’, but I don’t know of any guy who willing goes; if you ask a guy what he did over the weekend, he will most likely say, “I was dragged to this wedding…” Not that I don’t like weddings. Sure I am not a traditional dress up kind of guy, but I really don’t mind for weddings. In fact, I even have a ‘wedding tie’; a supacool Looney Tunes characters all in hearts. Sure, it’s most likely a Valentine’s Day tie, but it still works for weddings. It must bring good luck, every wedding I’ve worn it to, the couple is still together. Hmm, but I didn’t wear it to mine, hmm…. Since this wedding was taking place on the beach, I was able to get away with no coat or Looney Tune tie. I mean, who wears a coat and tie to a beach wedding, right? Answer; just about every other guy but me.

I think most people-ahem, guys-don’t like going to weddings. They’re always on a weekend, when sports are taking place. There might be some travel time involved, plus getting all gussied up. A lot of times, it’s for someone from your girl’s side taking the plunge. And those people tend to be annoying. (Certainly, not in this case.)

I think weddings kind of get a bad rap because of the stuff that never happens. Namely, I want to go to one wedding-just one-where a huge brawl breaks out. I want to go a wedding where the animosity between both families is palpable. And it simmers just below the surface until the spark known as “open bar” comes, and then it’s chairs thrown across the room, windows shattered, knives and guns drawn. Everyone should have one wedding story like that.

From the guy perspective-do you really expect to get the female perspective from me?-weddings are usually on the list of fun things to do right after cleaning the gutters, picking up dog poo and hanging drywall. If you’re married, it’s a nice little chance to rekindle the flame. Aw, cuteness. Somewhere, in a dark recess of your mind, you are thinking, “Yea, this wedding wasn’t as good as ours.” I know, I know, it’s sad and selfish, but I guarandamntee you every married couple is thinking the same thing. It doesn’t matter, you could be at a royal wedding, sitting on bejeweled chairs and eating off of silverware made of ivory, and it still doesn’t compare to your own. If you’re married, you know what I mean.

There is a hardwired, unwritten code when married guys to a wedding. We always have to rag on the groom. I believe there are thousands of iterations of the same basic 4 jokes. (My favorite one is to take the couple aside and say, “Look, this is the best piece of advice I can give you. You can work through anything-anything-as long as you keep in mind those three little words. (Insert husband’s name), you’re right.’” Kills every time.) This is followed by a manly, hearty laugh. Then it’s usually rigmarole like “welcome to the club.” It’s all good natured ribbing. But, I have a confession. We’re not kidding. We’re really asking why have the cow when the milk is free. We hate to see a fellow brother take the plunge. So what better way to initiate him than by busting his nuts? Actually, we’re just looking for someone to commiserate with.

If you’re single, you’re just there to take a shot at the other single girls. They say there is no better place to hook up with chicks than a wedding. Don’t ask me, I wouldn’t know. But I am inclined to at least say, “Man, if I was single, I’d be banging ALL these chicks.”

The seating arrangement is always a huge hassle. When it’s your wedding, it’s a struggle to align all the personalities at a table so everyone can have fun and get along. For example, you don’t want to sit Uncle Jerry, who is a die hard deer hunter and most likely wearing a camo hat, next to your friend Rainbow, who is a pasty skinned vegan. Sure, for entertainment purposes, it’s gold, but you need people to get along. You want to keep the ages within a certain rage, sit work friends with fellow work friends, cousins with cousins (South excluded here), etc. There is also another key element you must take into consideration; the position of the bar. You definitely want your younger partiers closer to the bar. The later the shindig goes, the more likely the elderly will be trampled in a mad dash for flaming shots. Aunt Enid ain’t too quick on the walker these days. Also, be aware of where the extinguishers and fire exits are.

There were 4 couples at our table. 3 couples got along, the other ones didn’t. Dude was on his Crackberry always checking the Yankee score or some such. He was checking his phone like he was a 12 year old girl texting her BFF. It was kind of embarrassing; I even saw him using <3 for hearts. His chick was a vegan, and giving the waiter a hard time about menu options. Look, you can choose to eat whatever you want, but don’t cop a ‘tude when the vegan offering isn’t to your liking. Whatever, we all can’t get along, but we had a good time with the other couples. Plus, we were pretty close to the bar. Another tried and true line at a wedding with an open bar is to get up, address the table and say, “Anyone want anything to drink? My treat.” The drunker you are, the funnier this will be.

As in life, booze is key at weddings, it can go a long way to breaking the ice. I am a naturally shy guy. But get enough rocket fuel in me, and my tie is around my head like Rambo. I will give you a tip here as well. ALWAYS tip the bartender. On your first round, throw at least a fiver at them. Of course, make sure they see it. You will look irreparably cheap if they catch you swiping a 5 out of the glass only to put it back in. The cheap among you might say, “But if it’s open bar, why should I tip?” The answer is simple, dullard. Look at it like this. You are generally going to be drinking above your normal level of booze. If you usually choke down Coors Light in the privacy of your home, you will certainly step up to Corona, Heineken, etc. Most weddings don’t serve their wine out of boxes. So look at it this way, I am going to drink an excess of pricey liquor, so karma says you pay it forward. If you drink the equivalent of $50 of rum, if you tip $20, you’re still $30 up. Plus, most bartenders don’t make great tips at weddings. So you’re gonna send a message; take care of me, and I will take care of you. On your next round, visibly slip at least another 5, maybe live large and tip a fin. I promise you, soon enough, just the sight of you stumbling to the bar will get you quick service.

I used the above strategy at this wedding. Soon enough, I wasn’t within 5 feet of the bar, and guy was taking care of me. I always ordered 2 coconut rum and cokes, and occasionally I would order one for the wife, too. (Hi-O!) It got to the point, the guy would make 2 drinks and tell me, “This one is yours.” That my friends, is service. So try it at the next wedding you go to. You can thank me later.

So the next time some friends take the plunge, you won’t be dragged down with them. Just use some of the above helpful advice, and you’ll be OK.

BullShit Facts 10/13

Muscular dystrophy has actually been cured for years, it’s just that Jerry Lewis is a greedy fuck.

Nice guys finish first.

Behind the scenes, in very high buildings, in very dark corners, music executives are secretly plotting out the grand return of a band. MTV, Fuse, VH1, Clear Channel, Comcast and Fox have all committed to supporting this act. The name of this band? Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

Cats are smarter than dogs.

Recent studies prove that milk causes cancer. And red meat. And fish. And fruit. And water. And air.

At the rate we’re going, all possible phone numbers will be exhausted in less than three years.

You only learn two years’ worth of new information in most four year colleges.

Despite years of studying, no one knows what earwax is composed of.

Hulkamania is a valid form of mania.

Coke, Diet Coke, Coke Zero and Caffiene Free Coke are all the same damn thing.

There is no place for fighting in hockey.

Good things come to those who wait.

Competition

I don’t know that I would term myself as a competitive guy, but I miss competition. I get competitive at beer pong and music trivia and that’s about it. Those of you who had the extreme pleasure of working with me saw my competitive side. My old WEAMissile newsletter/website always called out the “slacker reps”. It always fired me up that I hardly ever saw another rep out in the stores. You know I always wanted the most display space in your store. I wanted those fucking reps to roll their eyes when they walked into your (AKA my) store. “Shit, Kevin’s stuff is all over the place; even the bands I know he hates. Damn it. I must suck.”

OK, so I was competitive at work. I had easily identified bad guys. I had rallying points, and often the Missile contained such verbiage. Nothing works better as a unifying cry then pointing out a bad guy and creating an ‘us vs. them’ scenario. I did that shit all the time in the ol’ newsletter.

These days, there is not much competition for me. I mean outside the other thousands of losers competing for jobs. Lately my only competition comes from getting really drunk and playing NASCAR 09. For PS2. On the easiest setting possible. And trying to cross the finish line backwards. Did I mention I get really drunk? It’s a meager existence. But I will forever enjoy crashing Jr. out of every race.

For a few summers, I played in a sand soccer tournament. I really enjoyed the training, practicing, playing and the camaraderie of it. It is easily the most truly competitive, get mad and get aggressive kind of thing I’ve done in the last few years. Sadly, I believe those days are most likely over. People have gotten older, have kids, girlfriends & boyfriends (sometimes multiple boyfriends, you know who I’m talking about), have found new passions, etc. But I really miss the feeling of ‘team’ even if it’s only for 2 days and three losses. Plus watching hotties in bikinis who are ALMOST as hot as my wife run around is mildly amusing, too. I guess.

I still play street hockey, but that is totally rec. Yea, sometimes it does get a bit chippy and aggressive, but it’s all in good fun. But there’s no grand payoff, no playoffs to be working towards. It’ still an outlet. Even though no one has a mullet.

So along comes this thing called Dragon Boating. It is very similar to rowing/crew. The boat is long and narrow, and can fit up to 20 rowers. On the front of the boat is a dragon head; at the rear is a dragon tail. At the head of the boat, facing the rowers is the drummer. The drummer has the job of keeping the rowers in sync and calling out stroke changes. I don’t know why they call this position the drummer; but they do have a big drum/bongo that they bang on to keep the rowers in sync. It must be some silly old nautical term. Whatever. At the rear of the boat is the steersperson. The steersperson is provided by the competition because you don’t want some newbie careening his boat off of another boat.

My wife drafted me onto her team this year. As my mind was screaming, “What? Are you nuts? I don’t want to do it.” My lips were saying, “Yes, dear.” Bless my lips, I guess they’re just used to saying that after all these years.

I had reservations. First of all, this event was held on the Schuylkill River, which I believe is toxic. And I would be with all teachers. And of the approx. 18 rowers, only 2 are guys. This prospect is a bit daunting. Every teacher I know is extremely passionate about their job. It’s not really a gig you can ‘fall’ into. You have to work at it, and work very hard. That being said, guess what teachers talk about when they are not in school?

They talk about school. OK, maybe I am being a tad rough, here. I mean, maybe whenever a bunch of plumbers get together, all they talk about is plumbing. Or when pilots go out to dinner on the weekend, all they do is talk about flying. Regardless, there is a certain lingo involved; one that even after all these years is still a mostly foreign language to me. At times, it can be a bit intimidating as this discussion is going on, and I have absolutely zilch to add to it. It’s hard to make wisecracks when you are unfamiliar with the materials at hand. The “Little Johnny” jokes can only go so far. Part of this is my fault. Honestly, I am very shy. I know those of you who know me and have heard my jokes, smelled my farts and read this here Klog will find that hard to believe. But it really is true. So as a shy person, with all these people talking about unfamiliar topics, it gets a bit intimidating.

I’ve been obsessing with the theory of work to reward lately, and dragon boating (which will now be shortened to DB) is a good example. We have three one hour long practices. We use these to experiment with different strokes, acclimate new people and watch the wretched Schuylkill River eat through our clothes. The average DB race lasts under 3 minutes. My elementary math tells me that’s 180 minutes of practice for 9 minutes of action. Which precisely describes me in high school. (Think about it, you’ll get it.)

The day itself is very long. T is the captain. Our day started when we woke up at 4:15 AM. Yes, you read that right, A freakin’ M. Which is followed by getting down to the site by like 5:30. I yi yi. I really think the only fun you can have at 5 AM on a Saturday is sleeping. I will admit that it was oddly serene and peaceful to be by the river to watch the skies lighten and the early morning fog lift. Our first race is 8:09. With traffic and the thousands of people this event draws, you have to get the team there early.

We go through the process of waiting in line to get on the boat, getting life jackets and oars, and rowing into position to start the race. So we row, row, row our boat to the team’s best time ever. And a 7th place finish. I guess I should mention here that it’s an 8 boat race. We totally got smoked by the winning team. They were so fast, they were already back at their tent by the time we crossed the line. I guess they had to go shoot up more performance enhancing drugs.

We go back to our tent and wait. There are approx 20 such races. From there, new races are formed, presumably based on time. We won’t race for a few more hours, so there is plenty of time to gorge on the metric ton of food and drink everyone brought. And lemme tell ya, there is no better way to celebrate a new team record then by having a cold one at 8:30. The scene along the river is actually pretty cool. There are over a hundred tents for the various teams. People grilling up breakfast sandwiches, tables full of food, grills smoking, more canopies and tents erected. This event attracts teams-real, competitive teams-from all over. There were four Canadian teams, as well as teams from DC and other places as well. The established teams-or the ones who went to Kinko’s-get vinyl team banners to hang from their tents.

The drummers can be creative. They can wear whatever elaborate costume they want. Apparently, the DB festival doesn’t care if they fall in and their costume becomes heavy and waterlogged. Much like in real music bands, no one cares about the drummers. Over the last two years, we’ve seen Elvis (cripes this guy is still everywhere), a full fledged pig costume, Ronald McDonald (is there any even corporate America can’t wedge its way into?), witches and sharks.

We get to our second race. One team is missing, and constant public announcements are made. They are holding things up. Our thought is this is one less time to lose to. At the last possible minute, they appear. Turns out they are in the tent right next to ours. OK, now I’m pissed. How can we be there on time, and these boneheads be late? The bad guys have been established. We can lose to every other team in this heat, but we HAVE to at least beat these guys. As we row up to the starting position, we have time to survey the competition. On our port side-left for you landlubbers-there is a boat full of kids, with their parents. Shit, we can’t get beat by a bunch of freaking 11 year olds, can we? Ah, yes, here the juices get flowing. All I want to do is beat the team in the next tent. Later on, we can go back to their village to rape and pillage.

The horn blows and we row, row, row our boat. Unlike just about every other sport where you can see what’s going on the whole time, if you divert your attention here, you may get out of sync. I manage to sneak the occasional glance. I can’t see the team I want to beat, and it looks like those kids are freaking little motors out on the river. We shave a second from the first race, finish fifth, but lose to the late team next to us by .8. That might not sound like a lot-it certainly doesn’t look like a lot-but in any race, that is a lot. Damn it vanquished again. Bad guys win.

Now we can load up on food. Burgers and dogs flow like the river before us. I surprisingly only have one beer the whole day. It is at times like this that Evil Kev can emerge. Evil Kev loves to just drink and drink and drink if there is nothing else to do. Luckily, Evil Kev stays in his dark corner for the day. I do pig out, purely just to add ballast to the boat. More hurry up and wait.

Finally the third and final race is upon us. I will admit to being a bit ‘done’ at this point. The day is starting to get long, and it’s not even like if we win this one race we win a medal and get put on a pedestal while our national anthem played. But we do have pride. Our times have been going down, and you always want to go out on a high note. As we row out, we again have a chance to survey the competition. Again, to our left is a boat full of kids. I think they are different kids this time, because it would suck to have the same bunch of toeheads beat us twice.

We are now facing a huge headwind (i.e. the wind is blowing against us). We can only hope this is the sort of wind that can snap young kids’ arms. The horn sounds and we set sail. I am a bit better about watching the other boats as I row. From what I see, we are doing well. As we row on, I can hear a new urgency in our drummer’s voice. I look up again, and we have achieved some separation from most of the other boats. I can see the buoys slip by. Above the splashing water, I can see just one boat close to us. I see only a few buoys left. I can hear the urgency in the drummer’s voice. I swear I am giving this everything I got now. Two more buoys to go, and we are dragon neck and dragon neck. I put my head down to row. The last buoys goes by, I look up to see…

One boat ahead of us. We came in second place, a team record. From my vantage point it seemed far closer than the official difference of four seconds. It was quite a rush for those few fleeting seconds. It was a good way to go out. But now I want to do what any young stud would want to do after such a day; go home and nap. A day like this is a long day indeed. For only nine minutes of exertion, there is so much more. From getting up at 4 AM, setting everything up, sitting around, race, then wait for a few hours, eat, rinse, rather, repeat.

In the end, everyone had a good time. It’s a great little vibe going on by the river. In the future, we should plan to have other stuff to do while we wait. Something like, say, beer pong? Or strip poker? Just saying, is all. Next year, I see the team being more in sync than a shitty boy band.


DVD Bonus Material
OK, much like a shitty sequel, this was a rush job. I haven’t been able to finish too many Klogs lately (I have 2 more almost finished) and just wanted to get something out to keep you all in the habit of lending me a few minutes to pollute your consciousness. I promise the next one will be better, funnier and hopefully shorter.

Total BullShit Facts 9/23

Bob & Doug McKenzie’s name is on the Stanley Cup.

Great writers rarely repeat themselves.

Twice during his presidency, Bill Clinton claimed to see the ghost of Mary Todd Lincoln.

When you buy soap and you see it’s 99.9 percent pure, ever wonder what the remaining .1 is? Ground boars’ eyes.

For a very brief period of time in 1949, Indiana was legally recognized as East Indiana and West Indiana.

Your friends think you’re very funny.

Tunisia leads the world in basil production.

The federal government plans to discontinue production of the penny in 2013.

One potato equals one can of Pringles.

Glue doesn’t stick to horses.

All cats are born with blue eyes, but the color changes in the first three weeks.

Good writers rarely repeat themselves.

Under extreme duress, the human bladder can swell to the size of a small cantaloupe before bursting.

In Victorian times, there actually used to be an ‘i’ in ‘team’.

Vacation: Ageing Not Raging

You can be a lot of things on vacation. Irresponsible, unhealthy, lazy, calm, active, inspired, stupid, smart, etc. But this is the first vacation that I couldn’t be one thing: young.

GD, people, I am old. I know they would have you believe that 40 is the new 30, but that adage was made up by some young 22 year old. If 40 is the new 30, than 38 must be the old, well, 38. While not getting too much into this (it can be a Klog for another time), I have been feeling old this year. I’ve only been 38 for a scant 5 months now, and this is really the first time in my life I feel old. There’s stuff cracking in my body that never cracked before. The grey hairs have been staking their claim lately. I just can’t seem to move like I used to. Like when I was 37. I can tell you young whippersnappers now of two things that will really make you feel old as you age. Sleep and alcohol. It’s a sick, twisted relationship.

I guess it was an unconscious thread of this vacation to have this fact hammered home to me. I look back now, and see so much evidence. Keeping to our 2 main themes, I was up ‘early’ almost every morning. And also, this is the first vacation I can recall where we actually brought beer BACK. Shit, man, where’s my AARP card? Going down, we had what I thought to be a borderline supply. 2 handles (1.75 liters for you old farts that don’t know that term) of coconut rum, 1 each smaller bottles of lime and banana rum. 2 cases of Corona (I know, I know, it’s mostly marketing or at least a law to have Corona at the shore. Whatever, I think it’s a good beer. Fucking shoot me, OK?) and 2 cases of “session” beer: Lionshead. John and April were also bringing down a case or 2.

So what came back? Part of the coconut handle, a few stragglers of Corona and a majority of the Lionshead. Pansies. I have a simple explanation, though.

We’re all fucking old.

The first day we were there-Sunday-I think we just killed a few beers and went to bed (Old.) Come Monday (hey, that would be a cool song title) afternoon, I declared it Malibu Monday as we dragged avowed beer drinkers J&A into our happy placed called Rumania (yes, I just made that up). The experimentation was basic at first, just a few straight up coconut rum and cokes (aka CRC). After that whet their appetites, we mixed various variations of coconut, lime and banana rums with Coke. But that was surely unhealthy, so we started adding real limes. I believe it was April who started mixing CRC slushies. And then I think real bananas got into the mix. And then….

Yea, that’s how Malibu Monday went. It was good clean fun as the rum flowed like the urine later did. Much laughing and talking about I really can’t fucking remember. I am sure I whasn’t schlurring me sppech too mush. I didn’t get Cate Donnelly drunk. (It’s OK I use her in this joke. I know Cate. Plus it’s not like she reads this blog, so I can get away with it.) And Malibu Monday let directly to Sleep It Off Tuesday. I got up about 8 or so, ate something, petered around the living room a bit, then went right back to fucking bed and slept till like 1. (Old.) I do regret that I did waste that much of a day down there.

And here is an irony to vacation. Even though you bring down an assload of booze, you still go out to drink. A lot of nights we wandered up to the strip to try to blend with the locals. Not too much exotic beer is available down there, so you’re stuck drinking Sam Adams Summer and the like, which is fine. The bars were good clean fun-even walking in the rain. The girls had enough beer to attempt line dancing. Me and John had enough beers to keep our asses at the bar at mock the girls. The nights out weren’t out of control drunken affairs. (Old.) We were probably back home by like 10 or 11. (Old.) The drunk busses they have down there sure are lively after 10 or so. That shit should be a reality show. Cash Cab and Trashed Bus. Back at home, T would start a fight between J&A, we’d watch and then go to bed. Nothing like winding ‘em up and letting ‘em go. Good night everybody.

Next to us was a condo that I believe housed 20 young kids. They weren’t a problem or anything, but fuck if it wasn’t like watching a clown car every time their porch door slid open, and more kids came piling out. One night they were quietly drinking outside. Two of ‘em passed out. We even went down to check them out. Maybe I shouldn’t admit this, but deep down, part of me was thinking, “Shit, why couldn’t that be me?” And then the rational side would say, “Because 1) you’re thirty fucking eight and 2) if you ever did, April would so put that right up on her Facebook. I would even recommend to her that she title the picture ‘ShitFaceBook.’” Even my rational side hates me.

There are other reasons for the inexcusable crime of bringing beer home. For the first time since I can remember, we didn’t play any drinking games. Any. (Old.) No Three Man. No Beer Pong. No Drinking Jenga or Asshole or Flippy Cup or Fuzzy Duck or even my favorite game to play, Porch. (Which is inevitably followed by my next favorite game, Whizzing in the Bushes.) Instead we spent our leisure time in such adultly pursuits as ‘crossword puzzles’, ‘word games’ and some bullshit thing called ‘reading’. (Old, old and old.) We would end our exciting evening of activities by ‘going to bed’. To make it worse, we would usually get up ‘early’. Egads.

Funny as how you get older, the concepts of sleep and alcohol intertwine. To wit, on earlier vacations, night wasn’t for ‘sleeping’, it was for ‘alcohol’. Now, the nights are barely for ‘alcohol’, but mostly for ‘sleeping’. Shit, I can do that at home. If you drink too much ‘alcohol’, you seemingly never get enough ‘sleep’. In fact, if you drink too much ‘alcohol’, you are advised to ‘sleep’ it off. Sometimes if you’re smart, you might ‘sleep’ before a night of ‘alcohol’. I think you see the cycle.

Part of me did grow rather comfortable with this new cycle. It was refreshing to wake up, and face J&A not wondering if a made a drunken ass of myself the night before. Or wake up to a camera full of pictures I don’t remember being taken. And running in the 90 degree sun is far easier when my gut still isn’t chewing through a liter of swill. Especially for then poor saps behind me.

Next year, I am bringing the party. I’m brining a funnel.

DVD Bonus Material
Commentary
Yes, yes , it’s after Labor Day, and I’m still getting vacation Klogs up. I guess I am trying my best to extend the summer. I have one more just about finished, then possibly a wrap up piece, then back to non-vacational rantings.

A Day at The Zoo

Today I did something I haven’t done in at least a dozen-if not more so-years. I went to the zoo. I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about watching tall, hairy creatures lounging around all day in their own filth and squalor that reminds me of someone. I wonder who…

It was a beautiful Sunday as we arrived. I did come with ulterior motives. I wanted to talk to someone about acquiring a helper monkey. Where better to go than the zoo? Maybe they had some discount monkeys available. We just need some help with some chores around the house; things like mowing the lawn, walking the dog, picking up pizza, completing beer runs, etc. I was pretty happy that our first stop was the monkey compound. I was fascinated by this potential butler species. Unfortunately, there was no zoo rep who I could query.

We waked on a bit, and T asked me, “What do you think this place is like at night?” I answered, “That’s when they unlock the cages.” Smack! Ok, so maybe they don’t do that, but, admit it, it would be kick ass if they did. I wasn’t prepared for the general behavior of just about all the animals. They weren’t very active. I wanna see the big guys charging around. It leads me back to her question. Because most of these animals looked fucking hungover. And if I’m not hungover at the zoo, there better not be another GD animal hungover. I want to see the rhinos charging their walls. I want to see monkeys reaching their paws outside their cage and slashing a little kid’s face. 15 years of watching Discovery and Animal Planet, my expectations have increased.

But, no, most of the animals were pretty chill. The bats weren’t going batshit crazy. The apes were not going apeshit, no matter how many quarters I threw at them. OK, that’s a joke, I am unemployed, I can only afford to throw nickels. It was disappointing to go to Bear Country, and see said bears, well, sleeping. How often do you get to see a polar bear up close and personal? Well, the lone polar bear did his best impression of a rug, just lying there. They had the glass tank where he can swim in and try to maul all the little kids watching him. No, instead, the guy was sleeping at 3 in the afternoon. Dude, if my ass is up at three on a Sunday, yours better be, too.

Ditto for all the big animals, ones like rhinos and hippos. I got to see a rhino, sleeping in the far right corner of his pen. Big whoop. Do freaking something. Run around, eat a bale of hay or whatever the fuck else it is you do. Lying in the corner and twitching an ear does not pass muster. The zoo had small wooly mammoths. (Yea, scientifically, they were not the extinct wooly mammoth, but let’s make a few bucks here and market them as such.) At least they were up strolling, doing their half assed best to look menacing. What the hell, do the animals take off Sunday?

The apes weren’t much better. At least we got a little bit of action in the outside pen. The big ape lumbered up and swatted a smaller ape away. Mutual of Omaha this is not. We went inside the primate house, me still looking to inquire about monkeys of the helper variety. Here, we saw the biggest ape in the zoo, the alpha male. And this fucker just sat there. I swear, he was one of those animatronic things. A finger would move now and then. Other than that, he appeared to be sleeping upright in a corner. There were 2 other apes in this cage, and they were just as stoic. What happened to electrifying floors? C’mon, these days the zoo has to compete with iPods, iPhones and iCarly. Gimme some action here.

Alpha ape later wanders outside to the glass area. He draws a crowd of gawkers as he proceeds to wow us with his behavior of-lying down. Really? This is the best you can do? Put the guy in a hammock, and you got me on a Sunday. Yet, we stand gawker-ati , mesmerized. None of us have ever been this close to an ape that did nothing. I hung in, in the vain hope he would do something. A brief wait paid dues. He got up, and rolled over to face the glass. With an uncanny human like ability, he picked his nose. Then he ate it. Again, put him in a hammock, and you got me on a Sunday. If I heard this guy cut the cheese, he could move in.

Zoos have gotten more savvy since the last time I visited. I saw this first hand in the monkey house. Last time I went, all my forefathers were in cages with bars. These days, the bars are gone, in favor of super-strong(hopefully, at least) plexiglass. Which eliminates all the potential of a monkey flinging poo. Where’s the thrill? We were at another animal pen, something like the ostritch. The point is, it was something that could spit. So I tried to provoke it. Called it all kinds of names, made all kinds of threatening motions. Only to hide behind my wife. Now, c’mon, that’s funny. Again, I guess these guys don’t work on Sundays. No spit, no thrill.

We wandered to another part of the zoo where all the animals were behind glass. We came across one for the snow leopard. There was no snow leopard. I was disappointed as I asked T if she knew why they called this a snow leopard. She said no as I answered, “It’s because there’s no leopard to be seen.” She groaned as everyone else around me laughed uncontrollably.

As we were walking through, we ended up in sync with people who were training 5-7 guide dogs. We had the luck to go through the big cat house with them. From afar, I could see the tigers got the memo to take the day off. Much like in a seedy 70s porno, they acted like rugs. We went through the first few exhibits with no big cats. We made our way to an area that held two big cats; the bottom part had glass, the top of the cage was wire. The dogs slid by on a different path, and soon as they did, one cat sprung to the top of the cage. He stared them down, as the doggies obliviously walked by. It was good to see some action finally. As we stayed there, 2 more dogs walked by the glass part, and now 2 cats were right there. The dogs didn’t seem that bothered, and walked by as one cat jumped to the top again. So apparently, all I need to get some action in this place is to get animals on the outside.

We were with the dogs as we got to the part with the tigers. One tiger was dead asleep two feet from the glass. I swear I saw confetti and glitter in his fur. The dogs went right up to the glass, no problem. Further on down, there was another glass viewing point. 2 dogs were there, and another tiger slinked to the glass. Soon, Tony (the Tiger. I call all tigers Tony.) had 2 massive paws on the glass, madly scratching away like it was the face of a 4 year old child. We got ourselves another show. We slid ahead of the dogs and got there first. The second Tony was more active, eyeing another young child like she was a hyena or whatever it is tigers eat. The dogs made their way over to the far side, and Tony was on them right away. Poor guys, they both slid back. The crowd politely laughed, but we all knew we would be doing the same thing. I mean, how often does a dog see a tiger?

It’s good to see the zoo planning for a lot of kids. Outside many of the exhibits were zones for stroller parking. So unlike those GD spider bikes on the OC boards, I don’t have to worry about getting ankled by some dimwit dad who can’t see where he’s fucking pushing his precious snowflake. But that still doesn’t mean some of these egg and sperm donors don’t feel part of the Entitled. In the big cat exhibit, there’s a big sign that says stroller parking, another sign saying no strollers permitted in the exhibit and like 1,000 strollers thusly parked. But some motard still felt the need to ignore that, and push their precious through the exhibit. OK, pointless and off topic, but still a pet peeve of mine.

There were a few other cats in the exhibit. We were looking in another display when I said, “So, T, you remember the story a few years back when there was a cat or leopard who couldn’t hear? No zoo would take him, but finally, the Philadelphia Zoo did.” She shook her head yes with all the compassion in the world. I continued, “Yea, so now the zoo has their very own Def Leppard.” Smack! Shit, who said the zoo would be this painful?

Being a good and intrepid writer, I always have to ask questions. And this trip to the zoo left me with a lot of questions. For example, in many of the pens for the smaller animals, it appeared to me they could easily just run and jump out. I didn’t feel necessarily safe in front of the brown tailed gopher exhibit (or whatever the fuck they were. I’m drinking now, so go along with me). It’s not like their walls were too high, or they couldn’t get a running start. It looked to me the kangaroos could easily jump their way to freedom.

I wonder who’s job it is to figure out which animals get along. For example, in the small mammal house, monkey like animals were paired with what appeared to be small ant-eaters. They didn’t seem to bother each other. That’s a job you can only pretty much fuck up once. Can you imagine the job interview after such a disaster? “What happened to my last job? Well, sir, it’s a funny story. It was my job to put 2 species in the same cage at the zoo, and I made a bit of a goof, and put gazelles in the cheetah compound, and well, nature took over.” Awkward.

If it was me in this job (and yes, this is why I remain unemployed), I’d put hunted next to hunter. Put seals next to polar bears. Yes, make sure that the bear could never get to them, but still, let’s put on a show here, right? In a bat cage, I would put their non flying prey in a smaller cage at the bottom. Make sure the bats can’t get to them, but let’s stand back and all watch them try. Besides, bats are nocturnal, and don’t do shit during the day, so make ‘em work while people are around.

I wonder about the birds at the zoo. There were a bunch of open air exhibits, and it appeared that they all could fly. So do they ever leave their little bit of bird paradise, and say wander over to the tiger’s playground? Do they ever leave at all? Do they ever try to knock boots with the penguins next door? Those damn penguins wanted it, I’m tellin ya.

As with any big city, my Philadelphia is in the midst of this economy crisis. I am sure the zoo has faced some major cutbacks. In the grand scheme of life, I am sure the zoo is near the bottom of the list as it should be. I don’t think that justifies them selling hotdogs for freaking 4.75. And as I chewed into my overpriced hotdog, I suddenly wondered about the circle of life. What’s to say that this is an actual hotdog? Maybe it was prairie dog? So again going with the assumption I would be working there, I would suggest a radical new program that will benefit both city and zoo, and save tons of money. Turns out the big apes can eat over 20 pounds of food a day. I would call my program “Homeless for the Habitat”. The program would involve all the homeless being rounded up. Then thrown into the tiger den, polar bear cage, monkey cage. etc. The animals could get food, and the city’s homeless problem would drastically ease. It’s a win win. “Daddy, what’s all those bags in the lions cage?” “Ah, son, that just all the satchels from the hobos.”

Any trip to the Philly Zoo as a child meant you had to bring one thing. Cherry bombs. No, wait a minute that’s not it. Back in the day, the zoo had machines (called talking storybooks) in front of some of the exhibits. You needed a special key. This key was usually red, and shaped like an elephant. You put the elephant in the machine, and the story of the animal was heard. I am sure it is a cherished childhood for many now adults throughout the Philly area. Like a true bonehead, I totally forgot mine, but was still anxious to see young kids unlocking the story of the animals.

Sadly, the machines are no longer there. I actually spoke to someone about this, turns out the company that made the machines went out of business. I even saw a little girl with a new key in her hands, wandering around, crestfallen. The attendant told us they hope to get them back, and when they do, they will have a special party just for keyholders. I will be so there. But for now, there’s a big part of our childhood missing.

While a bit off topic, (as just about everything here is) I also feel the need to comment on something else I saw at the Zoo. While walking around, I saw the first asshole wearing an Eagles Vick jersey. Some young punk shit piece of trash. And this was not in the way I was wearing the I Heart Kev shirt. No, there was no goofing or irony going on at all. I know this was probably his bright idea to be the first asshole to wear a Vick jersey to the Zoo. But, enough. I can guaran-damn-tee you 96% percent of the assholes that wear Vick jerseys do it to try to be ‘bad’. They do it for the image and underlying connotations. All those assholes know next to nothing about Vick and could care less, they do it for their own image and ego. They’re ignorant douchebags, and I also would put them in my Homeless for the Habitat program. OK, off my Vick soapbox for now.

I had a lot of fun at the Zoo. The Zoo draws a ton of people, and it’s the oldest zoo in the country. 1859 in case you thought I didn’t know. The zoo is a good value for the 18 bucks. Lots of people watching, and you can even watch some animals, too. I don’t think you need to go every year. I don’t know the next time I will go back, but I will bring my red elephant key.