I like it when people hurt themselves. I think it’s friggin’ hilarious to watch someone bounce off a trampoline or fall down the stairs. In fact, the older or younger they are, the funnier. Sure, it’s one thing to see your 23 year old pothead brother fall off the deck. But when it’s Grandma, it’s 50 times funnier. In fact, they made a whole show of this. Ever hear of America’s Funniest Home Videos? That is one of my all time favorite shows. If you happen to stroll by the Kevolution Theory compound Sunday between 7-8 and head me laughing my ass off, it’s because I am watching AFV. (Unlessof course it is football season.) Every week, it’s a new slate of people falling or tripping over all kinds of objects; picnic tables, dogs, steps, toys, chairs. They do it in all kinds of social settings as well; weddings, parties, picnics, proms, holidays. And every fucking time it cracks me up. It’s such a simple and basic tenet of humor; people in pain who aren’t you. Those of you cool enough to be my friends on MySpace often see me putting such videos up. I have enjoyed this for years and years.
So I guess it is only right that something like this happened to me. And while there was no one there to video tape it (that I’m aware of, thank God), karma commands me to share it with you. And what better way than to Klog about it, so anyone on the Internet can read about it. Hell, I’ve had thousands of laughs at stranger’s expense, so it’s only fait I share it with the vast World Wide Web. Plus I haven’t written anything in a while and would like to get my hits up past 100 before the year end. We all have goals.
There I am working on a window. For reasons not germane (look it up) to the story, I have to open the window so I can stick my head all the way through and get a look at something outside. Said window is pretty old. There are 4 “panes” in the window. There’s a screen, a storm window, then the actual wood window frames. Both hold panes of glass. One is in the up position, the other in the down position. I am inside the house, and I have to open the wood panes first.
The bottom wood pane opens about ¾ the way. The upper wood one isn’t moving at all. I try to open the storm window next, but to no avail. I have a hammer (which always adds to the funny). I try to lift the lower window all the way up so I have more space to work in. It’s still stuck. I try to hammer it up, but it’s a pretty old window, and I don’t want to break it. Hammer doesn’t work. So I drop it to the floor. So it makes total sense to try pushing the window up. I try with my hand, then arm, then shoulder. Damn it, why is it so fucking hard for me to open a freaking window? Next, I try to shoulder the window up with my left shoulder, while my right hand is on the top of the window, trying to push it up. I emit manly grunts to further accentuate my effort. So as I’m trying to push this window up, the previously stuck upper window decides to finally succumb to gravity. It suddenly loosens and comes down. Right on the tip ofmy middle finger.
YYYEEEEEEOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!
My body immediately hits “Holy Fuck” on the pain meter. I look up and the window has caught my middle finger and wedged it between the lower window. O, OK, I see what’s happening her….
YYYYEEEEOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!
I see my finger is now trapped between both wood window panes. To the point where I can see both panes are bulging on their tracks, right where my now purple finger is stuck. I am trapped. I am alone. And I am starting to be in some serious, serious pain.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck ,fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” is the only word I can say at this point. Rather loudly, rapidly and worriedly. (I suppose, if I was writer, and I really wanted to embellish this story to add to the situation, I would say that this wasn’t my house and how not even 5 minutes before the window dropped, someone was in the very next room watching Church on TV. But, hell, even I don’t know if I am that good a writer yet or if I could even make something like that up.)
It’s funny how the mind reacts in this situation. There are fleeting few seconds of calm where you can study the situation and try to come up with a solution. Then there is the rest of the time when it is screaming “YYYYYYEEEEEEOOOOOWWWWWWWW! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK….”
The window is much taller than me, so my finger (and by virtue my hand and arm) is now stuck well above my head. My first reaction is to wildly try to pull the lower window back down. No, I lie. I am sure you can appreciate how recollection of such a sudden and traumatic event can be a bit fuzzy. No my first reaction is to wildly try to pull my finger out. I try it. I try to grab my hand to pull, but it’s not coming out. Shit, this fucking hurts. OK, solution one doesn’t work, time for plan B.
Plan B is wildly trying to now pull the lower window down to get my finger out. Of course, my damn finger is the wedge between to the panes, so it’s not budging. OK, deep breath in. What can I do now? The hammer! Yea, the one that’s…all the way…over there….on the floor. Shit, if I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning, hammer in the evening, hammer the ever-loving shit out of this window.
Shit, another wave of pain radiates. This is so embarrassing, I’m kinda glad no one is here to see this and mock me. Even if someone was there, and they would ask me if I need help, I would coolly say, “Nah, man, you kidding me? I’m fine here. Fine, fine, fine.” Clearly, when you look into a house, and see some dork with his hand trapped in the window, and jumping about like a trapped money, you too would just keep walking along.
I am getting scared. My finger is getting crushed. And it’s high enough over my empty head that I can feel the weight shifting from the finger to my hand, to my wrist. Like Police Chief Wiggum said when he got his tie caught in the hot dog rotisserie, “This is gonna get worse before it gets better.”
For a fleeting second, that vision of the fox that chews his arm off to escape the trap comes to mind, but this is my right hand we’re talking about. I am a dominant rightie, so it has to stay. Plus, typing these Goddamn blogs would take 3 times as long with just my left hand.
We’re going on 2 minutes here. Yea, that doesn’t sound long, but get your finger stuck, and see how time flies. I am getting really worried that there might be some real damage being done here. I jump onto the window sill and start trying to wedge my body between my knees and the panes, just trying to wedge something loose. Finally, somehow, one of the panes moves, and my finger is free. Now the pain really starts. Throbbing. Wow, so much pain from just the tip of my finger. Surprisingly not a lot of blood, since I guess it stopped flowing to the tip. The rest of my finger feels a little bit like it’s been pulled away from my hand. I’ve broken fingers before, and this pain feels pretty similar. A few breaths in and out. “Everything will be all right” keeps running through my head. Like I’m a doctor or something.
It’s funny when you get something like this, how much you realize you use, say, your middle finger. I mean aside from flipping other people off in rush hour. All this happened on Wednesday. And since then, I’ve noticed how often I use my middle finger. Tying my shoes, washing dishes, shaking hands, lifting stuff, brushing my teeth, opening doors, typing Klogs, etc.
I was really tempted to post a picture of my finger here, but that is just too much work for a Saturday night. I will best describe it to you like this. It’s about 25% bigger than my other middle finger, in just about every dimension. The nail is almost entirely purple. The nail itself is now raised above the rest of my finger, and there seems to be some sort of bubble or something right past the nail (right where it was crushed). It looks like I shot steroids into it, and they all just stopped at the tip. It’s quite disgusting, and oddly fascinating at the same time. It’s a mild nuisance at this point. If I catch it in the right place, I still get jutting pain. It looks a lot worse than it feels.
So that’s my story. I have now karma-ically paid my dues to the universe, so I can go back to watching people fall with no guilt. In fact, I think that’s what I’m gonna do now.
As always, thanks for reading.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Actors Who Piss Me Off; Matthew McConaughey
Longtime Missile readers will remember a bit I used to do about Rockstars Who Piss Me Off. It’s been awhile since I did one of these, but I saw something today that just fucking pissed me off. Read on.
First of all, I never had a particular ax to grind with Matt McConaughey. Like most men I know, I can’t say I’ve ever seen any of his movies. I can’t name any of his movies, so I don’t know if that even stands as him not ever having a hit movie. I do ‘fess up to being in the room for a bit while T was watching the one with Boobless Hudson trying to dump a guy. But I immediately left the room as soon as I saw this. I don’t know much about the man himself. A brief search reveals he apparently doesn’t like wearing a shirt, and at least on one occasion, was found naked playing bongos with another man. Infer what you want.
I know this guy is supposedly what many women consider “hot”. I don’t get it. He seems to have eyebrows that extend out over his eyes. He has wiry, balding hair. Personally, I don’t get him at all. I may not know much about Matthew McConaughey, but this I do know.
He is a flaming asshole.
How do I know this? I base this on the following article, which can be sourced at http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/08/08/entertainment/e140304D70.DTL
Just listen to what this pompous airhead is doing. The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard, he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta. It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit," he says.
Well, geez, let’s tell the world just how really special the placenta from my drunken mistake’s birth is. Hey Dickwad, shut the fuck up, no one wants to hear this horse shit. I originally found this story from a headline on the bottom of TV. There was even a more bombastic boast, something like McConaughey saying his afterbirth tree will provide fruit for generations to come. What a crock of steaming horse shit. Let’s break down this shallow Hollywood logic, shall we?
First of all, just where does one store the placenta? Do you just throw is in some Tupperware and put it in the fridge? Or will a ZipLock bag do the trick? And it’s not only that he saved it, it’s that now he’s going on TV trumping about this, like he his some sort of Superparent, far better than some ham and egger raising his kids. He goes on in the article about how this is a ritual in Australia, and all the placenta tress grew higher than the natural trees.
This is fucking Australia we’re talking about here. The land of Crocodile Dundee, Men at Work and Crowded House. At least he didn’t name his kid Dingo. Now I don’t know if this is all legit, but it sounds like a crock to me.
Next, I don’t like the inference that he is “giving back to nature”. I believe the current, hip term is “going green”. Pul-leeze. I’ve said it before on the old .com message board, and it is true to this day.
You cannot call yourself green or environmentally friendly if you have kids. Period. Case closed.
That is an overtly harsh stance to have, but it is true. Think about it. Just by having even one kid, all the trash and waste it will exponentially create over its life. The biggest danger to this planet is us; people. The last thing we need is more of them to further tax our natural resources. But, no, this McConaughey kid is so damn special and comes from such great genes, that his afterbirth has to be buried in an orchard. Wow, that Matty sure is forward thinking. Sure, it’s Ok his cumdribble can use tons and tons of plastic, oil, oxygen, food etc. It’s Ok, because his placenta will help grow, like one totally bitchin’ peach tree or something. That will more than make up for the resources he will eat up.
And it’s not like Mc Conaughey will be raising this kid himself. Please. He’s a celebra-parent. He’s not gonna raise him, it’s more like his Ecuadorian housekeeper will raise him. Matt has got more guys to play naked bongos with. You can’t raise a kid with that kind of schedule. Listen to this asshole, not only will his kid’s tree be the best, but it will bear “some wonderful fruit”. Huh? Just what is the definition of wonderful fruit? Anderson Cooper? (Zing!)
Mc Conaughey sure must be some spermicidal superman. Not only is the afterbirth he spawned going to grow the strongest tree, it’s going to bear the best fruit. What an ego on this fucktard. Let me guess, this McConaughey fruit will be sold at a premium at some haughty-taughty Hollywood chic store. Gag me.
Ugh, it’s empty headed assholes like this that fire me up.
First of all, I never had a particular ax to grind with Matt McConaughey. Like most men I know, I can’t say I’ve ever seen any of his movies. I can’t name any of his movies, so I don’t know if that even stands as him not ever having a hit movie. I do ‘fess up to being in the room for a bit while T was watching the one with Boobless Hudson trying to dump a guy. But I immediately left the room as soon as I saw this. I don’t know much about the man himself. A brief search reveals he apparently doesn’t like wearing a shirt, and at least on one occasion, was found naked playing bongos with another man. Infer what you want.
I know this guy is supposedly what many women consider “hot”. I don’t get it. He seems to have eyebrows that extend out over his eyes. He has wiry, balding hair. Personally, I don’t get him at all. I may not know much about Matthew McConaughey, but this I do know.
He is a flaming asshole.
How do I know this? I base this on the following article, which can be sourced at http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/08/08/entertainment/e140304D70.DTL
Just listen to what this pompous airhead is doing. The actor kept the placenta from the July birth of his son and plans to plant it in an orchard, he tells CNN's "House Call with Dr. Sanjay Gupta. It's going to be in the orchards and it's going to bear some wonderful fruit," he says.
Well, geez, let’s tell the world just how really special the placenta from my drunken mistake’s birth is. Hey Dickwad, shut the fuck up, no one wants to hear this horse shit. I originally found this story from a headline on the bottom of TV. There was even a more bombastic boast, something like McConaughey saying his afterbirth tree will provide fruit for generations to come. What a crock of steaming horse shit. Let’s break down this shallow Hollywood logic, shall we?
First of all, just where does one store the placenta? Do you just throw is in some Tupperware and put it in the fridge? Or will a ZipLock bag do the trick? And it’s not only that he saved it, it’s that now he’s going on TV trumping about this, like he his some sort of Superparent, far better than some ham and egger raising his kids. He goes on in the article about how this is a ritual in Australia, and all the placenta tress grew higher than the natural trees.
This is fucking Australia we’re talking about here. The land of Crocodile Dundee, Men at Work and Crowded House. At least he didn’t name his kid Dingo. Now I don’t know if this is all legit, but it sounds like a crock to me.
Next, I don’t like the inference that he is “giving back to nature”. I believe the current, hip term is “going green”. Pul-leeze. I’ve said it before on the old .com message board, and it is true to this day.
You cannot call yourself green or environmentally friendly if you have kids. Period. Case closed.
That is an overtly harsh stance to have, but it is true. Think about it. Just by having even one kid, all the trash and waste it will exponentially create over its life. The biggest danger to this planet is us; people. The last thing we need is more of them to further tax our natural resources. But, no, this McConaughey kid is so damn special and comes from such great genes, that his afterbirth has to be buried in an orchard. Wow, that Matty sure is forward thinking. Sure, it’s Ok his cumdribble can use tons and tons of plastic, oil, oxygen, food etc. It’s Ok, because his placenta will help grow, like one totally bitchin’ peach tree or something. That will more than make up for the resources he will eat up.
And it’s not like Mc Conaughey will be raising this kid himself. Please. He’s a celebra-parent. He’s not gonna raise him, it’s more like his Ecuadorian housekeeper will raise him. Matt has got more guys to play naked bongos with. You can’t raise a kid with that kind of schedule. Listen to this asshole, not only will his kid’s tree be the best, but it will bear “some wonderful fruit”. Huh? Just what is the definition of wonderful fruit? Anderson Cooper? (Zing!)
Mc Conaughey sure must be some spermicidal superman. Not only is the afterbirth he spawned going to grow the strongest tree, it’s going to bear the best fruit. What an ego on this fucktard. Let me guess, this McConaughey fruit will be sold at a premium at some haughty-taughty Hollywood chic store. Gag me.
Ugh, it’s empty headed assholes like this that fire me up.
Birthday Cards Suck
Birthday cards are a waste. I am sure Hallmark doesn’t want you to know that, but it’s true. I hate buying birthday cards. I mean, what’s the point? If you are giving a card instead of/with no present, why even bother? Unless there’s money in it, don’t waste our time. And if you are giving a card along with a present, again, I ask you, what’s the point? No one’s gonna pay attention to the card; they just wanna get to the present.
Maybe this is (yet another) example of how my view/feelings seems to differ from just about any other ration person in the world. Just so you know where I am coming from, there are three appropriate actions you can take when you discover it’s my birthday (which is March 22nd, BTW).
1) Shake my hand or pat me on the back and say “Happy Birthday”
2) Buy me a drink. Or 17.
3) Buy me a present.
You will note at no point of the above list does it say to buy me a card. If I never got another birthday card, it would never bother me.
I’ll tell ya a little something right now. If you do buy me a card, I will open it up, say how nice/funny, then promptly throw it right the hell in the trash. That’s right, I am not even gonna recycle it, just to spite you and your old fashioned thinking. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?
OK, so maybe every other motard out there doesn’t see it my way. Fine. I still hate shopping for birthday cards, or any cards for that matter. I always seek out to buy funny cards. Birthdays, wedding, anniversaries, graduations, funerals. Do you know how hard it is to find a “gee, I am sorry your favorite uncle died” card that is funny. We recently went to a wedding, and it was my job to buy the card. I bought the first humorous card I saw because it was the only one they had.
Let’s face it. Buying cards is a total chick thing to do. Guys don’t feel comfortable buying cards for anyone; wives, girlfriends, fathers, co-workers etc. Guys hate buying cards for other guys. There’s really no masculine way to do it. I swear, while I was out buying cards today (hence the idea for this post) I saw a “I really like your hair” card that chicks can buy for other chicks. WTF?
And since I hate buying cards, I put it off till the last minute (yea, another totally guy things guy do). That usually means I am doomed to go to the CVS up the street. I fucking hate CVS (Post for another day). It takes me seemingly forever to find at least a mildly humorous card, then I get behind some windowlicker that has coupons and returns, and the line just grows. Much like my frustration, I am there to buy one measly, unfunny card, and now I have to wait even longer to get the hell out of there?
Birthday cards are nice “notions”. Every year, one of my mom’s friends-who I haven’t really seen in like 20 years-sends me a birthday card to my parents’ house. That’s very sweet and all, but my life is not affected either way. It’s not like if she forgets, I will suddenly hate her. Further proof that bday cards are a waste; what do you do with yours? Right, you throw them right the hell out. (Unless of course they are from your significant other. That goes without saying, doofus.)
Maybe this all has something to do with me being unable to remember people’s bdays. Gun to my head, I could make a pretty close guess to my mom’s, and a general guess as to my dad’s. I definitely know my brother’s, and middle sister (she’s a New Year baby). I have 2 other sisters, one which I could accurately guess (it’s a few days from my mom’s and I always get them confused) and the other one I can guess the month. Yea, I know, that makes me a shitty person and all, but that’s just the way it is. And you are no better than me. Quick, when is my birthday? Yea, I thought so….
The selection of cards out there is weak, to say the least. It’s like Hallmark & Shoebox cornered the market and stopped trying. I am sure there is some cool internet place to get truly funny, edgy cards. But again, I refer you to the above paragraph about guys waiting for the last minute. I am more than happy with e-cards. You can personalize them to a degree, and it’s easier on the environment. I am sure some Internet genius is already working on porno e-cards. “Hi, my name is Destinee, and you can come into my Inbox anytime.”
So now we’re off to another birthday party, with another lame bday card in tow. The poor card will have a life of about 15 seconds from being opened to going into the trash. Really, I would much rather give the three bucks right to the person. Buying cards is the equivalent of throwing a few singles right in the trash. And I know of one place where I can use my singles far better….
Maybe this is (yet another) example of how my view/feelings seems to differ from just about any other ration person in the world. Just so you know where I am coming from, there are three appropriate actions you can take when you discover it’s my birthday (which is March 22nd, BTW).
1) Shake my hand or pat me on the back and say “Happy Birthday”
2) Buy me a drink. Or 17.
3) Buy me a present.
You will note at no point of the above list does it say to buy me a card. If I never got another birthday card, it would never bother me.
I’ll tell ya a little something right now. If you do buy me a card, I will open it up, say how nice/funny, then promptly throw it right the hell in the trash. That’s right, I am not even gonna recycle it, just to spite you and your old fashioned thinking. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?
OK, so maybe every other motard out there doesn’t see it my way. Fine. I still hate shopping for birthday cards, or any cards for that matter. I always seek out to buy funny cards. Birthdays, wedding, anniversaries, graduations, funerals. Do you know how hard it is to find a “gee, I am sorry your favorite uncle died” card that is funny. We recently went to a wedding, and it was my job to buy the card. I bought the first humorous card I saw because it was the only one they had.
Let’s face it. Buying cards is a total chick thing to do. Guys don’t feel comfortable buying cards for anyone; wives, girlfriends, fathers, co-workers etc. Guys hate buying cards for other guys. There’s really no masculine way to do it. I swear, while I was out buying cards today (hence the idea for this post) I saw a “I really like your hair” card that chicks can buy for other chicks. WTF?
And since I hate buying cards, I put it off till the last minute (yea, another totally guy things guy do). That usually means I am doomed to go to the CVS up the street. I fucking hate CVS (Post for another day). It takes me seemingly forever to find at least a mildly humorous card, then I get behind some windowlicker that has coupons and returns, and the line just grows. Much like my frustration, I am there to buy one measly, unfunny card, and now I have to wait even longer to get the hell out of there?
Birthday cards are nice “notions”. Every year, one of my mom’s friends-who I haven’t really seen in like 20 years-sends me a birthday card to my parents’ house. That’s very sweet and all, but my life is not affected either way. It’s not like if she forgets, I will suddenly hate her. Further proof that bday cards are a waste; what do you do with yours? Right, you throw them right the hell out. (Unless of course they are from your significant other. That goes without saying, doofus.)
Maybe this all has something to do with me being unable to remember people’s bdays. Gun to my head, I could make a pretty close guess to my mom’s, and a general guess as to my dad’s. I definitely know my brother’s, and middle sister (she’s a New Year baby). I have 2 other sisters, one which I could accurately guess (it’s a few days from my mom’s and I always get them confused) and the other one I can guess the month. Yea, I know, that makes me a shitty person and all, but that’s just the way it is. And you are no better than me. Quick, when is my birthday? Yea, I thought so….
The selection of cards out there is weak, to say the least. It’s like Hallmark & Shoebox cornered the market and stopped trying. I am sure there is some cool internet place to get truly funny, edgy cards. But again, I refer you to the above paragraph about guys waiting for the last minute. I am more than happy with e-cards. You can personalize them to a degree, and it’s easier on the environment. I am sure some Internet genius is already working on porno e-cards. “Hi, my name is Destinee, and you can come into my Inbox anytime.”
So now we’re off to another birthday party, with another lame bday card in tow. The poor card will have a life of about 15 seconds from being opened to going into the trash. Really, I would much rather give the three bucks right to the person. Buying cards is the equivalent of throwing a few singles right in the trash. And I know of one place where I can use my singles far better….
Friday, August 1, 2008
Scruffless
So I recently did something I haven’t done in years. It’s something I’ve kinda been thinking of toying with. Now that I can’t dye my hair funny colors, I guess that gives me a void in the “I feel like doing something different” department. It’s something I’m not particularly comfortable with, but once you start you can’t go back, so you have to fully commit. All I needed was the right occasion. And it finally presented it self. After doing a phone interview, I scored a second interview. Since it’s been a while since I’ve been this high on the horse, I thought now was the time to do it. Now was the time to change my appearance, and see if I got anywhere.
Yes, friends, I shaved.
I can’t tell you the last time I did it. I don’t shave for functions, funerals or weddings. Hell, I didn’t even shave for my wedding. Those of you lucky souls who know me, know my look. The “scruff” has always been a part of that. To properly set this dramatic development, some explanation is in order. At the very core, it’s this. I am ugly. Not fugly, mind you, just ugly. I am the kind of ugly that after you’ve had a few beers, I might, might, appear reasonably semi non-heinous. I figured out early on, I needed to hide my face. So, boom, long hair. But that only worked so much. So I decided to grow some scruff. More than a 5 o’clock shadow, not committing to the nerdliness of a full beard, somewhere in between. I did it for looks as well as convenience. I mean, what guy actually wants to shave every day? No one I know. Plus, I’m a bleeder. I seriously bleed just about every day on the “job”. But the thought of having a razor sharp blade that close to my neck and face early in the morning can lead to no good. So I opted to not even deal with it. Scruff was my way of hiding my ugly, another layer to hide behind.
In some circles, I am sure it tagged me as an 80’s holdover. Like I have all the Miami Vice episodes on tape. (Which I don’t by the way.) But it’s my look; I like it. I haven’t done any of this stuff to stand out or draw attention. I did it to hide more. Sometimes, I don’t like looking this way, but I am comfortable with it. So it’s everyone else’s problem to live with it.
Over the years, I added touches, like dying my hair, and experimenting with goatees, and longer chin scruff. A few years back, in addition to the scruff, I grew a soulpatch. The wife seemed to like it, and it’s pretty low-maintenance, so that has stuck, too.
Nature has gotten her revenge with my formally long and curly locks. All the dying and Stif Stuffing has taken its toll. Plus I tie it back now just about every day, which just yanks more and more of it out. I really think it’s something with bald men growing massive goatees. I guess it’s the thing to do. But check it out next time you see a bald guy; I bet he has a rockin’ goatee.
Anyway, when I got word about this interview, I toyed with the idea of shaving. I certainly wouldn’t take the soulpatch off, it takes to long to grow back. Plus, I’m like Homer Simpson when he shaves; the muzzle just grows right back in an hour. So I saw all of this as a sign that now was the time to experiment. Well, all of this, plus my trimmer shit the bed, so I was kinda screwed. No problem, I can man up. The fateful morning came. I looked in the mirror, at all my scruff, with no idea what cruel, cruel fate lays ahead for them. Filled the sink with warm water, got a new razor and lathered up. No going back, I can do this. One last inhale, then take the blade from the jaw upward.
Two things immediately struck me. One, how loud this is. It was really like taking a credit card over the scruff. I can’t describe the sound in any other way. I didn’t remember shaving being so loud. And the second thing that hit me was
YYYEEOOOOWWWWWW! Holy fuck, this fucking hurts! The air rushing to my previously covered flesh stung and hurt like a …a…big…stingy hurty thing. What the fuck? I immediately saw bare flesh where I literally never saw any. I was a bit worried as I had been working in the sun that week, that this would just add to any raccoon eyes effect, but gladly my pale skin held no such surprises. OK, first swipe is good. No river of blood. No scarring. Breath in and out, let’s do it again. (Insert credit card sound here) YYEEOOOWWWCCHHH. Imagine an R2-D2 scream here. What the fuck? Why does this shit hurt so much? How can guys do this every day? How come not every dude looks like ZZ Top? This sucks. The rush of air stings newly shoven (and, yes, BTW, I think I just invented that word ‘shoven’, past tense of shave) skin. OK, this is not fun.
The process repeats itself. The water in the sink continually grows bloodier and hairer. It takes some finagling, but I preserve the soulpatch. Fuck, yea, still rock n roll. After a shower, my face is still a tingle, and not in a good way. Luckily, there is no massive bleeding to content with, so that’s dodging a bullet. But my face still feels weird. Maybe there is some sort of chemical reaction to my skin and natural light. It’s not very distracting, but it is a bit odd feeling. It’s like I’m a Mexican wrestler, and I have just lost my mask. There is one less layer between me and the world.
It feels odd, like I am a bit naked. I check, and no, thankfully, I am not naked, so it’s just the shaving thing. The best way I can describe it is it stings. Constantly. I guess there is some sort of chemical reaction with the sun. I miss the whiskers. I miss the sensation of having stubble over my lips. I discover my tongue has a weird habit of ranging my upper lip, searching for leftover food. Yea, I know that’s totally disgusting, but I said it. I miss that occasional tongue swipe and getting an extra bit of lunch a few hours after the fact. OK, I’ll stop.
I don’t really resent it. I feel it’s more like a ‘doing something different’ thing. Yes, I do feel a bit uncomfortable, a bit odd. But it’s not like I am constantly running my hands up and down my jaw going “wow”. I know this will all grow back in a day.
Interview comes and goes. It’s not the point of this post, and as you can figure, I didn’t get the job. So it left me with a naked face. My next worry was what my friends would say. I am probably more “image” than anyone I know. People just attribute certain things with me being me. I really don’t think I could suddenly shave my head, and not catch a ration of shit from my friends. I would expect that, and they would be right in doing so. I don’t know of anyone in my circle of friends that if they suddenly changed their look would catch as much heat as me. And that’s not a knock, I think it’s because just about everyone else I know is firmly entrenched in their life’s path. Me, well I guess I am more shallow than that. Again, it’s just my perception. So I worry a bit as I face them (no pun intended) for the weekend.
2 things happen that surprise me. 1) my scruff doesn’t quite have the Homer Simpson-like resiliency I thought it would. I really thought the next day my 5 o’clock shadow would be well past 11:30. I thought it would grow back so fast I could hear it. But it didn’t/doesn’t. (OK, I don’t know what the proper tense would be. Fuck off.) This lack of development is a bit of a bummer. Now that leaves me to face my friends.
Supportive as they are, they say…nothing. Which I guess is the best thing they could say. It means one of two things. 1) They never even noticed. Or 2) They don’t really care. OK, maybe a sub point of 1 is they didn’t wanna say anything. Whatev, I am fine with it. In the end, it takes a few days to get my scruff up to snuff. The whole experience didn’t really bother me and wasn’t as traumatic as expected. It was a bit more painful that I expected, though. I wouldn’t be totally averse to doing it again in the future. The scruff does make me feel a lot more comfortable though. Like Popeye says, “I yam who I yam.”
DVD Extras
Additional Commentary
This was written in 2 pieces. The actual interview happened about 6-7 weeks ago. I wrote about half of it, then went through the whole Vacation Post stuff, so this took a backseat for a while. I am not a big fan of basically writing 1 thing in 2 pieces so far apart. I won’t tell you where the first part ended, hopefully you can’t figure it out. I haven’t de-scruffed myself since then.
Yes, friends, I shaved.
I can’t tell you the last time I did it. I don’t shave for functions, funerals or weddings. Hell, I didn’t even shave for my wedding. Those of you lucky souls who know me, know my look. The “scruff” has always been a part of that. To properly set this dramatic development, some explanation is in order. At the very core, it’s this. I am ugly. Not fugly, mind you, just ugly. I am the kind of ugly that after you’ve had a few beers, I might, might, appear reasonably semi non-heinous. I figured out early on, I needed to hide my face. So, boom, long hair. But that only worked so much. So I decided to grow some scruff. More than a 5 o’clock shadow, not committing to the nerdliness of a full beard, somewhere in between. I did it for looks as well as convenience. I mean, what guy actually wants to shave every day? No one I know. Plus, I’m a bleeder. I seriously bleed just about every day on the “job”. But the thought of having a razor sharp blade that close to my neck and face early in the morning can lead to no good. So I opted to not even deal with it. Scruff was my way of hiding my ugly, another layer to hide behind.
In some circles, I am sure it tagged me as an 80’s holdover. Like I have all the Miami Vice episodes on tape. (Which I don’t by the way.) But it’s my look; I like it. I haven’t done any of this stuff to stand out or draw attention. I did it to hide more. Sometimes, I don’t like looking this way, but I am comfortable with it. So it’s everyone else’s problem to live with it.
Over the years, I added touches, like dying my hair, and experimenting with goatees, and longer chin scruff. A few years back, in addition to the scruff, I grew a soulpatch. The wife seemed to like it, and it’s pretty low-maintenance, so that has stuck, too.
Nature has gotten her revenge with my formally long and curly locks. All the dying and Stif Stuffing has taken its toll. Plus I tie it back now just about every day, which just yanks more and more of it out. I really think it’s something with bald men growing massive goatees. I guess it’s the thing to do. But check it out next time you see a bald guy; I bet he has a rockin’ goatee.
Anyway, when I got word about this interview, I toyed with the idea of shaving. I certainly wouldn’t take the soulpatch off, it takes to long to grow back. Plus, I’m like Homer Simpson when he shaves; the muzzle just grows right back in an hour. So I saw all of this as a sign that now was the time to experiment. Well, all of this, plus my trimmer shit the bed, so I was kinda screwed. No problem, I can man up. The fateful morning came. I looked in the mirror, at all my scruff, with no idea what cruel, cruel fate lays ahead for them. Filled the sink with warm water, got a new razor and lathered up. No going back, I can do this. One last inhale, then take the blade from the jaw upward.
Two things immediately struck me. One, how loud this is. It was really like taking a credit card over the scruff. I can’t describe the sound in any other way. I didn’t remember shaving being so loud. And the second thing that hit me was
YYYEEOOOOWWWWWW! Holy fuck, this fucking hurts! The air rushing to my previously covered flesh stung and hurt like a …a…big…stingy hurty thing. What the fuck? I immediately saw bare flesh where I literally never saw any. I was a bit worried as I had been working in the sun that week, that this would just add to any raccoon eyes effect, but gladly my pale skin held no such surprises. OK, first swipe is good. No river of blood. No scarring. Breath in and out, let’s do it again. (Insert credit card sound here) YYEEOOOWWWCCHHH. Imagine an R2-D2 scream here. What the fuck? Why does this shit hurt so much? How can guys do this every day? How come not every dude looks like ZZ Top? This sucks. The rush of air stings newly shoven (and, yes, BTW, I think I just invented that word ‘shoven’, past tense of shave) skin. OK, this is not fun.
The process repeats itself. The water in the sink continually grows bloodier and hairer. It takes some finagling, but I preserve the soulpatch. Fuck, yea, still rock n roll. After a shower, my face is still a tingle, and not in a good way. Luckily, there is no massive bleeding to content with, so that’s dodging a bullet. But my face still feels weird. Maybe there is some sort of chemical reaction to my skin and natural light. It’s not very distracting, but it is a bit odd feeling. It’s like I’m a Mexican wrestler, and I have just lost my mask. There is one less layer between me and the world.
It feels odd, like I am a bit naked. I check, and no, thankfully, I am not naked, so it’s just the shaving thing. The best way I can describe it is it stings. Constantly. I guess there is some sort of chemical reaction with the sun. I miss the whiskers. I miss the sensation of having stubble over my lips. I discover my tongue has a weird habit of ranging my upper lip, searching for leftover food. Yea, I know that’s totally disgusting, but I said it. I miss that occasional tongue swipe and getting an extra bit of lunch a few hours after the fact. OK, I’ll stop.
I don’t really resent it. I feel it’s more like a ‘doing something different’ thing. Yes, I do feel a bit uncomfortable, a bit odd. But it’s not like I am constantly running my hands up and down my jaw going “wow”. I know this will all grow back in a day.
Interview comes and goes. It’s not the point of this post, and as you can figure, I didn’t get the job. So it left me with a naked face. My next worry was what my friends would say. I am probably more “image” than anyone I know. People just attribute certain things with me being me. I really don’t think I could suddenly shave my head, and not catch a ration of shit from my friends. I would expect that, and they would be right in doing so. I don’t know of anyone in my circle of friends that if they suddenly changed their look would catch as much heat as me. And that’s not a knock, I think it’s because just about everyone else I know is firmly entrenched in their life’s path. Me, well I guess I am more shallow than that. Again, it’s just my perception. So I worry a bit as I face them (no pun intended) for the weekend.
2 things happen that surprise me. 1) my scruff doesn’t quite have the Homer Simpson-like resiliency I thought it would. I really thought the next day my 5 o’clock shadow would be well past 11:30. I thought it would grow back so fast I could hear it. But it didn’t/doesn’t. (OK, I don’t know what the proper tense would be. Fuck off.) This lack of development is a bit of a bummer. Now that leaves me to face my friends.
Supportive as they are, they say…nothing. Which I guess is the best thing they could say. It means one of two things. 1) They never even noticed. Or 2) They don’t really care. OK, maybe a sub point of 1 is they didn’t wanna say anything. Whatev, I am fine with it. In the end, it takes a few days to get my scruff up to snuff. The whole experience didn’t really bother me and wasn’t as traumatic as expected. It was a bit more painful that I expected, though. I wouldn’t be totally averse to doing it again in the future. The scruff does make me feel a lot more comfortable though. Like Popeye says, “I yam who I yam.”
DVD Extras
Additional Commentary
This was written in 2 pieces. The actual interview happened about 6-7 weeks ago. I wrote about half of it, then went through the whole Vacation Post stuff, so this took a backseat for a while. I am not a big fan of basically writing 1 thing in 2 pieces so far apart. I won’t tell you where the first part ended, hopefully you can’t figure it out. I haven’t de-scruffed myself since then.
Clothes Shopping
Awright, guys, raise your hands if you hate going clothes shopping. (Trust me here, girlies, all the dudes are raising their hands, which is better than what they usually do with their hands in front of the computer) I will speak for the penised population and say we hate clothes shopping for ourselves. And here’s a newsflash, we generally hate clothes shopping for you girls, too. “No your ass doesn’t look big”, “yes that dress is fine on you”, “no, those pants don’t look any different from the other 30 pair of ‘taupe’ color pants you have”. We hate clothes shopping for ourselves. It has to have something to do with our male genes. Maybe because every time we shop, all of a sudden we see the 5 year old version of ourselves trying on all the horribly tacky clothes that our mom lovingly picked out for us. God, the pants she stuck me in when I was a kid.
I have very little fashion sense, especially when it comes to “dress up”. You know occasions that require my shirt to have buttons, my pants to be ironed, non sneaker like attire to be on my size 12s. Egad, do I have to wear a tie? I can count my suit jackets on one hand. I own 3; 2 black, and one..well…fuck, I totally forget, even though I just bought it a few months ago. I know 2 are black; they’re all purpose. Weddings, funerals, Xmas parties, business dinners, etc. Back when I was working, there was one dude who we always busted on because he always wore a black suitcoat at national meetings. All along, I was hoping my hip crowd would never notice I was doing the exact damn thing. I am sure they did, but at least never had the decency to call me on it to my face.
I don’t like getting dressed up. I hate it. I see nothing wrong with wearing a ratty old band t-shirt, cargo/board shorts and flips. OK, in the winter, shirt jeans (black, of course) and high top sneakers (because they make my size 12s look a mere size 11 ½). Anything out of that, and I feel severely motarded. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and most likely the social situation I find myself in. Or maybe it’s because I sweat like a fucking hog (they sweat, don’t they?) when you wrap me in a long sleeve shirt, tie, jacket, uncomfortable pants and shoes. I feel totally enclosed, like I am some sort of nerd sandwich.
So we’re going to a wedding tomorrow. That’s going to be outside. For those of you that don’t live here, I will tell you it’s been high 80’s low 90’2 for seemingly 2 weeks now. So the prospect of being all suited up for an outdoor wedding and reception is pretty appalling to me right now. Which means, fuck, I gotta go buy some new threads. So off to the fashion haven us poor folks call Kohl’s. I guess I shouldn’t rag on Kohl’s. I think they actually have some pretty cool stuff that you can’t find in any other of a number of retail clothiers. And their prices seem to be more than fair. It’s one of those places that say the regular price is X, but their price is so much cheaper, you would be retarded to not buy it. I am sure it’s an old practice, but not a lot of stores seem to do it anymore. You can’t go to Kohl’s too often, though. It’s a real good place to go, like 3-4 times a year, anything more would be a waste. Plus they apparently have some great sales if you have their card, coupon and correct blood type.
I do what any good husband would do; beg my wife to dress me. I still hold veto power, and it mostly an exercise of me holding up a shirt and pants and continually asking “does this go?” OK, so maybe once I asked if my ass looked fat, I’ll give ya that one. We both agree we aren’t getting too dressed up. I catch a break as this means, no jacket, no tie. Sweet! But I do have to buy a whole new ensemble. T gives me a bit of a head start by picking out the pants. OK, that’s half the battle. The pants are a light beige. In essence, pretty much anything else will match. As I browse, I come across some killer seersucker shirts. I know, I know, seersucker and all, but they were cool, palm tree covered light and airy shirts. Just what I need. I am all over this rack as T returns with her proposed shirt selections.
I flash back to being that 5 year old whose mom is forcing me to wear pretty much the ugliest stuff she can find. I am not some demented Ken doll she can dress up as she wishes. These shirts are ugly and very unKev. I mean those of you who have been lucky to have met me in person know I have a certain “look”. I am tall, over 6 foot. I still have shoulder length long hair, though it seems to be falling out like fetuses from the Spears sisters’ legs (ZING!), and I guess what you could call a rapidly decaying formerly athletic build. Scruff and a soul patch.
She brings me these shirts that look like they were picnic blankets in a previous life. Ugly picnic blankets. I mean, stripes, and designs and multicolored. I mean, I guess it’s great if you are an accountant or office manager or something. But not for a dude vainly holding onto his rock n’ roll past. The best way I can describe it, is like you rip the head of a typical Target model, and replace it with Nickelback dude. And vice versa. OK, that might be a pretty shitty analogy, but it’s the best I can do. She says to basically look for something ‘like this’ and leave for the women’s department.
Maybe I just never noticed before. Maybe all stores aren’t like this. But for this particular Kohl’s the women’s section is easily twice as big as the men’s. Oh vey, this could take a while. I have actually lost T in this store. It doesn’t take me too long to cruise the men’s section, and find a few possible shirt options. And then it’s like I am Michael Waltrip in any race. I just go around and around in circles, not really doing much. It doesn’t take me too much time to entirely cover the men’s and old-men’s-vainly-trying-to-look-young-section. Over and over. Yea, I did scoop up a few things. But really here, my work is done. Now it’s a battle to find T and het the hell outta here.
I find her relatively quickly. And she actually OKs my shirt choices. She’s not as lucky as me, she doesn’t find anything to wear. I mean, really, who the hell gets married and has the reception outside in fucking August? Another ray of luck shines down, as we agree to not buy shoes, we will wear flips. That’s fucking money right there and why I love this girl so damn much. That’s right, I am going to a wedding wearing flips; even with my disgusting toenail that has been filled with old blood since it got smacked in hockey. I will look ‘right’, I will not look/feel out of place. It could always be worse, I could be that schmuck wearing that tux in 90 degree heat. Actually, the groom is way cool, and a fellow Avalanche fan, so I will try to limit my bitching. I know there will be other stiffs there who felt like they had to wear the whole suit get up. Maybe, their girl made them do it. Either way, I will be mocking them.
I believe my stuff I won’t even have to iron. I fucking hate ironing; I try and try, but am just no good at it. T usually has to swoop in like SuperGirl and save the day. I’ve asked her repeatedly to dress up like SuperGirl, but that is a post for another day. She ended up getting a sundress, so we are all good to go. And maybe, just maybe, I will shave my toe knuckle hair. After all, he is an Avalanche fan…..
I have very little fashion sense, especially when it comes to “dress up”. You know occasions that require my shirt to have buttons, my pants to be ironed, non sneaker like attire to be on my size 12s. Egad, do I have to wear a tie? I can count my suit jackets on one hand. I own 3; 2 black, and one..well…fuck, I totally forget, even though I just bought it a few months ago. I know 2 are black; they’re all purpose. Weddings, funerals, Xmas parties, business dinners, etc. Back when I was working, there was one dude who we always busted on because he always wore a black suitcoat at national meetings. All along, I was hoping my hip crowd would never notice I was doing the exact damn thing. I am sure they did, but at least never had the decency to call me on it to my face.
I don’t like getting dressed up. I hate it. I see nothing wrong with wearing a ratty old band t-shirt, cargo/board shorts and flips. OK, in the winter, shirt jeans (black, of course) and high top sneakers (because they make my size 12s look a mere size 11 ½). Anything out of that, and I feel severely motarded. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, and most likely the social situation I find myself in. Or maybe it’s because I sweat like a fucking hog (they sweat, don’t they?) when you wrap me in a long sleeve shirt, tie, jacket, uncomfortable pants and shoes. I feel totally enclosed, like I am some sort of nerd sandwich.
So we’re going to a wedding tomorrow. That’s going to be outside. For those of you that don’t live here, I will tell you it’s been high 80’s low 90’2 for seemingly 2 weeks now. So the prospect of being all suited up for an outdoor wedding and reception is pretty appalling to me right now. Which means, fuck, I gotta go buy some new threads. So off to the fashion haven us poor folks call Kohl’s. I guess I shouldn’t rag on Kohl’s. I think they actually have some pretty cool stuff that you can’t find in any other of a number of retail clothiers. And their prices seem to be more than fair. It’s one of those places that say the regular price is X, but their price is so much cheaper, you would be retarded to not buy it. I am sure it’s an old practice, but not a lot of stores seem to do it anymore. You can’t go to Kohl’s too often, though. It’s a real good place to go, like 3-4 times a year, anything more would be a waste. Plus they apparently have some great sales if you have their card, coupon and correct blood type.
I do what any good husband would do; beg my wife to dress me. I still hold veto power, and it mostly an exercise of me holding up a shirt and pants and continually asking “does this go?” OK, so maybe once I asked if my ass looked fat, I’ll give ya that one. We both agree we aren’t getting too dressed up. I catch a break as this means, no jacket, no tie. Sweet! But I do have to buy a whole new ensemble. T gives me a bit of a head start by picking out the pants. OK, that’s half the battle. The pants are a light beige. In essence, pretty much anything else will match. As I browse, I come across some killer seersucker shirts. I know, I know, seersucker and all, but they were cool, palm tree covered light and airy shirts. Just what I need. I am all over this rack as T returns with her proposed shirt selections.
I flash back to being that 5 year old whose mom is forcing me to wear pretty much the ugliest stuff she can find. I am not some demented Ken doll she can dress up as she wishes. These shirts are ugly and very unKev. I mean those of you who have been lucky to have met me in person know I have a certain “look”. I am tall, over 6 foot. I still have shoulder length long hair, though it seems to be falling out like fetuses from the Spears sisters’ legs (ZING!), and I guess what you could call a rapidly decaying formerly athletic build. Scruff and a soul patch.
She brings me these shirts that look like they were picnic blankets in a previous life. Ugly picnic blankets. I mean, stripes, and designs and multicolored. I mean, I guess it’s great if you are an accountant or office manager or something. But not for a dude vainly holding onto his rock n’ roll past. The best way I can describe it, is like you rip the head of a typical Target model, and replace it with Nickelback dude. And vice versa. OK, that might be a pretty shitty analogy, but it’s the best I can do. She says to basically look for something ‘like this’ and leave for the women’s department.
Maybe I just never noticed before. Maybe all stores aren’t like this. But for this particular Kohl’s the women’s section is easily twice as big as the men’s. Oh vey, this could take a while. I have actually lost T in this store. It doesn’t take me too long to cruise the men’s section, and find a few possible shirt options. And then it’s like I am Michael Waltrip in any race. I just go around and around in circles, not really doing much. It doesn’t take me too much time to entirely cover the men’s and old-men’s-vainly-trying-to-look-young-section. Over and over. Yea, I did scoop up a few things. But really here, my work is done. Now it’s a battle to find T and het the hell outta here.
I find her relatively quickly. And she actually OKs my shirt choices. She’s not as lucky as me, she doesn’t find anything to wear. I mean, really, who the hell gets married and has the reception outside in fucking August? Another ray of luck shines down, as we agree to not buy shoes, we will wear flips. That’s fucking money right there and why I love this girl so damn much. That’s right, I am going to a wedding wearing flips; even with my disgusting toenail that has been filled with old blood since it got smacked in hockey. I will look ‘right’, I will not look/feel out of place. It could always be worse, I could be that schmuck wearing that tux in 90 degree heat. Actually, the groom is way cool, and a fellow Avalanche fan, so I will try to limit my bitching. I know there will be other stiffs there who felt like they had to wear the whole suit get up. Maybe, their girl made them do it. Either way, I will be mocking them.
I believe my stuff I won’t even have to iron. I fucking hate ironing; I try and try, but am just no good at it. T usually has to swoop in like SuperGirl and save the day. I’ve asked her repeatedly to dress up like SuperGirl, but that is a post for another day. She ended up getting a sundress, so we are all good to go. And maybe, just maybe, I will shave my toe knuckle hair. After all, he is an Avalanche fan…..
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Vacation Post: Wrap Up
(Originally written 7/22/8)
Aw right, I’ve had parts of Vacation posts rattling about in my head for weeks now. I’ve tried to work them out where they can be good, funny posts. But alas, after weeks of half baked ideas, they have just turned out to be just that; half assed. I have just run out of steam. And I know the Vacation posts have been long (fucking 10 pages about vacationing with kids!?) and maybe not as funny as you and me would like. I guess they were more just to write to convey about what I was seeing and feeling. So if they were too self indulgent or not funny or a waste of your time, I do apologize. I know we’re all here just to laugh.
Instead of trying to belabor these Vacation posts, I’ve decided just to blow them out as it were. They’re not good enough for an entire post, but maybe good enough just to toss in. Plus it wraps these posts up, and allows me to get onto to other (hopefully funnier) posts. So here we go, in random variety order…
Why do kids love to dig at the beach? It’s like they become solely focused on just digging as much as they can. I doubt these kids just shovel up the lawn for shits and giggles at home, so why does it become an obsession at the shore? As I walked and ran on the beach, I saw dozens of little rugrats digging like their life depended on it. And the parents are getting into it as well. I saw many real shovels as well. Yea, like the kind you can buy at Home Depot. Shit, these parents come prepared these days. Not only do you have to throw everything in the car, now you have to bring your own landscaping tools.
There’s a new beach game I saw sprout up this year. There are what look like 2 drying racks. And you have 2 balls tied together. The rack has 3 rungs, and I guess you score more depending where the balls land. To me, it looked like you were throwing testicles. I saw a lotta people doing that. But I would have a hard time throwing what look like bull testicles at the beach.
4th of July on the beach was way cool. We decided to stay at the house and watch from there. Apparently, police were handing out flyers saying anyone caught setting off fireworks on the beach would be fined like $1000. So you just knew, as the real fireworks started going off, so did the “illegal” ones on the beach. Up north, fireworks would go off, and you see 2 cops on ATVs race up the beach. As soon as they got up there, “illegal” fireworks went off further down south. Sure enough, there’s the 2 lights now racing down the beach. This just went on and on, and for some reason just cracked me up. Hell, if I was the beach cops, I wouldn’t be busting my ass to catch these firework crooks. Regardless, it was cool to see fireworks lighting up the ocean. Remember how I was busting on the papa-razzi at the amusement park? You should see me totally tooling out and trying to take pictures of fireworks. I think I ended up taking like 30, 25 of which were pretty much shit. I blame the beer.
While walking by myself on the beach, I had an odd experience. There I was, immersed in my SummerSongs and everything that is the beach, staring out at the ocean and the seeming edge of the world. I found myself just really inspired to write. Maybe about what I was seeing, what I was doing, but I wasn’t just mindlessly “being” at the beach; I found myself really wanting to do something else. I noted it as some kind of sign, something that I should actively pursue. You can see I got a ton of stuff from the vacation to write about (and OK, not all of it was great or funny), and maybe I should be a bit more passionate about it. I have been low on passion for months now.
I guess you can kinda add this to the Vacationing With Kids post. So kinda add this to that, yo. They were checking beach tags on the beach (duh) and all ours were already at the beach. So it was pretty much me, my mother in law and my brother in law. My BIL was in and out, so at the time it was pretty much just me on the main floor with the main TV. The main TV that has On Demand. Newsflash; I am poor and don’t have this service at mi casa. So it took me a while to figger out. I got to the free movies section. Seeing as how all was calm, I went to the horror section. I quickly came across Hostel. I heard good things about this flick, and it’s supposed to be gritty and gory. Again, seeing as how all the kids were gone, and it was a few straggler adults, I felt empowered. It was the most violent, adult thing I could find. So I put the SOB on. I looked to the deck to see my mother in law firmly immersed in…well, whatever the fuck. The point is that she was immersed, and the coast was clear.
Fuck the luck. I get about 10 minutes in. The movie is not gory yet at all. However, we are at a point where the one guy (which is what you always call the secondary male character at this point in most movies) is going through his camera phone showing all kinds of naked chicks. My Buffalo BIL is in silent agreement on the back about how much this movie rocks. Then, much like one of the 4 young girls, I hear the deck door slide open. Shit, my mother in law is coming in. Goddamn it. You have got to be kidding me. I am toast. Even pig headed as I am, I know there is no point to continue. In the vain hope that the possibility might still exist at some point in the fading 12 more hours, I manage to save the movie.
OK, so she’s mulling about, so I scroll through the movies again. I find the directors cut of the original Robocop. Great summertime, popcorn movie. I feel this is a decided compromise, so I put it on. Sure, for it’s time it was a bit gory, but it can’t hold up to current times, can it? My MIL sits in the easy chair next to my loafing ass in the couch. So the movie goes on for a bit, and I can see it will start to get violent soon. Red from That 70’s Show is looking to kill poor future Robocop guy. I recall from that time, that this scene is kinda violent. I ask my MIL “I think it’s gonna kinda get violent here. Is there something else you would like to watch? Perhaps some sort of judge show? They seem to be all the rage this point of the day.” She says no. Again, I feel the need to tell here that it will get bloody. “No, seriously, I think it’s gonna get ugly here. I don’t need to watch this. Is there something you would like to watch?”
“No,” she answers, “it won’t bother me. I will just close my eyes.” Fuck, if I had a nickel for every time her daughter told me that. OK, game on. No kids in sight, and I have basically pleaded with her not to watch. If she wants to, she better close here eyes for this next part. I can’t even look at her. It’s such a release to watch something that isn’t a ‘Wiggle’ or a ‘Jonas’ on the screen, I am enthralled. She seems not to be disturbed, so we keep going with the movie.
We get to the part where there are 2 hooligans (who kind of look like yours truly) and they get a hold of a girl. Robo gets on the scene. He wants to shoot, but hooligan #1 puts the damsel in distress right in front of him. Robocop scans the scene and sees a weakness. The girl has her skirted legs open, so he shoots through her legs. Right into the guys nuts. At this point, my MIL lets out a heretofore unheard of evil laugh.
It was so out of character. The whole time I was worried about offending her. And here we come to a scene where a guy gets shot in the nads, and she’s fucking laughing. It didn’t take me too much longer to shut the movie off. But not before saving it. So I still wonder if the next people who rent the house see the saved movies and think we were a bunch of sick fucks. Actually that would be kind of cool. I should have thought it out more, and saved the most sick movies I could find.
(Mood change) I still felt a bit shallow staying there. Here I am, at the place I love the most, and felt like it was a tease. Goddamn, one day, I would love for us to retire at the beach. Get a house that can see the sunrise or sunset. Hear the ocean. The dichotomy (there’s that word again) was I was at a place that one day I yearn to live, but for the last year have made very little moves to make that a reality. It’s like tasting the best rum ever, but just one sip, and who dafuck knows when you will ever get that chance again. It was such a tease. It was great to live that life for a week, but still a bit defeating.
(All right, I am going to wrap this shit up. BTW, I have been buzzogging the last half of this post.)
Irony again shines down upon me in the middle of the night. I need to dig up the Vacation 2007 posts to properly put this in perspective. So there I was. The 4th of July gave way to the 5th. It was raining pretty heavily on the beach. I guess it was 1 or 2 AM. Everyone else went to bed. There I was, last man standing on the last night I might ever be in Ocean City, NJ. A storm crashing all around me. Ironic because this is pretty much how I ended my last real vacation in OCMD.
In 2007 circumstances dictated we leave a day early, and it just crushed us. What I vividly recall from that Last Night on Earth was everyone went to bed. It was just me on the pier jutting into the bay. There was a storm rolling in from the north. It wasn’t raining. But I clearly recall seeing orange thunder rolling in against a dark blue sky. I remember the local a few houses up watching it roll in, too. Eventually, he went in-hell, he sees this shit all the time. But I stared, mesmerized. How so ironic, at a bonus week right on the beach, it’s just me. The beach, the rain. I am sure there is some sort of major message there, but fuck if I can figure it out. Maybe you can tell me.
(Sappy ending, then I can go to bed) All in all it was a good week. I learned some stuff about me; parts I knew, parts I didn’t. I learned that no matter how much chaos is awaiting me, the beach and ocean can always calm me down and fix me and make me better. I saw that it took 4 little girls to get me to the beach, and that’s the most time I’ve spent on the beach in years. I learned there is NOTHING BETTER FOR ME than time at the beach/bay. I learned T is just a big kid, too. I learned Mario & Liugi will always be special friends of mine. I learned I need to grow the fuck up in some areas. I got some truly killer pictures (which you can see as well). I felt that writing is probably something I should pursue a bit more. This trip reinforced how much I miss adult vacations with A&J and how much I miss them in general. I learned how fucking out of shape I am to run on the beach, but I can still drink like a fish. Music can also be so key and powerful; it really can be your own soundtrack to life. I missed Bauer more than I should. I know I wouldn’t trade those times with T on the beach for anything-they are my most cherished and vividly clear memories I have. I can see us flinging the lacrosse ball in the surf. I can see us kicking the ball and me silently hoping to not pull a Charlie Brown. I can see the sun in the sky. I can see us chasing the ball like a bunch of motards.
Awright, this wraps it up. Thank you so much for reading all this. And yes, I heave learned my lesson. You and I want to see more funny shit here. I agree. I think this gets all the sappiness out of me. I mean, let’s face it, who wants to see a happy Kevolution Theory? Happiness is boring. Bitterness is funny. So please come back soon to see all the vile. Peace out, mother fuckers.
Aw right, I’ve had parts of Vacation posts rattling about in my head for weeks now. I’ve tried to work them out where they can be good, funny posts. But alas, after weeks of half baked ideas, they have just turned out to be just that; half assed. I have just run out of steam. And I know the Vacation posts have been long (fucking 10 pages about vacationing with kids!?) and maybe not as funny as you and me would like. I guess they were more just to write to convey about what I was seeing and feeling. So if they were too self indulgent or not funny or a waste of your time, I do apologize. I know we’re all here just to laugh.
Instead of trying to belabor these Vacation posts, I’ve decided just to blow them out as it were. They’re not good enough for an entire post, but maybe good enough just to toss in. Plus it wraps these posts up, and allows me to get onto to other (hopefully funnier) posts. So here we go, in random variety order…
Why do kids love to dig at the beach? It’s like they become solely focused on just digging as much as they can. I doubt these kids just shovel up the lawn for shits and giggles at home, so why does it become an obsession at the shore? As I walked and ran on the beach, I saw dozens of little rugrats digging like their life depended on it. And the parents are getting into it as well. I saw many real shovels as well. Yea, like the kind you can buy at Home Depot. Shit, these parents come prepared these days. Not only do you have to throw everything in the car, now you have to bring your own landscaping tools.
There’s a new beach game I saw sprout up this year. There are what look like 2 drying racks. And you have 2 balls tied together. The rack has 3 rungs, and I guess you score more depending where the balls land. To me, it looked like you were throwing testicles. I saw a lotta people doing that. But I would have a hard time throwing what look like bull testicles at the beach.
4th of July on the beach was way cool. We decided to stay at the house and watch from there. Apparently, police were handing out flyers saying anyone caught setting off fireworks on the beach would be fined like $1000. So you just knew, as the real fireworks started going off, so did the “illegal” ones on the beach. Up north, fireworks would go off, and you see 2 cops on ATVs race up the beach. As soon as they got up there, “illegal” fireworks went off further down south. Sure enough, there’s the 2 lights now racing down the beach. This just went on and on, and for some reason just cracked me up. Hell, if I was the beach cops, I wouldn’t be busting my ass to catch these firework crooks. Regardless, it was cool to see fireworks lighting up the ocean. Remember how I was busting on the papa-razzi at the amusement park? You should see me totally tooling out and trying to take pictures of fireworks. I think I ended up taking like 30, 25 of which were pretty much shit. I blame the beer.
While walking by myself on the beach, I had an odd experience. There I was, immersed in my SummerSongs and everything that is the beach, staring out at the ocean and the seeming edge of the world. I found myself just really inspired to write. Maybe about what I was seeing, what I was doing, but I wasn’t just mindlessly “being” at the beach; I found myself really wanting to do something else. I noted it as some kind of sign, something that I should actively pursue. You can see I got a ton of stuff from the vacation to write about (and OK, not all of it was great or funny), and maybe I should be a bit more passionate about it. I have been low on passion for months now.
I guess you can kinda add this to the Vacationing With Kids post. So kinda add this to that, yo. They were checking beach tags on the beach (duh) and all ours were already at the beach. So it was pretty much me, my mother in law and my brother in law. My BIL was in and out, so at the time it was pretty much just me on the main floor with the main TV. The main TV that has On Demand. Newsflash; I am poor and don’t have this service at mi casa. So it took me a while to figger out. I got to the free movies section. Seeing as how all was calm, I went to the horror section. I quickly came across Hostel. I heard good things about this flick, and it’s supposed to be gritty and gory. Again, seeing as how all the kids were gone, and it was a few straggler adults, I felt empowered. It was the most violent, adult thing I could find. So I put the SOB on. I looked to the deck to see my mother in law firmly immersed in…well, whatever the fuck. The point is that she was immersed, and the coast was clear.
Fuck the luck. I get about 10 minutes in. The movie is not gory yet at all. However, we are at a point where the one guy (which is what you always call the secondary male character at this point in most movies) is going through his camera phone showing all kinds of naked chicks. My Buffalo BIL is in silent agreement on the back about how much this movie rocks. Then, much like one of the 4 young girls, I hear the deck door slide open. Shit, my mother in law is coming in. Goddamn it. You have got to be kidding me. I am toast. Even pig headed as I am, I know there is no point to continue. In the vain hope that the possibility might still exist at some point in the fading 12 more hours, I manage to save the movie.
OK, so she’s mulling about, so I scroll through the movies again. I find the directors cut of the original Robocop. Great summertime, popcorn movie. I feel this is a decided compromise, so I put it on. Sure, for it’s time it was a bit gory, but it can’t hold up to current times, can it? My MIL sits in the easy chair next to my loafing ass in the couch. So the movie goes on for a bit, and I can see it will start to get violent soon. Red from That 70’s Show is looking to kill poor future Robocop guy. I recall from that time, that this scene is kinda violent. I ask my MIL “I think it’s gonna kinda get violent here. Is there something else you would like to watch? Perhaps some sort of judge show? They seem to be all the rage this point of the day.” She says no. Again, I feel the need to tell here that it will get bloody. “No, seriously, I think it’s gonna get ugly here. I don’t need to watch this. Is there something you would like to watch?”
“No,” she answers, “it won’t bother me. I will just close my eyes.” Fuck, if I had a nickel for every time her daughter told me that. OK, game on. No kids in sight, and I have basically pleaded with her not to watch. If she wants to, she better close here eyes for this next part. I can’t even look at her. It’s such a release to watch something that isn’t a ‘Wiggle’ or a ‘Jonas’ on the screen, I am enthralled. She seems not to be disturbed, so we keep going with the movie.
We get to the part where there are 2 hooligans (who kind of look like yours truly) and they get a hold of a girl. Robo gets on the scene. He wants to shoot, but hooligan #1 puts the damsel in distress right in front of him. Robocop scans the scene and sees a weakness. The girl has her skirted legs open, so he shoots through her legs. Right into the guys nuts. At this point, my MIL lets out a heretofore unheard of evil laugh.
It was so out of character. The whole time I was worried about offending her. And here we come to a scene where a guy gets shot in the nads, and she’s fucking laughing. It didn’t take me too much longer to shut the movie off. But not before saving it. So I still wonder if the next people who rent the house see the saved movies and think we were a bunch of sick fucks. Actually that would be kind of cool. I should have thought it out more, and saved the most sick movies I could find.
(Mood change) I still felt a bit shallow staying there. Here I am, at the place I love the most, and felt like it was a tease. Goddamn, one day, I would love for us to retire at the beach. Get a house that can see the sunrise or sunset. Hear the ocean. The dichotomy (there’s that word again) was I was at a place that one day I yearn to live, but for the last year have made very little moves to make that a reality. It’s like tasting the best rum ever, but just one sip, and who dafuck knows when you will ever get that chance again. It was such a tease. It was great to live that life for a week, but still a bit defeating.
(All right, I am going to wrap this shit up. BTW, I have been buzzogging the last half of this post.)
Irony again shines down upon me in the middle of the night. I need to dig up the Vacation 2007 posts to properly put this in perspective. So there I was. The 4th of July gave way to the 5th. It was raining pretty heavily on the beach. I guess it was 1 or 2 AM. Everyone else went to bed. There I was, last man standing on the last night I might ever be in Ocean City, NJ. A storm crashing all around me. Ironic because this is pretty much how I ended my last real vacation in OCMD.
In 2007 circumstances dictated we leave a day early, and it just crushed us. What I vividly recall from that Last Night on Earth was everyone went to bed. It was just me on the pier jutting into the bay. There was a storm rolling in from the north. It wasn’t raining. But I clearly recall seeing orange thunder rolling in against a dark blue sky. I remember the local a few houses up watching it roll in, too. Eventually, he went in-hell, he sees this shit all the time. But I stared, mesmerized. How so ironic, at a bonus week right on the beach, it’s just me. The beach, the rain. I am sure there is some sort of major message there, but fuck if I can figure it out. Maybe you can tell me.
(Sappy ending, then I can go to bed) All in all it was a good week. I learned some stuff about me; parts I knew, parts I didn’t. I learned that no matter how much chaos is awaiting me, the beach and ocean can always calm me down and fix me and make me better. I saw that it took 4 little girls to get me to the beach, and that’s the most time I’ve spent on the beach in years. I learned there is NOTHING BETTER FOR ME than time at the beach/bay. I learned T is just a big kid, too. I learned Mario & Liugi will always be special friends of mine. I learned I need to grow the fuck up in some areas. I got some truly killer pictures (which you can see as well). I felt that writing is probably something I should pursue a bit more. This trip reinforced how much I miss adult vacations with A&J and how much I miss them in general. I learned how fucking out of shape I am to run on the beach, but I can still drink like a fish. Music can also be so key and powerful; it really can be your own soundtrack to life. I missed Bauer more than I should. I know I wouldn’t trade those times with T on the beach for anything-they are my most cherished and vividly clear memories I have. I can see us flinging the lacrosse ball in the surf. I can see us kicking the ball and me silently hoping to not pull a Charlie Brown. I can see the sun in the sky. I can see us chasing the ball like a bunch of motards.
Awright, this wraps it up. Thank you so much for reading all this. And yes, I heave learned my lesson. You and I want to see more funny shit here. I agree. I think this gets all the sappiness out of me. I mean, let’s face it, who wants to see a happy Kevolution Theory? Happiness is boring. Bitterness is funny. So please come back soon to see all the vile. Peace out, mother fuckers.
Vacation Post: Tuesday Morning
(Originally written 7/14/8)
Tuesday morning/Never looked so good
I’m already in/In a daydream
It’s Tuesday morning. Monday we took and adult walk to chill us the fuck out. Tuesday morning we were going to split up. T had her own agenda, which is perfectly cool. Tuesday was my first day to do something I haven’t really done in almost a year; go for a run. Longtime readers-all 5 of you-might remember a post last year about me running in OCMD with my beloved SummerSongs remix on and how it affected me. Short version: running up to the boards, then walking back listening to these songs was a pretty powerful experience to me. Now, here is my second chance. Before we went down, I loaded some new surf albums (I highly recommend Aqualads) so I could have some new stuff. The boardwalk was like 20 blocks north, so I decided to run south. I also decided to run on the streets. Don’t ask why, I guess I hadn’t totally grasped the idea of actually running on the beach. Or to the boardwalk.
I slathered on the lotion, put the shades, hat and cue the SummerSongs on my iPod. Since it is a beautiful Tuesday morning, it gets me to search for this great song. It’s called “In a Daydream” by the Freddy Jones Band. I know you have never heard of it. It was on my player a few weeks back, and just for the sake of this post, I will put it back on. It’s a great song for such beautiful early mornings. It’s a great summer song, and it’s a great roadtrip song. And today is the perfect chance to put some summer imagery to it. I cue it up and head out.
I don’t like to run. I really can’t run to save my life. Outside of street hockey on Monday nights and the occasional bout of cardio in the gym, I don’t really do much. I like to ‘interval’; run a block walk a block. It’s actually better for your metabolism, and keeps me much more mentally into the activity. I walk 2 blocks, have In A Daydream in my ears. I am full of life and full of myself. My first interval will be two blocks. I feel that damn good.
Unfortunately, I also feel that outta shape. I am huffing and puffing like Artie Lange. I knew I was bad, but not this bad. OK, minor setback. Back to one block intervals. OK, not so bad, and it does feel good to be doing something physical. Not like I am drinking that much, but that tubfull of cheeseballs sure is disappearing quick.
On my way, I pass some people. And they are not as friendly as you would think. I have noticed with most ‘shorefolk’, they tend to be happy. Doesn’t matter if they are the locals or vacationers. People just seem to act better near the ocean. Or maybe it’s because I look like I am running while suffering some kind of seizure. Or maybe because on the blocks I walk, I am breathing heavy. It looks like I am just on a stroll and breathing heavy. (Part of me really wonders if I am breathing in nasty shit from the j*b.)
I keep intervalling. I notice a lot of these houses look relatively new. A lot of them are truly sweet; multi-million dollar homes. Not just multi-million dollar homes based on location, but also the value of the damn house itself. 2-3 decks. Monstrous rooms. Intricate window work. All kinds of hardscaping going on. It all looks really nice; I mean don’t get me wrong. These houses are fucking sweet. I would love to have one of these houses just for my real house, let alone vacation property. But something about all this bothers me. None of these houses look really –“beachy”. Again, I would take one of these houses in a heartbeat, but if you look at most of them, they just don’t really cry “beach”.
It’s all a little bit haughty-taughty for me. It almost looks like I am running in a gated community. Every once in a while, I expect a tap on the shoulder from some rent a cop asking me , “Uh, excuse me, but just how the hell did you get in here?” Every once in a while, I do pass a true blue beach house. Yea, it’s a bit older, not as monstrous, but if you saw a picture, it would scream “beach”. (And if you are the type to hear screaming from pictures, please keep that to yourself.) I’m not going to try to describe this much more, but I will just leave it with the ever vague clichés of “you know what I am talking about” and “you know what I mean”.
I guess I am just used to beach houses being a bit smaller. Most of the shacks I have rented haven’t been gihugic spaces, but they were more than adequate; and we had a blast there nonetheless. But I guess they are slowly on the way out. I don’t know, I guess kids today will see these newer, bigger and far more expensive houses and think, “yea, that’s a real beach house.”
The sun is shinin’/It’s here to wake me up
No one around/Just me and the sky
The sky is cloudless, and even though this isn’t the beach, it’s still pretty calm. I pass some people on their porch, just eating breakfast or reading the paper. Occasionally, I do pass a dog, which makes me miss Bauer terribly. I try to pet as many as I can. A lot of people down here aren’t dog friendly. A lot of yards have various cute signs asking owners to curb their dog somewhere else. Others have wood figures of a dog; some of them even have a poop coming out. They either say NO or have the circle with the line running through it. Now if I was a dog, and I saw what I thought to be another pooch cutting a deuce on a lawn, I would take that as a cue to cut one right there. If you really wanna keep a dog off of your lawn, have a big cut out of Michael Vick.
It’s their right, too. A lot of yards are meticulously kept. Edged, watered, the whole deal. I get the point, because it can’t be easy growing grass on sandy soil. Flags are a big thing, too. Lots of American flags (July 4th is 3 days away.) I also see a trend of a lot of college flags. Not just your obvious ones, but loser schools like ‘Philadelphia University’, ‘James Madison’, ‘Rutgers’, etc. Any of you guys heard of these schools? Sound like party schools to me.
I interval about 30 blocks, then start my stroll back up. There is no better feeling than not having to rush. There’s only 4 screaming little girls waiting, so why hurry. I drink in the scene; sky, houses, flags, porches and decks. It’s not the ocean, but I will associate these sights with the music in my iPod. It’s funny, I wasn’t feeling terribly active to start, but as it wore on, I felt more energized. I came back ready to go to the beach, and do some running around there, too.
The next morning, I didn’t quite fell like going for another run (cough, wuss,cough) Instead, I decided to go for a walk north. Going at a slower pace, these new-fangled houses just seemed bigger. As I kept going up, I saw the boardwalk was starting up, do it was a no-brainer to go there. Wow, just wow. I can still vividly remember going to where the boards start, and just looking out to the ocean, with the sun reflecting off of it.
I’m already in/In a daydream
The sky is callin’/It’s callin’ out my name
Telling me to stay/Stay, don’t go away
Now this part of the Bwalk is narrow, very narrow. Like dangerously narrow. Bikers are whizzing by like Lance Armstrong. Runners are cutting their way through the show moving crowd of people like me. Yea, I see no need to run now. I have the sweet ocean to my right, and soon enough, this week will have gone by. Why rush it? Still, all this fast movement is annoying. Here I am trying to stay out of the way, only to get bumped by some runner, and the bikers are so close, I can fell the air coming off of them.
I kinda worry, ‘cause some of these bikes are of the 2 man variety. So here are people that usually don’t ride bikes, let alone the 2 mans, whizzing through the walkers and the elderly, and the elderly using walkers. It got so bad, I saw some motard with their young daughter on the back of the bike. This kid was young enough that she should have been in a baby seat. But, no, SuperParent already made the decision that precious little Madison or Haley or whoever the fuck should be able to ride on the back. Even though her feet didn’t reach the pedals. But she did look so precious in the 3 dollar bike helmet.
So I watch as these 2 zoom by me. I watch as the dad slides all the way over, and even bounces off a bench. He has a yellow Live Strong t-shirt on, so he thinks he can drive as reckless as he can. After bouncing off the bench, he rolls up to 2 elderly couples walking. Clearly, these guys are not going top speed, but Dad rides right up to them before realizing this fact. He yells for his daughter to hit the breaks. It’s too late, he swerves. He viciously takes out a woman, as the bike slides down to the boardwalk. The bike keeps going and wipes out like 5 more people. It was carnage, all for an asshole driver.
OK, I totally made that last part up. There’s not enough jokes in this story, so I thought a made up bit with a young child getting hurt would make you sick perverts laugh.
Soon, the actual Boardwalk-the part with stores, etc- starts. This is a good thing, ‘cause I gotta pee like a race horse at this point. It’s just a very cool vibe to me. People just strolling around, ocean breeze blowing up. All kinds of stores selling all kinds of stuff. Sure, after a while, it all gets repetitive, but it beats the continued Wal-Martization of everywhere else. It’s just so laid back. Every new SummerSong that comes up on my iPod is meshed with another scene of summer. Even though it’s the 4th of July week, it’s not crowded at all. It’s hard to not feel like a little kid. Arcades still abound. If I had a sense of smell, I am sure I could smell the cotton candy, popcorn, pizza, etc. It’s also at this point the Old Friends post starts. (Pretty damn cool how I am keeping this whole thing linear, huh?)
It feels like it’s starting to get ‘late’. I can’t quite figure out why; there’s no need for a clock at all this week. I guess it’s because there is still so much ‘nothing’ to do back at the house. Go to the beach, read, play soccer and lacrosse, go into the ocean. It’s still early, and at least I have some of the boards scouted for cool places to go. And, of course, exactly where Mario Brothers is.
And the breeze is blowing/Blowin’ across my face
Well, I just don’t know where/But I wish I could be there
Just for a little while
So even though I didn’t run, I walked, and I got to see the ocean. It still totally relaxed me. I don’t know how it does it, but the beach does it every time. And this peace will last a little bit longer when I go back to the house with the 4 girls. But I am so better off for doing this. Makes me a better person somehow. I am just different at the beach/ocean/bay. I am somehow better. I feel free-er, more at one in my skin. I feel inspired to somehow bottle all this up, and try to let it go by writing about it.
The next day, I decide to actually run on the beach. Wow, this is a different world. It’s a totally different feel than what I have been used to. The best place is to run down by the water’s edge. The iPod provides all the musical mood I need. I see all kinds of things on the beach that I wonder about. So many in fact, I have another post planned for that. (Damn, is that a smooth segue or what?) I interval down about 25 blocks, where I see an abandoned pier just jutting out into the ocean. Those pictures are in the new Beachology album I put up this morning. For some reason, this just struck me as very cool. So on our last adult walk, I dragged T down there with me to take all those pics. Remember how I was busting on all those papa-razzi at the amusement park snapping dozens of pics? Yea, as you can see, that applies to me, too.
Now if I had an ending, I would put it here. But since I don’t have an ending, guess what? It’s still gonna be right here. Yea, I know, there wasn’t a ton of jokes, and I apologize. I just wanted to make you feel like you were there, seeing what I see, feeling what I feel, running/ walking right next to me. In which case, next time bring some more Gatorade for the runs, eh?
Tuesday morning/Never looked so good
I’m already in/In a daydream
It’s Tuesday morning. Monday we took and adult walk to chill us the fuck out. Tuesday morning we were going to split up. T had her own agenda, which is perfectly cool. Tuesday was my first day to do something I haven’t really done in almost a year; go for a run. Longtime readers-all 5 of you-might remember a post last year about me running in OCMD with my beloved SummerSongs remix on and how it affected me. Short version: running up to the boards, then walking back listening to these songs was a pretty powerful experience to me. Now, here is my second chance. Before we went down, I loaded some new surf albums (I highly recommend Aqualads) so I could have some new stuff. The boardwalk was like 20 blocks north, so I decided to run south. I also decided to run on the streets. Don’t ask why, I guess I hadn’t totally grasped the idea of actually running on the beach. Or to the boardwalk.
I slathered on the lotion, put the shades, hat and cue the SummerSongs on my iPod. Since it is a beautiful Tuesday morning, it gets me to search for this great song. It’s called “In a Daydream” by the Freddy Jones Band. I know you have never heard of it. It was on my player a few weeks back, and just for the sake of this post, I will put it back on. It’s a great song for such beautiful early mornings. It’s a great summer song, and it’s a great roadtrip song. And today is the perfect chance to put some summer imagery to it. I cue it up and head out.
I don’t like to run. I really can’t run to save my life. Outside of street hockey on Monday nights and the occasional bout of cardio in the gym, I don’t really do much. I like to ‘interval’; run a block walk a block. It’s actually better for your metabolism, and keeps me much more mentally into the activity. I walk 2 blocks, have In A Daydream in my ears. I am full of life and full of myself. My first interval will be two blocks. I feel that damn good.
Unfortunately, I also feel that outta shape. I am huffing and puffing like Artie Lange. I knew I was bad, but not this bad. OK, minor setback. Back to one block intervals. OK, not so bad, and it does feel good to be doing something physical. Not like I am drinking that much, but that tubfull of cheeseballs sure is disappearing quick.
On my way, I pass some people. And they are not as friendly as you would think. I have noticed with most ‘shorefolk’, they tend to be happy. Doesn’t matter if they are the locals or vacationers. People just seem to act better near the ocean. Or maybe it’s because I look like I am running while suffering some kind of seizure. Or maybe because on the blocks I walk, I am breathing heavy. It looks like I am just on a stroll and breathing heavy. (Part of me really wonders if I am breathing in nasty shit from the j*b.)
I keep intervalling. I notice a lot of these houses look relatively new. A lot of them are truly sweet; multi-million dollar homes. Not just multi-million dollar homes based on location, but also the value of the damn house itself. 2-3 decks. Monstrous rooms. Intricate window work. All kinds of hardscaping going on. It all looks really nice; I mean don’t get me wrong. These houses are fucking sweet. I would love to have one of these houses just for my real house, let alone vacation property. But something about all this bothers me. None of these houses look really –“beachy”. Again, I would take one of these houses in a heartbeat, but if you look at most of them, they just don’t really cry “beach”.
It’s all a little bit haughty-taughty for me. It almost looks like I am running in a gated community. Every once in a while, I expect a tap on the shoulder from some rent a cop asking me , “Uh, excuse me, but just how the hell did you get in here?” Every once in a while, I do pass a true blue beach house. Yea, it’s a bit older, not as monstrous, but if you saw a picture, it would scream “beach”. (And if you are the type to hear screaming from pictures, please keep that to yourself.) I’m not going to try to describe this much more, but I will just leave it with the ever vague clichés of “you know what I am talking about” and “you know what I mean”.
I guess I am just used to beach houses being a bit smaller. Most of the shacks I have rented haven’t been gihugic spaces, but they were more than adequate; and we had a blast there nonetheless. But I guess they are slowly on the way out. I don’t know, I guess kids today will see these newer, bigger and far more expensive houses and think, “yea, that’s a real beach house.”
The sun is shinin’/It’s here to wake me up
No one around/Just me and the sky
The sky is cloudless, and even though this isn’t the beach, it’s still pretty calm. I pass some people on their porch, just eating breakfast or reading the paper. Occasionally, I do pass a dog, which makes me miss Bauer terribly. I try to pet as many as I can. A lot of people down here aren’t dog friendly. A lot of yards have various cute signs asking owners to curb their dog somewhere else. Others have wood figures of a dog; some of them even have a poop coming out. They either say NO or have the circle with the line running through it. Now if I was a dog, and I saw what I thought to be another pooch cutting a deuce on a lawn, I would take that as a cue to cut one right there. If you really wanna keep a dog off of your lawn, have a big cut out of Michael Vick.
It’s their right, too. A lot of yards are meticulously kept. Edged, watered, the whole deal. I get the point, because it can’t be easy growing grass on sandy soil. Flags are a big thing, too. Lots of American flags (July 4th is 3 days away.) I also see a trend of a lot of college flags. Not just your obvious ones, but loser schools like ‘Philadelphia University’, ‘James Madison’, ‘Rutgers’, etc. Any of you guys heard of these schools? Sound like party schools to me.
I interval about 30 blocks, then start my stroll back up. There is no better feeling than not having to rush. There’s only 4 screaming little girls waiting, so why hurry. I drink in the scene; sky, houses, flags, porches and decks. It’s not the ocean, but I will associate these sights with the music in my iPod. It’s funny, I wasn’t feeling terribly active to start, but as it wore on, I felt more energized. I came back ready to go to the beach, and do some running around there, too.
The next morning, I didn’t quite fell like going for another run (cough, wuss,cough) Instead, I decided to go for a walk north. Going at a slower pace, these new-fangled houses just seemed bigger. As I kept going up, I saw the boardwalk was starting up, do it was a no-brainer to go there. Wow, just wow. I can still vividly remember going to where the boards start, and just looking out to the ocean, with the sun reflecting off of it.
I’m already in/In a daydream
The sky is callin’/It’s callin’ out my name
Telling me to stay/Stay, don’t go away
Now this part of the Bwalk is narrow, very narrow. Like dangerously narrow. Bikers are whizzing by like Lance Armstrong. Runners are cutting their way through the show moving crowd of people like me. Yea, I see no need to run now. I have the sweet ocean to my right, and soon enough, this week will have gone by. Why rush it? Still, all this fast movement is annoying. Here I am trying to stay out of the way, only to get bumped by some runner, and the bikers are so close, I can fell the air coming off of them.
I kinda worry, ‘cause some of these bikes are of the 2 man variety. So here are people that usually don’t ride bikes, let alone the 2 mans, whizzing through the walkers and the elderly, and the elderly using walkers. It got so bad, I saw some motard with their young daughter on the back of the bike. This kid was young enough that she should have been in a baby seat. But, no, SuperParent already made the decision that precious little Madison or Haley or whoever the fuck should be able to ride on the back. Even though her feet didn’t reach the pedals. But she did look so precious in the 3 dollar bike helmet.
So I watch as these 2 zoom by me. I watch as the dad slides all the way over, and even bounces off a bench. He has a yellow Live Strong t-shirt on, so he thinks he can drive as reckless as he can. After bouncing off the bench, he rolls up to 2 elderly couples walking. Clearly, these guys are not going top speed, but Dad rides right up to them before realizing this fact. He yells for his daughter to hit the breaks. It’s too late, he swerves. He viciously takes out a woman, as the bike slides down to the boardwalk. The bike keeps going and wipes out like 5 more people. It was carnage, all for an asshole driver.
OK, I totally made that last part up. There’s not enough jokes in this story, so I thought a made up bit with a young child getting hurt would make you sick perverts laugh.
Soon, the actual Boardwalk-the part with stores, etc- starts. This is a good thing, ‘cause I gotta pee like a race horse at this point. It’s just a very cool vibe to me. People just strolling around, ocean breeze blowing up. All kinds of stores selling all kinds of stuff. Sure, after a while, it all gets repetitive, but it beats the continued Wal-Martization of everywhere else. It’s just so laid back. Every new SummerSong that comes up on my iPod is meshed with another scene of summer. Even though it’s the 4th of July week, it’s not crowded at all. It’s hard to not feel like a little kid. Arcades still abound. If I had a sense of smell, I am sure I could smell the cotton candy, popcorn, pizza, etc. It’s also at this point the Old Friends post starts. (Pretty damn cool how I am keeping this whole thing linear, huh?)
It feels like it’s starting to get ‘late’. I can’t quite figure out why; there’s no need for a clock at all this week. I guess it’s because there is still so much ‘nothing’ to do back at the house. Go to the beach, read, play soccer and lacrosse, go into the ocean. It’s still early, and at least I have some of the boards scouted for cool places to go. And, of course, exactly where Mario Brothers is.
And the breeze is blowing/Blowin’ across my face
Well, I just don’t know where/But I wish I could be there
Just for a little while
So even though I didn’t run, I walked, and I got to see the ocean. It still totally relaxed me. I don’t know how it does it, but the beach does it every time. And this peace will last a little bit longer when I go back to the house with the 4 girls. But I am so better off for doing this. Makes me a better person somehow. I am just different at the beach/ocean/bay. I am somehow better. I feel free-er, more at one in my skin. I feel inspired to somehow bottle all this up, and try to let it go by writing about it.
The next day, I decide to actually run on the beach. Wow, this is a different world. It’s a totally different feel than what I have been used to. The best place is to run down by the water’s edge. The iPod provides all the musical mood I need. I see all kinds of things on the beach that I wonder about. So many in fact, I have another post planned for that. (Damn, is that a smooth segue or what?) I interval down about 25 blocks, where I see an abandoned pier just jutting out into the ocean. Those pictures are in the new Beachology album I put up this morning. For some reason, this just struck me as very cool. So on our last adult walk, I dragged T down there with me to take all those pics. Remember how I was busting on all those papa-razzi at the amusement park snapping dozens of pics? Yea, as you can see, that applies to me, too.
Now if I had an ending, I would put it here. But since I don’t have an ending, guess what? It’s still gonna be right here. Yea, I know, there wasn’t a ton of jokes, and I apologize. I just wanted to make you feel like you were there, seeing what I see, feeling what I feel, running/ walking right next to me. In which case, next time bring some more Gatorade for the runs, eh?
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