Crime And Punishment

I've been watching a lot of "American Justice" and those type shows on A&E or Discovery or whatever, and man, they are riveting. I've learned a lot from these shows (other than Bill Curtis is an American treasure and he's definitely going to MC my wedding) about the law and how to break the law and how it always seems that dumb people commit murders.

What strikes me most about these dumb people is how they adamantly profess their innocence though they are obviously guilty:

Woman who killed husband after she found out he was having an affair with an 18 year-old girl: "You know, eight people say they saw me stabbing my husband Bill in the chest with a kitchen knife, but there are almost 3000 people in the county, so 8 out of 3000 ain't a lot. A lot of people didn't see me stabbing Bill. Over 2000 people in the county alone didn't see me stab Bill, and that's a fact. So I don't know about how they can convict me based on what 8 people say they saw me do."

Interviewer: "But what about the letter that you sent to twenty of your friends, inviting them to come to your home on April 19, 1994, the night of your husband's murder, in which you wrote, 'Please come to my house that night to say goodbye to Bill because I am going to murder him with a knife that night. Bring potato salad or pie.'"

Woman: "That was just a joke. My friends and I and Bill always joked like that. I mean, it's funny, ain't it?"

Bill Curtis Narration: "But the prosecution had a trick up their sleeve: in addition to the eyewitness testimony, they produced a tape from a security camera which showed Betty Hanson repeated stabbing her husband Bill. After the brutal stabbing, which was captured entirely on film, Betty looks at the camera and shouts, 'This is me, Betty Hanson. I just murdered my husband. My birthday is June 12, 1950, my social security number is 112-04-0875, my mother's maiden name is Demme, I love ponies and Hershey's syrup, and I just killed my husband. My fingerprints are everywhere too.' Despite this overwhelming evidence, Betty claims that she was framed."

Woman (Betty): "To be honest, I was framed. Or I was hypnotized. I'm not really sure, but you would be amazed at what science could do these days. But I am innocent. [staring off] Man, I wish I was smarter about killing my husband."

Hear me now - if I ever get convicted of a major crime (which should happen around May 2007), I'm not gonna go down without a fight. There will be a long, drawn out trial in which I will represent myself and do so without a shirt half the time, call as witnesses people who have nothing to do with the case but are famous people that I want to meet ("Your Honor, the defense calls to the stand Mr. Bruce Willis"), and give a closing argument that does not discuss the charges against me but rather extols the merits and many uses of hot dog relish.

And when I am found guilty for said crime I obviously committed, I will stand up and start a slow clap for the jury, congratulating them on their work and rightly adjudicating the case. How much more interesting would trials be if the defendant, after having been found guilty, said, "You know what? I did it. So whatever." Wouldn't it have been great to see Scott Peterson standing at the little table and yelling, "You're right - everyone one is right. I totally murdered her. C'mon - it's completely obvious!"

So you can expect to hear me say when I'm found guilty, "Congratulations. You guys did a helluva job, and I admit, I did it. Provided I didn't know she was 8, but I thought she was 16, not 18, so I am guilty. And guess what? I'd do it again. I love you Li-Li! Not even death can keep us apart! And good luck on your geography test - remember, there are seven continents! Seven!"

Trial of the fucking century.

The Wedding Primer

One of the staples of late-twenties livin' is working the wedding circuit. Whilst in the military, I got my first wedding invite and thought, "Awesome! A wedding! Free booze!" A year later, I got a second invite and thought, "Awesome! A wedding! More free booze!" In the time since then, I've gotten about 20 wedding invites. And now the feeling is, "Sweet - a wedding. I wonder how long it'll be before I clog the shitter at the hotel and get to feel awkward, looking apologetic as I stand in the bathroom watching some middle-aged Dominican guy plunging my feces-clogged toilet."

But recently the wedding invites have been coming in at an alarming pace. The good news is that this plethora of invites means that I have options. Being a wedding guest is an expensive undertaking, with transportation costs, hotels, gifts, and the inevitable raiding of the minibar/porn selection when I get back to my hotel room, loaded and lonely.

[Great name for my memoirs: "John: Loaded and Lonely." Up there with "The Rise and Fall of Nothing At All: How John and a Group of Con-Artists Destroyed the British Monarchy" and "Don't Tell Me How To Raise My Kids! The Johnny Trashbag Story" and "The Delicate Shepard: How John Saved NAFTA".]

It's not economically feasible for me to go to every wedding I get invited to, so I have to pick and choose which ones to go to. It may be slightly distasteful to turn down a wedding invite, but hey – what am I made of money? No - I am man made of iron and loyalty and passion, with a beard of steel wool and a penis like a Powerade bottle!

!!!

[I'm not trying to be a dick here by saying, "I get invited to so many weddings because I'm the coolest!" A lot of this has to do with being from a Greek family. My father is an only child and my mother only has 1 brother, but the "extended family" (comprised of play cousins and play aunts and uncles), many of whom I'm close with, could fill a moderately-sized auditorium. So when I get an invite to a wedding in Minnesota of the orphan that my mom's cousin took in to raise as her own, I can decline. Unless of course (fill in stupid joke here).]

So since I've become a veteran of weddings - and will only get more experience in this area - I thought I'd write a little wedding primer for couples planning their nuptials. Because really, someone like me, who hasn't been touched by a woman not accidentally or in self-defense in ages, should really give wedding planning advice. On with the planning...

The Date

The first and most important aspect of wedding planning is the date. I'm not speaking of the specifics (i.e. according to the Pagan calendar, January 24 is the luckiest day to get married, whereas in Sephardic culture, April 12 is ideal) but of the general time of the year.

Of all the crap that goes into wedding planning, the groom should step up in this regard to make sure that the wedding does not take place during any major sporting events. For example, the first weekend in February (Super Bowl) is bad. As is the last weekend in October (World Series). Late March sucks (March Madness) and as do many weekends in June (hockey and basketball playoffs).

Please, do not believe that I am being glib here. Rather, I am very, very serious. Men like sports (myself excluded, because I'm almost gay), and usually aren't willing to sacrifice quality time with friends in front of the TV watching sports, to attend something silly like a wedding. There is no wedding on earth that some men would go to if it coincided with their team playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series. None. They could be invited to a drug dealer's wedding where the party favors are prostitutes, the cake is made of cocaine, and the food choices are steak, bigger steak, and giant steak with blowjob and they STILL wouldn't go if the Eagles or Yankees were playing for the championship. Not debatable.

Serious grooms like myself (meaning, if I ever dupe a woman into marrying me or if she stays unconscious long enough) would essentially rule out everything from the last weekend in August until the second weekend in February (NFL and college football seasons and playoffs and end of baseball regular seasons and playoffs), to avoid conflicts with my friends' sports-watching schedules.

So grooms, if you take part in any part of the wedding preparation, do so here. Would you want to be getting married on the weekend on which your favorite team plays in the championship for the first time in fifteen, thirty, or fifty years? Do you know what the male guests at the wedding would do to/think of you if you let this happen? Not good, my friend. Not good.

As for non-sports related reasons, please don’t get married over a holiday weekend. It may work depending on where you and your family live, but if you have people coming from all over the place, pick another weekend. Do you really think guests want to spend their Memorial Day/Fourth of July/Thanksgiving weekends trudging half-way across the state/coast/country?

The perfect date to get married: Valentine’s Day. There are no major sporting events and for the rest of your life two presents/occasions become one. Studies have shown that knocking out Valentine’s Day and your anniversary in one shot could add years to your life. I'm not making that up. I'm just kidding – of course I am. But it's probably right.

The Time

Now we get more into specifics, because by "time" I mean day of the week and time of day.

This one is easy: Saturday evening/night. This is the best and really the only time to have a wedding. Friday nights are no good because that requires taking at least a half-day off at work. Fortunately, I get a crapload of vacation days, but if I had two or three weeks a year I wouldn't be so happy about using one of my days so I could travel to a wedding.

And any morning/afternoon wedding isn't going to cut it either. Who wants to wake up, get all dressed up, and go straight to church? That's the main reason I stopped going! And many times those with morning/afternoon receptions will say, "Well, the reception's over at 5 in the afternoon, but after that, we're going to a bar." Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but if I've been up since 9am and have been drinking from noon until 5pm, I don't want to keep drinking (wow - I never thought I'd write that. It kinda looks weird on paper.) I want to go back to the hotel room, order $60 worth of room service, beat off, and pass out. When I wake up at 9pm, I'll look for some more booze, but by then everyone else is passed out. Losers.

Saturday night is perfect. No day off required, plenty of travel time allotted beforehand, and also it's Saturday night - the universal time for getting messed up. Ideally, I don't want to go to a bar after a wedding. I want the reception to go from 8pm until 1 or 2 in the morning, so just as midnight comes up everyone is wasted and getting nasty on the dance floor (of course, while this is going on I'm in the bathroom with my dick in my hands crying because I'm lonely, but at least I have a nice buzz going). When the music stops, I want to go from the reception into a hotel room, preferably with a lovely lady to make our own magic but more likely with my buddy Joe to smoke some pot.

The Bar

You're probably thinking that I'm going to say that you must have a large open bar to have a successful wedding. But I don't think that's the case. One of the best weddings I ever went to had a cash bar. Obviously, an open bar is preferable, but it's not a dealbreaker. And sure, I say this now, at my desk, not really desiring a drink. Ask me again how I feel when I'm at my friend's cousin's wedding and I've just learned that it's a cash bar. I will probably punch you in the face (aiming for the neck of course, but I'm not much of a fighter).

What I think really makes or breaks a wedding bar is (and this may sound dumb) the bartender. I've been to weddings where I've been served drinks by a gruff guy in a tux who looked like the wedding bartending gig was part of his prison work-release program. I've also been to weddings where the bartender was a shot-giving boozehound who was indiscriminately serving tequila and high-fives all night long. This makes a big difference in the course of the evening.

I don't know how much choice couples planning their wedding have in this department and I'm pretty sure that no one's taking me seriously about this anyway, but please, pick a good bartender. For me, at least.

The, Um, Other Stuff

Location: Probably the most important thing to the happy couple matters little to the weird guy sitting at the table by himself smelling of brine and touching everyone's food as they're on the dance floor. A house, a hall, a yard - I don't care. So save your cash for the lobster cake appetizers and have it in that big-ass field just off Exit #126 on the Parkway. It matters not.

Music: Many might disagree with me on this, but please - no band. Wedding bands are so unconscionably cheesy I don't know how anyone would even consider a band over a DJ. What's better: hearing your favorite songs from the people who wrote them or some cheesy dickhead singing Shania Twain's "You're Still The One"? Would you rather get the party started with Chubb Rock's "Treat 'Em Right" or twelve thirty-something assholes blaring a sad version of "Play That Funky Music"? Having said that, some bands do work - apparently. I've yet to be at a wedding where I said, "You know what? That fucking band was awesome. And I can't believe that guy died on the dance floor. That shit was crazy."

And I know that most DJs are kinda cheesy, but there's an element of control here. Have a friend MC, tell the DJ not to say anything, and give him a playlist. What's so hard about this? Are you not paying the guy? And if he has a problem, fuck it - don't pay him. That's my motto when it comes to hiring people ("If they don't deliver, don't pay them") and it's gotten me pretty far in the past 29 years.

(Well, not very far at all, but whatever)

Food: Wedding food is for old people. Give me something to put in my belly to sop up the vodka, cranberry juice, and vanilla milkshake, and I'm cool. If you're looking to cut costs, do so here. I would focus more on the appetizers, which are consumed when people are still sober, then the main course, which many people view as an obstacle to get around before partying the night away. I can't count the number of times my friends and I have been at a wedding and have said, "Can they bring the food out already? I'm trying to get fucked up here!" That's when my buddy Bill usually says something extremely racist and the whole table gets quiet and awkward.

Transportation: Having a shuttle to take drunk guests from the reception back to the hotel is a must. Firstly because you don't want to have anyone driving around drunk (Q: "How was the wedding?" A: "Good, except for when I ran over that dog or deer or kid or whatever the hell it was"), but secondly because being a designated driver at a wedding has got to be one of the world's worst jobs. So get a bus or two.


So there's my lil' wedding primer. I hope you enjoyed it and take it into consideration when planning your next wedding. And now I'm going to go about the business of making the playlist for my wedding. Because you never know when you're going to fall in love and tie the knot or get someone pregnant and have to marry her because her dad was in prison and he's not going back under any circumstances if you know what he means and he thinks you do.

Thanksgiving

Ah, Thanksgiving: the holiest day in the Christian calendar and my personal favorite holiday.

Many non-Christians don’t know this, but in the Christian faith Thanksgiving celebrates the day in 1961 when Jesus Christ beat Satan in the now infamous “Shake ‘Em Down, Break ‘Em Down” arm wrestling match in Santa Ana, California. Historians and theologians alike are still debating about the exact circumstances and sequence of events, but what most agree on is that Satan had way too much sangria before the match and was not at the top of his game and Jesus was saying really, really racist things (apparently, two days prior, a group of African-American youths had stolen His car, a sweet cherry red ‘vette that He had picked up at a state auction only three weeks before, and He was very upset about this).

I’m not quite sure how “pilgrims” and “Indians” got involved in Thanksgiving, since historical research has proven that the pilgrims actually never left mainland Korea and Indians, just like the unicorn, the phoenix, and women who aren’t completely insane, are a myth. I blame the bastardization of the Thanksgiving holiday entirely on the Jews, who have had it out for Christ for over 4,000 years and have been trying to take the “Christ” out of “Thanksgiving” since at least the early 1980’s, possibly even before then.

[I’m really coming out firing today, eh? In two paragraphs, I’ve made fun of Christians, blacks, women, Native Americans and Jews. Do you see what the holidays do to me? What kind of stress they put me under? I knew I should have waited until January to stop taking those pills.]

Also, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, for fairly obvious reasons. Any day on which all I have to do is wake up and eat until I throw up is ok with me.

Thanksgiving, which is often held on a Thursday, gives rise to the night before Thanksgiving, which is the “biggest drinking night of the year.” The entire American population, knowing that they have the day off work the next day and only have to overeat, spends the night before Thanksgiving getting bombed. Yours truly used to have a Thanksgiving Eve ritual which involved a $10 all you can drink draft special for five hours, followed by an evening-ending Reuben and bowl of French Onion soup at 3am, and a drive to check out the hookers at 12th & Locust to see if Touchy Heather is around (I never loved anyway like I loved Touchy Heather. Let’s talk about something else before I fucking lose it.).

In addition to the traditional Thanksgiving activities – eating, drinking, trying to ignore the smell of marijuana smoke wafting from the bathroom after Uncle Teddy and his new girlfriend Starla come out of it – my family has its own unique Thanksgiving tradition: gambling about whether this is the year I finally come out of the closet.

Yes, it’s an age-old tradition in our household. This lil’ game started in 1994 during my senior year of high school after my dad caught me singing, “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)” to a poster of Johnny Depp. Two months after that at Thanksgiving dinner, I had fallen asleep after my third slice of pie and fourth Percocet, but as I drifted in and out of consciousness, I overheard my family talking about the following five topics:

1) John is gay, right?
2) I don’t think so.
3) No, I’m pretty sure he is.
4) Yeah, you’re right.
5) When do you think he’ll tell everyone?

I vaguely recall (the Percocets were very delicious) that many of my family members chose 2004 as the date that I would come, nay, hop skip and jump out of the closet, and there’s like a $400 pot at stake here.

So to any family members reading this, for a 40% cut, I’ll tell everyone I’m gay. Seriously, I really need the cash. Just make sure you talk to me about this before I hit the egg nog, because you know what kind of terrible drunk I am when I get all filled with alcohol-laced dairy.

In the meantime, it is very important this time of year to be thankful for what we have. So below I have whipped up a short list of what I am thankful for, in no particular order (but the last one is my favorite).

I am thankful for:

- baked macaroni and cheese
- the push-up bra
- easily spreadable butter products (i.e. Country Crock)
- fat women who don’t care that they’re fat and really know how to have fun
- Hall & Oates
- getting letters in the mail
- ice cold bottles of Heineken
- the Pill
- having my own bathroom
- a really fucking good cheeseburger
- my music collection
- $3 shots at Blue & Gold
- the lovely Hispanic women down the street
- really, really gay men
- potatoes au gratin
- pooping
- Alprazolam
- slow dancing
- dads with moustaches
- taking egregiously long hot showers
- women who actually "dig" me
- VH1 Classic
- my bookcase which makes me look really smart
- my job (seriously)
- Newport cigarettes
- when women wear blouses and they move a certain way that the fabric between buttons collapses and you catch a glimpse of their boobies
- creamed chipped beef
- growing a beard
- Otis Redding
- Sam Adams, Weinharts and Newcastle
- baked ziti
- farting
- King Charles II
- hotel rooms
- my family and friends and blah blah blah
- breakfast meat
- Adriana Lima
- Luden’s Wild Cherry cough drops
- sour cream
- Bad Religion's live performances
- being hungover on a Saturday in the fall when it’s 47º and rainy and staying in bed in the warm sheets, blankets and pillows until 3pm
- Gatorade
- my beard trimmer
- when women wear skirts
- old people who curse a lot
- fat black women who can really fucking sing
- keg beer
- Las Cruces, New Mexico
- getting high and listening to Beulah’s “Hello Resolven” fifty times in a row
- watching people beat the shit out of each other
- Bill Murray
- free porn sites
- cleavage

[I won’t be posting for the rest of the week, since I will be out of work and resting. And by “resting” I mean worsening my relationship with my friends and family by refusing to wear pants. Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving, and for those not in the US, have a good rest of the week.]

When To Put Out

So I got an email from my friend Sarah yesterday, and with her permission, I'm posting it here:

John,

I wanted to ask your opinion on an age old question (and hope that I don’t regret asking in the first place). Now, you know I'm young and single. While I’m perfectly happy hooking up casually at the moment, a lot of my friends are looking for relationships, but to no avail. We often go round and round about the ideal scenario for meeting and dating guys, and there’s always lots of hemming and hawing about how “it’s so hard to meet nice guys, guys are only interested in sex” etc. It seems to me, when my friends do meet guys out, through mutual friends, etc. and actually get the call and go out on a date, it never works out. Oftentimes I’ll blame this on my friends choosing to have sex with the guy too soon, which leads to my question. When is the right time to have sex with a guy that you’re dating?

I’ve had discussions with my male friends about this and it seems that there’s no right answer. I mean, I personally show no restraint, but that’s because I generally never want to see the guy again. However, if you’re looking for things to progress with the dude you’re dating, how long do you hold out? I realize that guys do not want to date girls that they meet at a bar and fuck later that night. That’s not exactly the makings of great romance. On the other hand, I’ve had male friends tell me that they will go out on two of three real dates with a girl, sleep with her, and never call her again. So is there any way to tell if a dude is into you or just looking to get laid? I realize that all dudes are just looking to get laid, and I can respect that. But, you know, people fall in love and get married and shit, and that has to start from something.

I’m interested to hear your thoughts on this.

Sarah

Ah, what a loaded and difficult question: when should you ladies put out for us guys? I'd like to go on record to say that I am in no way qualified to answer this question as I exude the same sexuality as a pile of used syringes and have the same sexual prowess as Pope Benedict XVI, yet that won't stop me from putting in my 2,000 words on the topic.

[And by the way, the first person to send me $100 gets Sarah "I personally show no restraint" email address.]

Short answer: there is no correct answer. I know this may sound like I'm skirting the issue, but I'm really not. I'm simply saying that each circumstance is different. People do meet in a bar, go home and fuck, and get married and live happily ever after. Some people also meet at church, go out to movies, and never fuck until they get married and live happily ever after. And some people have a normal sex life, especially considering their weight problem, and then inexplicably stop having sex altogether and in a moment of weakness and insecurity start a blog about it that becomes an international phenomenon (at least that's what that person tells himself when he's drunk and it's 4 in the morning and he's waiting for his leftover Chinese food to finish heating in the microwave as he wipes the tears from his eyes). The point is that though you say your female friends go out on dates and “it never works out” or that your guy friends will date a girl, fuck her, and stop calling her, people do get together and fall in love. I promise.

Now that the sappiness is out of the way, I see three questions in your email:

1) When is the right time to have sex with a guy that you’re dating?

2) If you’re looking for things to progress with the dude you’re dating, how long do you hold out?

3) Is there any way to tell if a dude is into you or just looking to get laid?

Let's start with #3, since #1 and #2 are related. You are correct when you say all dudes are looking to get laid. The trick is to differentiate guys who are looking to get laid and those who are just looking to get laid. There is a big difference.

Every guy, when he first meets a girl, is just looking to have sex with her. Any guy who tells you differently is just trying to play the sensitive card, when deep down he’d stick a candle in your ass if you passed out on his couch. No guy ever meets a woman and says, “I would like her to be my girlfriend” in a way that a woman can size up a man's husband potential in three to five minutes. While a woman who meets a guy for this first time thinks, "I wonder if he has any history of disease or retardation in his family, because he could be the one!", a guy thinks, “I wonder how good she is at giving blowjobs?” or "I bet her bush is very well-trimmed".

But the good news is that obviously men are capable of developing feelings for women. And this gets to the crux of the issue: when do genuine feelings wrest the controls away from lust?

Hmmm...

Men are not very emotionally intelligent. We know this, and, to be honest, we’re kind of proud of it. We know that we like to have an attractive girl to have sex with, but we also know that we like a cool girl to enjoy the company of. Everything else we’re either not sure of or don’t care to find out about.

And so it follows that when we do come to the conclusion that we have feelings for a girl, we can have a very difficult time expressing these feelings. I needn't get into the culture of manliness and about how feelings are for "pussies", but the result is that men are often not up front with their feelings.

For example, most of my guy friends, if they like a girl, will try to "play it cool". They could be giddy with joy that such a lovely lady is interested in them, but having been scarred by the movie "Swingers", they will still act as though it doesn't really matter and wait prescribed amounts of time before returning calls, initiating dates, etc. After all, one of the best relationship rules taken from a movie that I would rather not name says "We pursue that which retreats from us." Play hard to get, act cool, and the chick will totally dig you more (I'm not saying just guys act this way; women are just as guilty).

[I, on the other hand, can't contain my excitement when a woman seems interested in me. Since it's such a rare occurrence, it's like Christmas, St. Patrick's Day, my birthday, rolled into one, celebrated on a Caribbean island with lots of pina coladas and busty women of ill-repute everywhere. I remember once I went out with a girl to grab some drinks, had a great time and ended the night with a small smooch. That night, I made her a mix CD which I gave her the next day. I was 24 at the time. Needless to say, it didn't work out. God I am so pathetic.]

So here's a novel idea: if you want to find out how a guy feels about you, why don't you ask? Now I'm not saying you should ask a la "Blind Date" during the first date, nor am I saying that you should come out and inquire, "So, um, do you like me?", but there is a time and place for this type of discussion. You have to remember two things about guys: 1) we're clueless; 2) we're impressionable. Take initiative and we will follow where you lead. It's ok to talk about the status of a relationship even if it's in its incipient stages, as long as you do so without sounding crazy (i.e. "I love you" or "Do you think we could get married?" or "Our kids would have beautiful eyes", etc).

But that doesn't answer the question of figuring out if a guy likes you or if he likes having sex with you. For that, I've got nothing. No idea. If I had the answer, I'd be a millionaire. Instead, I have a blog. So let's move onto the sex...

No matter what a guy will say to you, sex changes everything. Everything is immediately different in a relationship (or in an evening) once you have sex with a guy. "Different" doesn't mean bad, though it could be. And "different" does have to be drastic, though it could be. "Different" just means not the same as it was before.

The bottom line: if a guy likes you, he'll wait. And here's another crazy idea: instead of me saying, "Well you should wait six weeks or six dates before sleeping with him, whichever comes first", I think that if you actually like the guy you should wait until you feel comfortable before you sleep with him. Why rush? If he's a good guy, he'll be willing to wait a little bit.

[Please note: this does not apply to me. I can't wait, frankly because I'm not in very good health. So if you and I start dating, it's very important that you put out as soon as possible, because that might be the last time you see me alive. Last night while watching TV my friend Pat noticed that I was turning blue and, long story short, turns out I was dead for 28 minutes. Had it not been for my incredible will to get up and get some more jello out of the fridge, I might still be dead now.]

I know that guys are probably pissed at me for saying that a girl should wait and I know that I'm a little conservative, but hey, it's my fucking blog. there.

And so that's all I can say: if a guy likes you, he'll wait until you're ready to make the dance of love. Is it unreasonable to make him wait six months before sleeping with him? Oh good lord yes. Hell, after six weeks I'd be asking you questions like, "Seriously, are you gay?" or "I know that you're not attracted to me, but can we please just have sex anyway? I'll buy you stuff!" But fuck him and only fuck him when you're ready.

And you're welcome for a very long-winded and mostly unhelpful response.

Shotgun Wedding, Handgun Dating

Nothing says "I Love You” like statutory rape.

Well, nothing except shooting your teenaged girlfriend’s parents in their goddamned Puritanical noggins. Now that is romantic. Most fourteen-year old girls these days just want to share a milkshake at the ice cream parlour, or have you pinky swear to only fucking them in the dirthole, so they don’t have to worry about commiting popularity suicide by showing up to Home Economics with that telltale Backseat Baby Bulge. But that just wouldn’t do for a girl of such pedigree as Kara Beth Borden.

And exactly how do you win the graces of a flaxen-haired teenage maiden who lists

• "JESUS!!,"
• "church,"
• "my youth group" and
• "hugging"

as her primary interests on her MySpace profile? By quoting Leviticus in reverse, while mowing the front lawn wearing a sandwhich board with "Pro-Choice is Pro-Death” slathered in fetus blood on the front and back? Maybe just an offer to teach Vacation Bible School’s popsicle-stick Ark building class? Nah. 18-year-old David Ludwig realized he was going to have to work for this girl. That it was going to take a Hallmark moment.

David realized that the quickest way to a 14-year-old girl’s heart was straight through the two-inch exit wound on the back of her mommy’s skull.

Now that's love. Well, that and Subway. Apparently he went and picked her up a nice 12-inch Italian Sub afterwards. What a sweetheart. I wonder how salt, pepper, vinegar, and oil go along with skull fragments. I mean, I’ve always been a pepperoncini man, but I bet even Jered would have flaked on his "I’m eating six inch turkey subs so that random Leather Daddies will deep-mine my asshole at random Rest Stops” diet to get a bite of Parmesan Oregano sprinkled with Daddy’s grey matter. I bet Kara’s got something going through her mind right now that goes something kinda like this:

"They never taught this in Sunday School.”

"But that sandwich WAS really good.”

Which brings us to this:

Dad: Next time little Jenny, or Kara, or Sandy, hell even Laquisha says she wants to go out Sunday night, riddle me this: Is your daughter’s "theoretically" untouched hymen really worth a .357 hollowpoint to your own temple? Times are a changin’. It’s the age of Aquarius, and you might want to invest in a Kevlar vest before you go try the whole antiquated Tough-Love routine. Just watch CNN. The way things have been going recently, there’s probably been more scoring going on in your daughter’s Junior League Softball team’s locker room than on the diamond. Yeah, sure, you may be cheering your daughter on to home while you sit in the rusted bleachers, but it’s not the same reason her teammates are screaming her name.

Or maybe it is.

Point is, next time your Little Princess’s boyfriend shows up, just remember that bulge in his pants may not be his overactive sex drive, but rather the manifestation of his deep, preordained Calvinist conviction that he is her One and only True Love, second only to Christ, and that you are simply in the way. And for all you know, he may be right. Don’t fuck with the Jesus.

A Mother's Love

You know, when it comes to incest or inbreeding, the South is the first to come to mind. Who hasn't told a "What do farmers in Arkansas..." type of joke in their life, and chuckled? And when you think of Canada, what comes to mind? Maple syrup? Hockey? French-Canadian strippers with sexy accents who will accept coins as tips? Not incest though...or so I thought.

As it turns out, these fucking inbreeders have begun littering the gutters with horned children. The following true piece of shit reality media didn't take place anywhere near Texas, Arkansas, or Alabama, as one would quickly suspect, NO, this travesty took place in a cute little city in Ontario, Canada. Cambridge to be precise. Have at it bitches, here's the scenario:

The headlines of the KW Record read:

MOM JAILED FOR INCEST

Yeah, so, big fucking deal. Here's the fun part. Mom, whose name has been withheld due to court order didn't just hump her little angel, she fucking married the lad. This now 43 year old chick spent years creating a new identity for her son, now 25. She courted him and wined and dined him, eventually, supposedly having him come to believe that he was in fact her spouse, or meant to be. She created false documents to cover up the relationship and, with a new identity for her pumpkin, took him before the law and the eyes of God and made him her husband. The dude perfected a faggish english accent at the prompting of Ma, and carried on like all was hunky dory. Bringing home the bacon, providing for his family/siblings and proudly wearing the "head of the household" hat.

Wrong hat brother, latex would have suited you better.

It's uncertain as to the depth of the brainwashing, but at some point one would think that this fella would have had a bell or two go off in his head, like maybe right around the time he knocked his mom up. The first time. Or the second. Nope. This PTA couple had 3 little forked tongue bastards before anyone started to raise an eyebrow. The untimely and unusual death of their third child, a daughter/sister had the coroner poke around inside the little corpse in an attempt to discover the cause of death, which appeared to be nothing more than dehydration, initially. Her illness was later linked to an underlying medical condition, common to children of incest. Apparently mom/grandma and son/brother aren't ideal spawning partners.

At the sentencing the son finally came to admit that he knew he was boinking his mommy, but the wife/mom/grandma continued to deny the alligations throughout the entire trial. She was pissed off at being sold out by her womb fruit, and was heard barking in the courtroom, "My husband is a disgrace to his children. If all men could do this to their wife, can you blame women for being lesbian?", as well as other bizzare ramblings that included references to the "Empress Mimi" and "King Selassie".

King Selassie?

The court heard several weeks ago that the mother was tested as being mentally retarded five years ago, but a complete formal diagnosis was never actually made. The crown prosecutor who wanted a six year sentence scoffed at the idea that the woman was retarded stating "Retarded people I've had the fortune of meeting don't have much guile. She has a lot. Her every word's a deception. She created this whole fiction and dragged her son into it. She's evil. She's contemptuous. She's deceitful, self-serving, a whole pile of really bad things." Yeah, I bet you good people are all sitting there, shaking your heads thinking the same thing I am:

"This broad is fucking HOT!"

Regardless, the twat ended up getting an asswhooping 43 months in prison, while her "spouse" received 19 months of house arrest, and 160 hours of required community service. The judicial system in Canada seems to think that the little asshole should have known better than to play "hide the salami" with mommy dearest, and should have told someone that he was being abused. Told who exactly I wonder? His MOM? The moral of the story gentlemen: Don't tap the cunt that bled you. But if you do, be sure to wear a fucking condom so there will be no living breathing evidence to sink your ship.

I guess that in some neck of the woods this kind of thing happens all the time, but this here is the first recorded case where a mother and son who had children were convicted of incest. It is also the first case where a couple has been charged. It's good to be first.

The Coffee House - A Short

The days bloomed and dried like perennial flowers, petals of hours torn free by the wind to seek cool water and shadow within which they might be forgotten.
Memory shimmered with the heat, blurring detail and color into an Impressionistic canvas upon which everything was distorted when one looked too closely. The white pieces of lumber sprouting from the scorched earth, frame bound together by metal and work. Arrhythmic strands of birdsong. Chloe dancing in the front room, her eyes closed, mouth open. Broken mirrors. The limbo between dreams and drinks shifted with the sun, sometimes noticed, sometimes eternal. The difference was inconsequential.
I noticed the woman upon walking into the coffee house. Blonde. Large eyes. More flesh than she needed. The sort of smile that derailed conversations, wrecking trains of thought. The morning crowd had dissipated into their offices. Taking my espresso to a table against the back wall, I gave her no more thought than she deserved. Her eyes sought my own. Fragments of the road were coming back, and they had grown sharp. Faces without names. Backs gleaming. Ecstatic grimace.
The damp crunch of a joint pushed too far, screams illuminated by strobe lights, blood on the wall, on the sheet. Legs stretched upward, outward. Same place. Same face. Protest indiscernible, a plea drowned in music. Entire languages reduced to nod and shake. Pieces of the night somehow darker, moving, waiting for me to look away. Blink once. Twice. No more.
Ceramic searing my fingers, dark liquid waiting. Focus recedes.
Flash and blindness. Afternoon. Shadows stop moving. Stitching the night closed with the thread of explanation, crimson dried maroon in jagged parallel lines, mapping the path from pillowcase to comforter, the eternity separating scapula from solace.
Strange girl rising, her face a faded moon in the night of memory.
Choosing her dress. Fallen sun. Neckties knotted on the headboard, the glass full of warm soda. Cigarettes without lighters, eyes without colors and everybody is watching somebody else. Moving faster. Closing doors.
Rabbit scream of the cappuccino machine. Cream mist hides the alchemist.
Throat relaxed, smooth sandstone, a statue leaning on sharp elbows, claws extended. Semen spurting, incessant cascade into the canyon of her sex, red clay vulva. Deeper, the sluice resounds. Indigo glans, accomplice, decompressing on her cheek. Residue of shit and saliva below her ear, clear drop forming.
Smell of burnt vanilla, caffeine floating, gradual descent. A spiderweb breaks.
Frosted windows and the lights keep flashing, spectrum keeping time with a slowing pulse. Vodka expands upon contact, forming a pool beside the bed. She has no such luck. Leaning over the side, she can see everything. Hair tousled like brown leaves of wild grass. Iris the color of old bruises. Reaching down toward herself, a finger breaks the surface. The image ripples, distorts before she has the chance to recognize the face.
"Excuse me."
I looked away from the past to the present, chasing the voice. The woman was standing beside the table, tucking strands of yellow hair behind her ear. Her smile was hesitant, hopeful.
Like that of a nurse with a patient regaining consciousness.
"I'm sorry, but I'm supposed to be meeting somebody here, somebody I haven't met before. Are you Eric?"
Seconds fractured and broke apart, the smallest pieces of which I took to consider my response. Could I be another man? For an hour? For a night? Possibilities unfurled, paths carved by words and careful sentences. I could start over here, pick up where another man never had the opportunity to leave off. I could pretend I knew things I had yet to learn. Middle names. Red or white grapes. Small hometowns and the ages of siblings. I could pretend I did not know the things I have learned, speaking without fear of seduction or offense, acting a part unrehearsed. Courtship. Gold and diamonds. Children. Porch swings. Peering into her eyes, I saw a hope independent of my face. The dream of a romantic, seeking the first star, dropping small change in a fountain.
No matter how the story might be written, the ending is always the same.
"Regrettably, no," I replied with a soft thought otherwise. Orgasms and despondency flitted across my vision, translucent spots after glimpsing bright light. "Should he fail to meet your appointment, however, I should be flattered to assume his place." The light behind her gaze dimmed somewhat, falling with the corners of her mouth.
"That's alright," she murmured. "Thanks." And away she went, returning to the chair from which she had risen.
I stared at the table, quaffing the contents of my cup and two more before remembering the time, the place and the distance. Occasional glances went unnoticed. Women came and went with paper cups. The men wouldn't even cross the street. Gathering my notes and cigarette butts, I saw the woman sitting by the window, watching. Waiting.
This is romance, I thought as I pushed the door away, the unwrapped gift of a promise, empty in expectant hands. An unremarkable lady alone, hoping otherwise. This is the wound that always bleeds, the truth we look away from, stumbling about in the dark room. Why is it we only identify knives by touch?
Suppressing every instinct, I did not turn back.

The Eight Levels Of Dating

Being the single young lad that I am, I did some thinking the other night. See, modern dating can be divided into eight levels, which cover everything from the first time you see your love interest all the way up to when she’s helping your mom serve the deviled eggs on Christmas. These Eight Levels of Dating are below, with examples for those of you who are slow.

Level 1: Pre-Dating
This isn’t really dating per se, but rather the initiation of contact. For example: you’re at a friend’s party and see an attractive girl across the room. You ask the host, a mutual friend, who the girl is and once you get the word that she isn’t crazy and hasn’t had sex with any former or current NBA players, you approach. You try to make witty conversation but are limited because you took one too many Xanax before the party and are convinced that every time you speak to this girl you’re spitting on her face and in her hair.

In the days after the party, you spend most of your energy emailing the mutual friend to ensure that sometime in the near future you seemingly coincidentally hang out with this girl in a large group and in a casual and secure environment (with alcohol). She obliges, mostly because she feels sorry for you, but also because you threatened to hurt her family if she didn’t.

When you see the girl next, you are in tip-top shape: you have put on cologne, trimmed your pubes, made sure not too drink too much or take too many pills, and have done enough cocaine to cripple most teenagers (therefore you are the most fascinating person on the planet). You see the girl and are on fire – joking, laughing, making fun of others, hiding your incredible racism – and at the end of the party, you say something like “We should hang out sometime.” Lulled into a false sense of security, she gives you her number (though you secretly would have preferred her email address, because you are eons better in print than in person/over the phone). Congratulations, you may now move on to Level 2.

Level 2: The Explicit Invite Period
Level 2 is merely an extension of Level 1. But in Level 2, everything is more explicit, deliberate, and intentional. You call the girl after a few days to invite her (and her friends) to a bar where you (and your friends) will be hanging out. She agrees to come (and to bring friends).

Prior to her arrival, you share with your friends the battle plan: divide and conquer. You will talk to your girl and you expect your friends to at least partially entertain her friends. Knowing that they are drunks and incapable of actually doing this properly, you either a) bribe them with drinks at a later date or b) threaten them, reminding them that you haven’t been with a women in a while and have a lot of pent up sexual aggression, which, coupled with your astounding fat boy strength, can be devastating to the faces and/or genitals of said friends.

The girl arrives at the party. The good news is that you’re more confident, having secured her presence at the bar without your mutual friend, and she’s more comfortable, assuming that despite what her friends have said, you will more than likely not take her into the alley and make her whip your bare ass with your belt while you sing Boy George songs. More talking, laughing, and drinking. Things are going well.

Two variables about this period: 1) you may or may not get a kiss (or more); and 2) it may take more than one Explicit Invite to advance to Level 3. But fortunately, the gods are smiling upon you. When at the end of the night you suggest meeting for dinner sometime during the week, she accepts. You spend the next few days wondering what the hell happened to her in her childhood for her to consent to spending time with you alone. Probably some terrible, terrible things.

Level 3: The Weekday Date Period
Dinner or some other date variation on a non-prime night (Sunday through Wednesday; if you can get a Thursday, it’s a good sign). Also, in Level 3, what may have been obvious before is now official: you are courting this girl.

Level 3 is the make or break period. Studies have shown that around 70% of dates do not get past Level 3. The reason for this two-fold. First, it’s very hard to hide behind alcohol at 8pm on a Tuesday evening. You’re pretty much on your own here – for the first time in the courtship. Of course, you could hit the booze, but getting drunk or drinking too quickly will only prove that you are not a man unless you are intoxicated (which is of course true, but should not be known to the girl until month three of the relationship) and will invariably lead to you sticking your hand down your pants halfway through the entrée.

Second, a dinner requires around two hours of one-on-one time (as mentioned above, with little alcohol). During these two hours, you must prove to the girl not only that you are not into strangling during sex, but also that you are intelligent, well-liked/respected by your peers, witty, and generally a great person for genital-to-genital contact. Quite a tall order.

But again, the stars are aligned. Perhaps it’s because the margaritas are just strong enough to make everything a tad easier or perhaps it’s because her hair is so astoundingly pretty that you just want to choke on it, it matters not. The date goes well. You get home and recount the date to your friend, who, because he is high, can not appreciate the significance of the evening. So you retreat to your bedroom with a bottle of wine to feel warm and listen to Elvis Costello. In the parlance of our times, “It’s on like Donkey Kong.” Congrats, old man – it’s on to Level 4. Welcome to the big leagues.

Level 4: The Weekend Date Period
If you’ve made it to Level 4, you’re doing something right. Level 4 means that you are hanging out on a prime night: Friday or Saturday (and possibly Thursday).

Also, it means that the pressure is (mostly) off. To secure a weekend night with a woman is a substantial accomplishment which only means that she may like you in return. I know, I know – I can’t believe it either, but the Magic 8 Ball says "all signs point to yes".

This is the most formal date yet. Moderately-but-not-too romantic dinner date followed by drinks at a bar that doesn’t host English dart league matches (think less “pub” or “tavern” and more “lounge” or something with a one word name). You do reasonably well, except when during dinner the waitress gives you the wine cork to check the wine’s aroma, instead of smelling it, you put it in your mouth to suck on it, unsure of how that whole process works. However, the girl finds this endearing, which is good. You only hope that four months from now, when you come home covered in piss, blood, and gin, she will find that endearing too.

This one of the longer periods. This doesn’t mean that once you graduate to Level 4 you’re only hanging out only on weekend nights, but rather that if you get two or more Level 4 dates under your belt, intersperse those with some weekday dates and group things, and voila – you’re dating someone. She’s not technically you’re girlfriend (and won’t be until Level 6), but you’re kinda/sorta/somewhat dating her. You’re still single, but those days may be numbered.

Also, making love, if it has already not happened, becomes a realistic goal. And considering my personal circumstances, there is absolutely no way I should have written this. But, I am high. So let’s just move on…

Level 5a: The “Yeah, She’s Kinda My Girlfriend” Period
Level 5b: The Weekday Evening Sex Period
Once you successfully get past Level 4, you’re onto Level 5, which is divided into two parts.

This is arguably the best Level, because, well, you pretty much have a girlfriend. It’s still not official yet, but you both know it’s true. There is near daily contact and you’re hanging out with her three nights a week, one of which is a weekend night. You will even stay over her place during the week, which is a monumental step in any relationship. You’re introduced to her wider circle of friends, who grill you with questions about everything from your musical tastes to what you do for a living to “I read something on your blog about how you jerked off with an uncooked chicken breast – is that true?”

That’s the social aspect of Level 5 (5a). Concurrently with 5a, there is 5b: you are entering a realm of sensual delights. The sex is abundant and free. You are comfortable enough to call the girl at work at 5pm on Wednesday to say, “Hey, listen – I just found out that my roommate is going to be working late. Do you wanna come over after work to have sex in the kitchen? Because I don’t think we’ve done that yet.” And she agrees. Finally, everything is right with the world.

Level 6: The Love Period
Love. Sex. Girlfriend. And at this Level, the notion of having a girlfriend is a great and wonderful thing. You will tell your mom about her, who will sigh in relief, secretly thanking the Lord above that you are telling her about your love for Bruce or Tad. You will take weekend trips where you will lay in bed naked, watching pay-per-view movies, eating pizza, and drinking wine. You will laugh and wonder how this feeling could ever end, because you are stupid with love.

Sadly, it does end. Sooner than you think, too. This level is an inherent dilemma. On the one hand, it is great because you feel better than you ever have. On the other, it’s bad because it’s all downhill from here. You’re only hope is to stay in this Level for as long as possible, although you have no control over these things. And since you’re not a good person, God and Fate are going to gang up on you and usher this period out the doors as soon as possible. I guess you shouldn’t have committed all those hate crimes back in the late 80’s.

Level 7: The Cracks in the Façade Period
You’re still in love, of course. You worked hard for this relationship and things are still very good between you and the girl. But you wonder…why does she have to talk to her mother every day, even when you’re on vacation? Is that really necessary? And she really takes a very long time to order at restaurants, even though you both know what she’s going to get. And why does it matter that you spend more time talking with your buddy Pete about the potential assist numbers for Rafer Alston than about your relationship? I mean, what’s there to talk about, about the relationship? And why does she get all huffy when she calls you and you’re so high you think you’re talking to King Arthur? I mean, a man’s gotta have his fun.

Level 7: the beginning of the end. Also, the beginning of the rest of your life.

Level 8: Malaise
Routine has taken over. Sex in the kitchen on a Wednesday evening has been replaced by ok take-out food and “The Notebook.” Spontaneous weekend trips whose sole purpose was to get it on in another state are replaced by going to weddings of extended family members and more than likely not having sex (too tired “after such a big dinner and long drive”). Blowjobs are something you see every day on your computer and but in real life only on your birthday, Christmas, and anniversary. Going out with the guys, which was once a common occurrence, is now arranged and orchestrated with a diligence usually reserved for the Rose Bowl Parade. The idea of having a girlfriend, which once made you blush with delight, has lost its luster. The idea of having a mistress, however, sounds pretty good right about now. But you know you could never do this. You are in love. Right?

And this, folks, is how you get married. She might bring marriage up and though you’re averse to it initially, you start warming to the idea. You think, “Well, maybe getting married is just the change of pace we need. Maybe it’ll give us the spark that has been missing for some time.” And so you get married. And that’s all she wrote.

A loving relationship is like a pair of jeans. When you first see the jeans in the store, you decide you need to have them and so buy them immediately. It takes a while for you to break them in and for you to feel comfortable in them, but in a matter of time you’re strutting around town looking and feeling great. You wear them all the time, get compliments, and they slowly become a part of you.

But as time passes, the jeans slowly begin to break down. The cuffs get frayed, there may be a tear or two in them, and they start to smell funny. But you keep on the wearing them, mostly because they’re your number one jeans and you’re attached to them. But also because you remember how long it took you to break in these jeans and you’re not ready to do that again to a new pair, which will more than likely not be as good as this pair anyway. So you keep wearing them. Forever. Or until they fall to pieces. Either way, it ain’t pretty.

So what I think I'm trying to say is, choose your jeans wisely, because the pocket may fall off one day.

My Mini-Vacation

Whenever I take time off from posting, I find it hard to get back in the groove. This is especially true when many things happened during the time off. To write "On Friday...", "On Saturday...", "On Sunday..." etc is one of the greatest sins a writer can commit. Thank god I’m not a writer.

I went to Florida this past weekend for a few days, and decided to tell you about it. So I started writing a post in the "On ______" style mentioned above but I scrapped it because when reading it over even I got bored. That’s not a good sign, since reading anything that I write usually arouses me to the point of climax. Seriously. I don’t even need to touch myself – the warmth from the keyboard on my crotch is enough to initiate the rise, work toward the celebration, and comfort after the fall. It’s actually quite beautiful, but we’re getting off topic here.

The following is a list of eleven things I learned or re-learned about myself, my life, my friends, and Florida while being on this mini-vacation.

Fighting is stupid, but pretty awesome. Growing up in an urban neighborhood (or as I yell when I’m drunk, "in the streets"), most of my friends' favorite pastimes were:

1) Basketball
2) Girls
3) Fighting

Actually, fighting is probably second, but you get it: people fought constantly when we were kids. And when I say "when we were kids" I mean "from about age 6 until, um, now."

I never got into the whole fighting thing. It’s strange...I’ll be the first to admit that I’m pretty much a pussy, but for some reason, it was almost like I had a special exemption from fighting. I don’t know if it was because I was smart, funny, or ostensibly homosexual. Probably a mix of all three.

But guys fight each other a lot in my neighborhood. They still do. And not only that, but they talk about fighting a lot, too. I felt like I was watching "Friday Night Fights" when we were at the bar and I heard:

Ted: "I’m telling you, Charlie is good with his hands, but if Rob lands that big right of his, it’s all over."
Jack: "Are you kidding me? Sure, Rob does have a big right, but there’s no way he could touch Charlie – he’s just too quick."
Mike: "You know who would be a good fight? Charlie and Freddy. They’re both about the same size and both very quick, and it’d be interesting to see how the righty Charlie matches up with the southpaw Freddy."
Jack: "Oh, that would be a good one."
Ted: "Yeah, I’d like to see that."

Keep in mind that the people being discussed are not professional or even amateur boxers. They are an electrician, a guy who works at the local gas station, and a bartender. I mean, sheesh. I wonder what they would say about me:

Ted: "I think John’s biggest asset is his teeth. He’s got some sharp ass fucking teeth and he’s not afraid to use them."
Jack: "Another of his strengths is his ability to cry on cue. When confronted, he starts crying and that kinda freaks the other guy out, ending the conflict."
Mike: "God, he’s such a pussy. Did you hear one time in grade school he stuck a piece of chalk up his ass on a dare?"

Ted: "Yeah, I was there. It was awesome."

And wouldn’t you know it, not two hours after hearing this conversation (the first, not the second), a bar fight involving one of my buddies broke out. The reasons, which I can’t get into for legal reasons, were stupid, but I found myself, with about ten other guys, pulling two people apart in the middle of a bar on a Friday night. And I admit, it was pretty fucking awesome.

The best part was how well the neighborhood girls take it when their boyfriends fight. If a fight broke out involving my Jersey friends, I am pretty sure that these guy’s girlfriends would have to be institutionalized for a period of two weeks to two months in order to calm down. Take a nice sheltered girl from Central Jersey and put her and her man in the middle of a New Port Richey, Florida bar fight and she might never recover. We're talking about rednecks here, people.

But the girls in the neighborhood didn’t bat an eye. They were all dancing when it broke out, and stopped to check it out when the music was shut off (keep in mind, these girlfriends could see their boyfriends rolling around the floor holding people back from murdering each other and jawing with the opposing side in the conflict). They sort of watched and after it was broken up, went right back to dancing. It was as if someone had come in with a mohawk: they turned, looked, and went back to what they were doing.

The girlfriend of one of the guys involved came up to me immediately after it was broken up:

Girlfriend: "John, I just want to know one thing: was Jack wrong?"
Me: [lying] "Um, not really."
Girlfriend: "That’s all I need to know."

And she went right back to dancing.

I’ll tell you, it’s always eventful when I go home. God I miss Florida sometimes.

My first heart attack was a mild one. The next night after the fight, I didn’t go out. I was so hungover I could barely breathe or wipe my ass, so I didn’t think it’d be appropriate to introduce four gallons of Bud Light into my bloodstream.

I stayed at my parent's house, in part because my dad was dogsitting my aunt’s dog, a very cool beagle named Lucky. I spent the majority of my day laying around and eating, as the poison seeped out of my body. It was a bad day.

The only activity that I took part in was playing with the dog. This usually occurred while I was either lying or sitting: dog jumps on chair, I throw him off, I lean over and throw him around some more, I get tired, I stop, I nap, repeat.

At about 10pm, I guess I got my second wind and I jumped out of the chair to chase the dog around the house. After about five seconds, I regretted the decision immensely.

As it usually does when I do something besides move my eyelids, my heart started racing. I’m fat and out of shape, so I’m used to this. But this time it was different. Usually it goes: boom-boom...boom-boom...boom-boom very quickly. But this time, there was no one-two beat. It was more like boom-boom-boom...boom...boom...boom-boom-boom-boom...boom, etc. And it freaked me the fuck out.

I have mentioned before that I am a hypochondriac. At one time or another, I’ve believed that I have had every disease, even made-up ones, like shilomyosis, which is a condition in which the left leg twitches every time you pee, or fragolitis, who symptoms include heartburn, lightheadedness, and a desire for juicy fried chicken.

But this time, I was really freaking out and walked over my dad, telling him to feel my heartbeat. Now, the worst thing that anyone can do to/for a hypochondriac is to validate his/her hypochondria. What I need to hear when I think I have stomach cancer or am suffering an embolism is, "Dude, you are a fucking moron. Nothing is wrong with you. Also, you’ve had mayo on your face since the barbeque and that was like twelve hours ago. God you’re fucking disgusting."

My dad is probably the least hypochondriacal person in the world, but when he felt my racing heart, startled, he said, "Wow – you better go lie down or something." Wrong answer. Then he added, "Do you want me to run you up the hospital?" Even more wrong. Before you could say "Go back to therapy", I was in the bathroom sucking down Bayer and Xanax, trying to calm down.

Eventually, I did. But it took a long time, and a lot of medication. And seriously, this time was different. Again, I am a tremendous hypochondriac, much more so than I let on here. I can say that I am almost consumed with the beating of my own heart. I obsess about it constantly. I reach for my chest to feel my heart beat (and my man boobs) about two thousand times a day. At times, it’s so out of control that it’s almost paralyzing.

And this particular freak-out scared the fuck out of me. So much so that I’m officially starting a diet. Yesterday, after eating cereal, a salad, and a 6" subway sub all day, I actually went for a walk. So you can see that this time, I am serious. That is, until my birthday, when I drink a bottle of vodka and eat a block of cheese and at least two bottles of ranch dressing. Sure, that might a little stressful on the old ticker, but fuck it – it’s my birthday.

Bill got a haircut in a driveway. Strangest incident from vacation: my buddy Bill getting a haircut in someone's driveway at 5am on Saturday night/Sunday morning. Don't ask, because I'm not sure how it happened. I guess it was the natural result of having a half dozen people together, three of whom are professional hairstylists and one of whom is an accountant with bad hair, and a ton of beer. And I'll tell you: for a haircut given in the dark by a girl who had a bazillion beers over the previous six hours, it looks pretty good.

Overeating is underrated. Except for the whole heart attack thing side effect, it really is. I ate and overate more in this past week that I have in a long time. And it was very, very good.

(Again, except for the whole "constantly thinking I was dying" thing)

Napping is underrated. My schedule went like this for those few days:

11am: Wake up
Noon: Eat a lot
1pm to 4pm: Hang out with the folks/walk around
4pm to 6:30: Nap
7pm: Eat a lot
8pm to 2am: Drink

I was getting about 13 hours a sleep a day, taking the most gorgeous late-afternoon naps the world has ever seen. And my quality of life was about 1000x better. I highly, highly recommend the nap.

(I know there was nothing funny there; it was a statement of fact: naps are great. Thank you.)

Women – good god. I think I’ve run out of things to say about beautiful women, having exhausted my store of superlatives sometime last December. But after this recent trip to Florida, I need only four words to get my point across: HOT TAN YOUNG GIRLS.

Hot tan young girls are ALL OVER Florida (sorry about the caps – I’ll stop now), even in November. I mean, EVERYWHERE (sorry). I’m kinda having trouble writing about this and I don’t know where to start, so I’m going to step away from the computer for a couple of minutes, take a few deep breaths and a walk around the block, and go commit a sex crime. Be back in ten.

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Wow – that got out of control pretty quickly. I fucking hate dogs. Anyway...

Maybe I sound like an old fuddy-duddy, but I don’t remember girls looking like this when I was 18. Of course, I was very into pills at that time, but this is beside the point. On Saturday afternoon, I was walking along the boardwalk and came upon a gaggle of girls that looked like some of the hottest twenty-two year olds I’d seen in a long time. Upon closer inspection, they were probably seventeen, if that. I think it was the braces and "River Ridge High Cheerleading" t-shirts that gave them away. Because otherwise, they looked 22. And trust me, I was looking for a long time, so I know what I’m talking about.

And this says nothing about the bar scene, which is filled with sexpot underage girls who, shockingly, want nothing to do with me. If I had to make a quick list of things that girls in bars in Florida are attracted to, I’d say:

• Shirts without sleeves
• Tattoos
• Loads and loads of hair gel
• Frequent use of curse words
• General doochebaggery

Unfortunately, the top selling points about yours truly go something like:

• Reads books when not required
• Decent job
• Nice place that parents do not also live in
• Frequent use of curse words
• Good general knowledge (i.e. knows that Europe is a continent, not a country; can explain how Caesar isn’t famous just for his salad; etc)
• Also, I’m pretty much fucking famous.

Yet this (the fame and my other qualifications) means less than nothing to women at bars down in Florida. One night, I watched some musclehead douchebag in a Lakers jersey down to his knees, a white hat cocked to the side, and a necklace that would give Flavor Flav pause, grind on two gorgeous girls. We’re talking girls so hot that when you see them you involuntarily say "My god" out loud because you can’t control yourself. I was standing with some friends taking it in and after a few minutes I asked my buddy:

Me: "Dude, who is that guy?"
Him: "That’s Hook. He just got out of jail for dealing. I think he like beat up his girlfriend too. He’s a real dick."

At which point my female friend chimed in, "Yeah, but he’s hot."

I don’t even know why I get out of bed anymore.

I will say this: I was so drunk by the time I left the bar that after hours of watching scenes like this I was motivated beyond belief. I swore I was going to go home to write the greatest screenplay Hollywood has ever seen and would immediately go on a strict diet. Of course, about thirty minutes later I ate a pound of macaroni salad, but for those five minutes I was very serious. Nothing like watching some shitbag ex-con scoring with some hot chicks to get you all sorted out. For five minutes. Or whenever the booze wears off. Whichever comes first.

Seagulls are the worst creatures on earth. In London's Trafalgar Square, they had a pigeon problem. See, the pigeons in London are not like pigeons in the US: they have balls. While all it takes to scatter a group of pigeons in NYC is a step in their direction, the London pigeons will come up to you, go after your food, and will continue going after your food even after you've shooed them away.

So what did London do to combat this problem? The put two hawks in Trafalgar Square to chase the pigeons away. I'm not sure if they just chase the pigeons or eat them, the latter being pretty fucking awesome, but it works. The result? Less pigeons.

The seagulls in Florida deserve such treatment. They are probably the most despicable creatures on earth. One day I aimlessly wondered the boardwalk on Clearwater beach, eating fries and taking in the scenery (i.e. poor people, bad tattoos, lots and lots of southern accents). And wherever I went you could see hoards of seagulls attacking people trying to eat french fries, swarming over them, acting viciously.

Fortunately, they didn't fuck with me. I'm assuming they took one look and thought, "Whoa - stay away from that fucking guy. Sure, we might get a fry or two, but he looks pretty serious about his food and I think he'd take at least a few of us out. Let's move on."

So Florida, please invest in hawks to chase or attack these bastard seagulls. Because that would be fucking awesome.

Otherwise, seeing the folks and getting the new Caddy registered were pretty descent. I'll be back in a month to see the folks for Christmas. Those seagulls better be gone by then or I'll consider eating them myself, fuck the hawks.

Pubway: Drink Fresh

I have recently confirmed something that is very distressful to me and has caused me alot of pain in the past 4 hours.

My terrible news: Pubway, on Central Ave in Newark, has closed down.

Some of you may already know about this. To the average reader (most of my readers are from Southeast Asia afterall), I'm sure this means nothing. Indeed, you're probably reading this at work, smoking a cigarette at your desk and thinking about what your plans for the evening are, killing time between another terrible Sport Guys column on ESPN or waiting for the latest Iraq update on CNN. But to me, this is a great loss, on par with the loss of a family pet or a teste (I'm not sure if there's a singular form of "testes", but if you know anything about me, you know that I like to push the envelope. That and that I "supposedly" "sexually assaulted" a "girl" in college).
[Wait, is "supposedly" supposed to be in quotes? I don't even know anymore.]

Years from now, after my untimely death at age 32 just as I am at the height of my fame and sexual deviance (cause: chicken wing; butt plug), my biographers will say that deep down, underneath all the pomp and fat jokes and fat, I was actually a solitary person. Not quite a misanthrope, because if I were to cut myself off from all people I would have no one to use for anything. But it's true that I have very few real friends, and I don't really care nor have I ever really cared to meet new people. I like what I have and that's pretty much that. My idea of a great time is being somewhere comfortable with my closest friends, having a few drinks and talking about how great I am. I don't think that's too out of the ordinary.

In the same vein, there are a certain few institutions in my life that I treasure like friends: Pad Thai on Route 27 in Highland Park; my walks in the northern-most area of Central Park; Senor Frog's in Pensacola; a bowl of French Onion soup at the Oregon Diner in South Philly; a warm spring day in a shaded area of downtown Shreveport, where I can find a nice, peaceful spot to masturbate while watching children play with dogs. These are the things that are important to me. Especially that last one.

Also on that list was the Pubway, the diviest of dive bars in downtown Newark. I have had a special relationship with this bar for a couple of years, and now it is over. And I am sad.

The word "eulogy" is a combination of two Greek words: ευ, which means "you", and λογος, which means, literally, "log". If you'll indulge me, I'd like to properly eulogize Pubway by logging my experiences with it here.

It all started, like most things started, in March of 2000. I was a wee pup then, only 58 years old. I had recently started my job as an engineer at a large telecom company, and one day I went to lunch with some of the temps that I was working with. One of them suggested a divey Irish bar that had great, greasy, cheap food. Thus my relationship with Pubway was born.

I never ate at the Pubway again. But it wasn't the food that captured my imagination - it was a poster on the wall advertising a drink special. The poster said "Thursday and Friday pm - All You Can Drink Draft - $13". In Newark, a city where the average bottle of Bud Light costs $6, the idea of a $13 all-you-can-drink special appealed to me. I left that day, but swore to come back to investigate.

That night, I spent a sleepless hot night tossing and turning, wondering about that drink special and what it would be like to kiss a man open-mouthed. I was new to the area, but I learned quickly that downtown doesn't have many cool bars. Pubway was certainly not cool - it looked like something straight out of urban, depressed Cleveland or some other crappy city - but for $13 all you can drink, I would [insert ridiculous behavior here].

So the next day, Thursday, over my lunch break I took the short walk to the bar to inquire about the special. I opened the door to find a usual hodge-podge of barflies, and I went up to the bartender, a tough old Irish broad, to ask about the details of the special:

Me: "Hi, I have a question. Your special says 'Thursday and Friday pm' is all you can drink for $13. What do you mean by 'pm'?"
Her: [after a beat, looking at her watch, in an Irish brogue] "Well, it's 2pm now. Do you want a drink?"

To this day, I have never had a more important and powerful conversation with a woman. And I doubt I ever will.

Four hours later, after work was over, I showed up with a few other engineers to take advantage of the $13 special. And it was everything I dreamed of and more. I plopped down a $20, told the bartender to keep the change, and then drank draft after draft from 6pm until almost midnight, never touching my wallet again. Sure, the next day was one of my worst days at work ever, but it was worth it. I had found the bar that would be the place to drink after work for all of my co-workers for the next few years. I had never felt so alive. And hungover.

And so it was. Every either Thursday or Friday night, a group of co-workers and I would head over to Pubway to get obnoxiously drunk on cheap beer. Very cheap beer. After a few months, they instituted a new twist on the special: $13 had always gotten you all the Bud and Bud Light draft you wanted, but now for $17 you could drink all the premium draft (Guinness, Bass, Heineken) you wanted. Greatest. Deal. Ever.

And the best part was that it was our hidden gem. I remember being anxious on that first night when I brought my co-workers, fearing that the bar would be packed with douchebags from the financial companies getting sloshed, checking their blackberries, and talking about "options" and "equity". I had good reason to think this: the bar was just off Broad Street, by the Merrill Lynch building and did I mention the $13 special? But when we got there that first Thursday night, it was just as empty as it had been at lunch. And every time we went, it stayed that empty, except for our group of rowdy young kids, anywhere from five to thirty of us, pounding beer after beer and having a good time. It was truly our bar. And I was the one who found it.

This went on for about a year, but it eventually came to an end. One Friday evening a group of us came to the bar to get our usual special, but we found that it no longer existed. Without mentioning it to us, they had unceremoniously stopped pimping the special. Sure, we still stayed and drank, because drinks were still cheap and, you know, we were there, but after that Pubway sort of lost its luster.

Our visits to Pubway became less frequent. This was compounded by the fact that many of the cool, hard-drinking engineers (is there such a thing?) left the company, going on to grad school and moving on to other endeavors, and were replaced by much lamer engineers, fresh out of college, looking to change the world. I blame this entirely on the economy. When I was a college senior, any asshole could get a job (to wit, I got every job I applied for, despite repeatedly showing up for interviews with wine-stained teeth). As the economy worsened, only super nerds with high GPA's could get jobs, and you could see this in the new crop of engineers (of course, the engineers I'm currently friends with are excluded - for the most part). The magic of the Pubway special was gone, and there were less people willing to go, and so we slowly stopped going.

Last week, I was walking around the area and decided to stop by Pubway. As I approached, I noticed a white sheet of paper on the door with the word "CLOSED" written on it in big red letters. I looked in the windows and though I couldn't see much, it looked like the place had been cleaned out. For some reason, possibly because I was in denial, I thought that this wasn't a big deal and the bar was only closed for the day or something. Because bars do that a lot - close in the middle of the day and have no furniture. I mean, whatever.

This morning, I went back and finally I came to grips with reality: Pubway was gone. Closed down. Done. And only now have I been able to write about it.

I know that I haven't been an active patron at Pubway for some time. And part of me does feel guilty for that - perhaps it was my friends and I that drank them out of house and home, abusing the special so much and then stopping going altogether, both resulting in the bar closing its doors. But the more I think about that, the more I have to remind myself that nothing is ever my fault. And so I move on.

The reality of the situation is that when that bar closed, part of me closed too (probably an artery). But as an ordained minister, I know that death is not about lamenting a life lost, but rather celebrating a life lived. And so I will always have Pubway and the memories of the great nights that my friends and I shared there, most of which I can't remember because I was very drunk or are entirely unprintable, even by my standards. Pubway was a major part of my life and Newark experience, and for that I am and will always be very grateful.

And so this weekend I promise to raise my glass to the scummiest and best bar in the state of New Jersey and toast to some great times, some great company, and most importantly, some really, really cheap beer.

[Did I mention it was $13 all you can drink? I might start crying.]

Stock Price And Lovin' Market Value

So I was talking to a friend of mine last night, who explained a theory of his to me. It went something like this:

It happened to me a couple of years ago. I've discovered what a sage you are when it comes to all things women, so I figured I'd share this with you. I went to visit some friends in Atlanta for a long weekend. One of the buddies was living with a platonic girlfriend at the time, and during that weekend they threw a nice little party (a few kegs and tons of whiskey). The girlfriend/roommate was an attractive brunette, freckles, the natural look, and kind of tall (5'8-5'10'), but she was a little overweight. Nothing to frown upon, but nothing to write home to mother either (assuming you write home to you mother about chicks you'd like to hump).
So one drink leads to the next and we end up naked in bed. We do the deed, sleep it off, feel awkward in the morning and then stay in touch via random emails for the next few months. No biggie.

A year or so after that a mutual friend was married and I saw the girlfriend/roommie at the wedding. She'd dropped a good 25 lbs. and was just SMOKIN' hot. Double take hot. Can't believe I slept with this woman hot. So naturally I went over to make conversation and see if she's interested in doing a little sheet dancin' later that evening.

The reaction I got from her was, as best I can describe it, polite disdain. It was just a very odd reaction to my flirting and friendliness. I've been shot down before and am pretty well versed in women's uncomfortable reactions to my humor, but this was a new one to me. I took it in stride that evening only to ponder it later on.

So, while high as a figurative kite, I stumbled on why I think I got the disdain. I call it the Quantum Leap Cock Block. (after the cheesy TV show, not the actual scientific theory).
This attractive, thin, personable young lady knew of my past relations with a heavy, attractive, personable young lady (her old self) and found it to be in poor taste. In other words, she didn't want to be with a guy who has hooked up with heavy chicks in his past. So my hooking up with her while she was heavy kept me from hooking up with her when she was thin.

Is it possible to cock block your future self with the same girl? I'm positive that I'm not explaining this well enough to make any sense, because it's making my head hurt just thinking about it...sober. But if you can muddle through the details here, I'd love to get your take on this strange phenomenon.

Hmm...this one has all the main mysteries of the universe: physics, cock blocking, and sudden weight loss. This is going to get ugly.

I have to say I have no precedent for this type of thing, nor have I heard of this type of thing happening to any of my friends. I've heard of two variations:

• Guy hooks up with girl, doesn't see her for a few months, sees her again and it looks like she's been spending time living in a cave eating dynamite and babies, but hooks up with her anyway because it's convenient;
  
• Guy breaks up with girl, doesn't see her for a few months, sees her again and she's hotter than when they dated. Tries to hook up with her to no avail, but not because he cock blocked himself by hooking up with her in the past, but because their emotional history/baggage prevents the hook up.

But at heart what this speaks to is something very important: stock price and lovin' market value.

When it comes to love, sex, and relationships, people are like stocks. They are commodities that have a value that a) can change over time; and b) allows them to be measured against others.

Everything you do that is publicly known affects your stock price on the lovin' market. Get a big raise and promotion? Stock up 6 points. Get drunk and make out with a beast in front of your friends at the bar? Down 9. Lose a bunch of weight and get in shape? Plus 12. Get arrested for possession, go to prison for a few months, and get an STD? That's a veritable crash.

Whatever you do that isn't known, however, is ok. It matters not if you secretly watch tranny porn and get off by jerking off into your garbage disposal. As long as that information isn't known by others, particularly those of the other sex who can spread such information, then you're in the clear. Of course, when a company does not disclose potentially damaging information that would lower a stock price, that's securities fraud and there's usually a messy law suit. The good news is that the only thing that can happen to you when your girlfriend of six months catches you balls-naked crouching in the sink playing with yourself is that you get dumped. And trust me, getting dumped is MUCH better than being sued. Back to the point...

Perhaps even more importantly that the fluctuation, this value allows you to be compared to others. Think about how often you walk into a room, look around, and judge others ("She's beat...she's out of my league...that girl looks like she would fuck somebody in the driveway...that chick has one leg, but is kinda hot"...etc"). You're immediately rating this people. If you talk to these women, their values might change depending upon how cool they are, but you're still constantly comparing them to others. Everyone has a value.

In this instance, we have a normal, slightly chubby girl. Let's say she's at 60. We have my friend, normal guy who consents to hooking up with chubby girl. Therefore, he puts himself at her level - 60. It may be the case that he's actually 70 or 80 or 110, but his hooking up with her affects his value in her eyes, so she judges him as the same as her. And so my friend is 60.

However, time passes. The chick loses weight and her value is positively affected. Let's say, if she's smoking hot, she's 90. When she sees my friend again, seemingly the same as he was before, she views him at her old level, 60. Therefore, my friend doesn't get his noodle wet by the girl, who is now out of his league.

So short answer: yes, it is possible to cock block yourself with the same chick. But this is so rare that though I support the Quantum Leap Cock Block theory, I view it more as a microcosm of the larger lovin' market value system (and yes, I know that I need a name better than "lovin' market value system", one on par with "Quantum Leap Cock Block theory" - I'll work on it). Like I said, I don't know of anyone who this has happened to before (the QLCB), but people's stock prices fluctuate all the time - even dramatically so - so that I think the Quantum Leap Cock Block must be relegated to corollary status. Great idea, but not universal enough.