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.