I do, well, maybe.

As I sit here, sipping a nice SoCo on the rocks and playing poker, I wonder. I wonder about a lot of things. In light of the past few days, my wondering has particularly gone the wayward of marriage. Am I considering getting married? No. But I will tell you that I do wonder about it. Again, in light of the past few days, what, with my mother and her new husband, and my thoughts that my father probably got engaged (again). Sorry, Dad.

I know that I've written about this before... about how it doesn't matter how old you are and if you're not married it doesn't make you less of a person, but I see all that, and I see my two best friends that I never get to see, and it makes me wonder, and it confuses me. It makes me wonder; what if I'd have gone through with my engagement in 1997. What if I would have fought harder for Beth? What if the girl that I broke up with 5 years ago was the one? Well, the odds are that she probably wasn't.

Regardless, I still have to believe that through the years that I have made the right decisions. Statistics don't lie. The odds are that if I get married, I have a 50/50 shot of being divorced. Again, that's not me talking. Those are the facts. The fact that I'd have to give 50% of whatever meager possessions I own are going to someone else in the event that she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life with me is not a great bet. Would I be willing to gamble on the right horse? Sure... but I'd have to be pretty darn sure. If and when I get married, there's not going to be a doubt in my mind. It's not going to be one of those "well, I've been with this person for so long, and it's not great, but it's not horrible, so I might as well go to the next step." Wrong. Wrong answer. The very fact that you've just stayed with this person for whatever duration of time and you're not sure that it's great is the very justification that you should not, in fact, take the "next step."

The "next step," you must understand, is a whole other level. Everything changes. Yes, I said everything. The little things that now annoy you, yeah, they will grow to an incessant degree of pissing you off. {Quick sidebar... I just lost with pocket Jacks. That sucks.} Bear in mind, it's not that I'm bitter, it's just that I'd love better odds. It's, once again, like Vegas. You have pretty much a 50/50 shot on the red/black thing, but there's that double zero that throws the odds in the house's favor. If you had to wager everything you owned on a 50/50 shot, would you do it? Me either... unless, of course, my buddy Noah, was at my side saying, "cuz, I got a good feeling about black, hit it up for $200." If I had the same feeling, I'd probably lay it down and drop a couple hundred on black. Again, bear in mind that I trust my gut and I trust Noah. Nevertheless, it's the roll of that marble.

Now, let me say this. I just got down to the final table... that means me and some other clown are going head to head at 3:13 AM. Do I know what he has in his hand? No. I only know that I have J, 10 off suit and that I'm going all in. Turns out I lost. The other clown had Queens wired, and caught one on the flop. It happens. Ladies and gentlemen, the very same thing can happen well after you've exchanged vows. You could have pocket Aces, but she could be sitting on 3/6 off suit and nut the straight on the flop. You don't have that guarantee. While you may think that your Aces are golden pre-flop, you never know what somebody else has in their pocket. It's the luck of the draw, and you never know what the other person has in their pocket. Those of you that are in the situation that I previously mentioned should read that again.

Regardless, it's funny how I wind up with like $50 remaining, and I find myself at the final table every time. The cards just somehow seem to work out in my favor. Maybe that's a sign.

Anyway, I'm not going to take what the cards say as gospel. I'll just continue to play the game.

I've got pocket Kings, and some jerk just raised me. Think I'll see what happens on the turn before I fold.

Until next time...

R

Hmmm...

Well, my loyal readers, yes, I know it's 9:10 AM and I'm on vacation all week, so you may be wondering what I'm doing up so early. I can't tell you. Sorry.

The real reason I'm up is that I have a big concern. I think President Bush is drinking again, and I have the video to confirm my suspicions. Click here and let me know what you think.

Until next time...

R

Merry Christmas... I need a shower.

Well, here it is... the day before Christmas. Let us revel in all it's splendor and majesty. If you're done reveling, you can read on. If not, continue to revel, and read on later. Done? Good. Let's move on. As I write this, I'm at the old man's house in fabulous Jamestown. That fact will become relevant as you read on.

Well, let me tell you how my happy holiday started. Last night my sister and I had dinner with the old man, and then, much to the protest of my father, went out downtown in Jamestown, NY. Due to the fact that it's just about the most exciting place in the world, my sister and I refer to it as Jamesvegas. Regardless... we went out, hit a few of the "hot spots" in Jtown, and we were crocked by about midnight. Called a cab, headed home. I love calling a cab in this armpit of a city. It's $4 to anywhere in this megalopolis. Perfect. Anyway, when we got home, I made sloppy joes. Yes, you're impressed, and I know it. Sounds like a pretty average night, right? Well, let me tell you how I was roused from my pleasant holiday slumber this morning.

About 9:00, I hear someone knocking on the old man's front door. Since no one apparently is awake, I get my lazy ass out of bed, and go to see who, in the name of all that is holy, is knocking on the f'ing front door. Now, before you read on, let me preface this with a couple things. One, to look out of the front of the house, there are a few options; I can actually go downstairs and answer the door to whatever asshole is out there at 9 freaking AM on Christmas Eve, I can go through my father's room and look out his front window, I can go through my sister's room and do the same, or I can head out to the guest room and look down. Two, my sister is home with her dog and we left her alone for about three hours last night when we went to dinner. I chose the latter of the three options; I threw on the t-shirt I had on last night, and headed for the guest room. Now, bear in mind that I'm not really conscious. I was drinking Budweiser and Southern Comfort last night (not mixed together, moron), and I've had about, well, 9 hours of sleep. I'm not really in the game yet, and I'm not what one would call a morning person.

Anyway, to continue the story, I head for the guest room. After taking about two steps into this room, I feel something uncomfortable mash underneath my bare left foot. Now, remember... my sister is home with her dog and we left her alone for about 3 hours last night. Immediately, I'm stone cold sober and wide freaking awake. I look down, and there is dog shit strewn about the floor. If you're not quite getting the jist of what I'm saying here; first thing this morning I stepped in dog shit. Seeing as it was in the guest room, my guess is that the dog figured, "well, hey, I'm a guest, right?" By the way, my father was wide awake and on the phone in his bedroom, and the jackass at the front door was one of his clients that evidently had to show up at 9 freaking AM today and cause this mayhem.

I can't even impart to you the horror of stepping in dog shit, sans shoes. It's not pleasant. It's less than not pleasant. It's just terrible. It's like, well, it's like something. It's like ordering something in a restaurant that you're really excited for, and when the waitress brings it, she's got fresh stitches and there's a hair in the middle of the plate. It's just miserable. Stupid dog.

Anyway, that's going to be about it for the Christmas Eve post. My sister and I need to go to the palacial Chautauqua Mall so that she can get the old man a shirt. Me, I'm done with my shopping. I'm just going to look at the rest of the morlocks that didn't finish their shopping. Ever been to the Chautauqua Mall? It's a freaking leper colony in there.

I will leave you with one thing to amuse you through this holiday. Assuming you've seen Napoleon Dynamite, you'll find this to be just about the funniest thing ever.

Anyway, off to the mall... gotta pick up some slippers.

Until next time...

R

Uh... had a little accident

Well, my loyal readers, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I went hunting this past weekend and I got something. The bad news is, well... figure it out for yourself. Merry Christmas.

Until next time...

R

The move... completed. Merry f'ing Xmas.

F'ing finally. The move is now complete. All the shit that I had in the old place is into the new place, and now I have a bigger place to store all my shit. There. Having said that, you, my loyal readers, get yet another apology. Sorry. Yes, I've had internet access since Monday of this week. Yes, I've been able to post since then. Yes, I've been neglecting the blog. Yes, I've been really f'ing tired from work this week, and finally... yes, I apologize. I won't say that it won't happen again, but sorry anyway. So there.

Wow, here we are... the very first post from the new corner apartment. Strap in. Here we go.

On that note, I have to thank my multitude of readers that have emailed me about the move... recommending moving companies, offering to help move my big f'ing TV & leather sectional couch, letting me know who to call about whatever. To you I must give a vote of thanks. I didn't actually utilize any of your advice; I have a couple of really great friends that helped me move all my shit, but regardless, your assistance is greatly appreciated.

You know, I figured that when I moved, everything would be just peaches & cream. Let me ask you; when was the last time that happened with regard to absolutely anything? I get all my shit in, and I'm all excited about the free laundry in the basement, and the gas for the dryer isn't turned on. I now have fourteen pounds of cold, wet clothes sitting in my laundry basket. I run home from working for 5 minutes, and park in the driveway in front of the house because I know I'm going to run right back out, and the guy from downstairs pulls in exactly at that minute and starts honking his horn. So now I have to run back downstairs and move my minivan to the back of the house for the 5 f'ing minutes that I'm actually going to be in the f'ing place. Timing is everything. But I digress. The landlord said that he'd have the dryer fixed by next week, and I learned to actually park if I have to come home for anything during the day. So far, it hasn't been a horrible process, but a couple hiccups have made it less than perfect. No, by the way, I don't bitch about everything.

All in all, it's been a good experience... so far. I guess time will tell if the juice was worth the squeeze. It's nice being in such a quiet place. I don't have the knuckleheads pounding on each other's walls when something is too loud like I did in the former corner apartment. I don't have a little weirdo potter banging on the door every 5 minutes, and there's no fat chick to steal my quarters from the dryer when I go out to smoke a cigarette... at least not that I know of; I guess it's possible that she's hiding in one of the nooks or crannies in the basement eating a bowl of Crisco just waiting to see me awkwardly meander through the intricacies of the cluttered laundry room, leave my laundry, and then spring into action like a ninja in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Much to her cholesterol-fueled quarter seeking rampage dismay, there will, in fact, be no quarters for her taking. I'd love to see the look on her bacon grease smeared face when she discovers that little nugget of information. "Ah ha!," I would bellow from the higher ground position like Obi Wan Kenobi after defeating Darth Vader/Anakin in Star Wars Episode III, "my quarters will no longer be victim to your thievery! Go get your own, you quarter stealing land monster quarter stealer!" Or something like that. By the way, if you haven't seen Episode III and I just ruined the ending for you... sorry. Get out of the house more and I won't have to do that again. I hope you've learned your lesson. Now, to continue.

Unfortunately, although I know I promised that I'd have pictures of the new apartment, sadly I do not. Yes, I could get off my lazy ass and snap a few with my digital camera, but quite frankly, I just don't have the energy. This week of work has been absolute hell, and I'm going to type this and take a nap. Maybe another time when I'm not working 15 hour days. Get over it, people.

There is one thing that I have to address. Well, I guess I don't really have to; as I've said many a time... this is my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I want. More accurately, I'll say that I want to... just because it's kind of bothering me and it's somewhat controversial. Having said that, read on at your own risk. I don't think anyone will outright be offended by whatever it is that I'm going to write. As a matter of fact, I'm not really sure what I'm going to write here... I never really do. I just sit down and start typing, and by some stroke of God's hand, people find their way here and start reading.

Regardless, here's what I'm going to write about. After reading this paragraph, you're on your own. I assume no risk of offending anyone... the oness is squarely on you.

There's a new film coming out this month called "Brokeback Mountain." If you're not familiar with the storyline, here it is; two cowboys start working together and subsequently fall in love. Yes, I said it and you read it correctly. It's a love story about two gay men. Just a quick sidebar here; ever see the South Park episode where an indie film festival comes to South Park and Cartman refuses to go because he says that all indie films are just about gay cowboys eating pudding? Kind of funny, although I don't know if there is any pudding eating or pudding eating references in the film. Insert gratuitous gay joke here. Done? Good. Let's move on.

Apparently, there has been some controversy about the film... you know, the whole gay thing is bad and wrong and gross and all that bullshit. The reason I know about this is because one of my best friends is gay, and happened to write about it in his blog. He got on a local message board about the movie, and people right here in Rochester were expressing opinions about it. I took the liberty of also logging on and reading some of the comments, and I have to say just one thing to those who oppose the film and have some unsubstantiated hatred of gay people; what's the big f'ing deal? If you oppose the film, don't pay your hard earned money to go see it. Don't freaking sit outside the theatre with your little picket signs and protest, don't post stuff on a message board saying that homosexuality is wrong and that all fags are going to hell, and lastly, don't waste your time. Seriously, now, aren't there more productive things that you could be doing with your life than degrading and annoying people who get enough shit from the general populous already? Jesus, I know I do. If there was a movie that came out about two diabetics that fell in love, would you bash them? Of course you wouldn't. Diabetes isn't a choice, and neither is being gay. Ask any gay person you know. If you say you don't know any, you're probably fooling yourself.

Now, before I go any further with this, let me say something and get it out of the way. I am not gay. I'm about as straight as they come. Having said that, it doesn't mean that I must, in fact, disassociate myself from that entire demographic. The only demographic that I willingly and publicly distance myself from is assholes. If you don't want to be around me, listen to me, be my friend, or read this blog just because it doesn't matter to me if someone is gay or straight, then the feeling is more than likely mutual. It simply means that I'm not part of it. In other words, when the census comes out, I won't list myself as having a life partner or being in a domestic partnership. If you're lucky enough to find someone that you can spend the rest of your life with, more power to you. I'm lucky if I can find someone that I can tolerate for more than six contiguous minutes.

Anyway, back to my original point. I'm not really exactly sure what my point is, but I'll keep writing and eventually, hopefully, one will surface.

As far as this whole posting negative things about the movie or the homosexual population at large, again, why do you care? What's it got to do with you? If a new flavor of Pepsi came out and you didn't like it, would you bitch to all your friends and people that you don't even know and create posts on public message boards that avocado flavored Pepsi is horrible? Probably not. By the way, don't try to sling that whole biblical thing on me about homosexuality being an abomination to God and all that shit. For every one thing that you find in the bible that you believe to be true, I can show you ten that you'll have to admit is folklore.

I've said this before and I'll say it again; if you'd have told me 10 years ago that in 2005 that one of my best friends would be a gay man that lives with another gay man, I'd have told you that you're insane. Where I'm originally from, if you're not driving a pick up with a gun rack, wearing a flannel shirt, a John Deere hat, and carrying around a half-empty Budweiser tall boy, you might as well be carrying a purse. That's one of the reasons that I thank God every day that I moved out of that town. Besides, do you know how hard it is to find a bra in my size? Kidding, by the way.

OK, here's my point; (I knew if I wrote long enough I'd find one) if you don't want to be around someone or something for whatever reason (it doesn't matter what... remember, we're all different) then, simply, don't. If you think someone's an asshole, fine. If you hate the way someone's hair smells, great. If you can't tolerate someone that steals quarters, terrific. Simply get away from it. Period. There's no reason to lash out and say that whatever that person has that you dislike is wrong... it's just not right for you. Plain & simple, simple & plain. Live and let live. Go listen to John Lennon, Woody Guthrie, James Taylor or the like... there's some good stuff in there.

Well, friends and neighbors, I think I'm done with that rant. However, it just wouldn't be Christmas if I didn't put a little something in here for everyone to get into the holiday spirit, so here you go. Click here and enjoy. It's one of my favorite Christmas thingys, and if you haven't seen it, prepare to laugh your ass off.

It's time... off to my nap. I've earned it. I'm off to my big ass couch right after I head downstairs and retrieve my wet laundry... think I'll bring a flashlight. You never know what you might find.

Until next time...

R

The move

Well, my loyal readers, once again you are due an apology. After not posting for like three weeks, I'm overdue for one. Although it's been used far too often, I'll say it again. The job has been kicking my ass. There. Now, here's what's been going on. Oh shut it. I apologized. Get over it.

Having said that, with everything that's been going on in the world and my life, it's probably good that I haven't posted in a while. I've got a lot of stuff that I want to weigh in about. However, first things first. There is a bit of semi-sad news to report from the corner apartment, and here it is. Sadly, this will probably be the last if not one of the very last from the corner apartment. No, my loyal readers, I'm not logging off for good. I'm moving. Alas, the corner apartment will be no more, at least not in my little world. I found a really cool apartment right smack dab in the middle of my beloved Park Avenue, here in sunny Rochester, NY. It's a two bedroom, two full bathroom apartment, and it's the entire second floor of a house. It's got a loft for storage that I just found today, and a ton of off-street parking. It's pretty much more room than I will ever need. While I don't have a ton of complaints about the corner apartment, there are a few, but the final straw was when I had to park a freaking block and a half away when it snowed last Thursday. That sucked, and pretty much solidified my decision. It's a little more than what I'm paying now, but I'll gladly pay the extra cash not to freeze my nipples off while walking a quarter mile in the dead of a Rochester winter. While I'm on the subject, here's a brief list of the reasons for the move.

1. My current landlord is a tool. Either he or one of his employees have this nasty habit of using their key and walking in here in the middle of the day. That's annoying. Once I walked in around 1:00 in the afternoon and there was some dude standing in the middle of my living room. That weirded me out... the first time. After that it just pissed me off.

2. Parking is absolutely abysmal... especially in the winter. If I'm not home by 5:30 at the latest, I'm pretty much parking on 490. If I try to park on what will be the correct side of the street any earlier than 4:46 PM (remember that parking ticket?) I'm apparently subject to legal action by one of Rochester's finest. Bastards.

3. Too many people that I previously dated know the security code to get in the building. If I have to explain why this is a really, really bad thing, go hit yourself on the head with a tack hammer.

4. The fat broad that lives in one of the basement apartments is big on stealing my quarters out of the dryer. Allow me to elaborate. A couple of months ago, I had a load of clothes in the washer, and while they were in there, I put quarters in the tray of the dryer, essentially to claim it for the next load. Having left them there in good faith (it's a freaking dollar in quarters for crying out loud), I went back up to the corner apartment to do whatever it is that I do while my clothes are spinning around in that soapy mess and making them wearable again. A half hour went by, and back to the laundry room basement I went. They were still spinning, and my quarters were still there, so I went outside to smoke a cigarette. On my way out, I noticed the fat chick walking in to the laundry room. Again, trusting that my f'ing four quarters would be safe, I didn't give it a second thought. Anyway, I smoked my cigarette, and headed back down into the bowels of the luxurious Berkeley apartments. As I entered the aforementioned laundry room, the fat chick was headed out with her big ass basket of freshly dried clothes. Much to my dismay, my aforementioned quarters were gone. The stream of expletives that escaped from my mouth would have made Sam Kinison jealous. Not so much that it was actual, tangible American currency, but the principle of the thing. It's a freaking coin-op machine for the love of God... it's not like they charge by the pound. Anyway, the quarter-stealing fat chick is reason #4. Have a little integrity, people.

5. There's a mentally handicapped gentleman on the first floor. Now, he, in and of himself, is not a reason that I'm moving. He seems like a nice enough guy, he's harmless, and he gets extremely excited when either FedEx or UPS shows up. So much so that I haven't missed a delivery in 6 months. As soon as the truck shows up, he runs from his apartment, and accepts the deliveries for all the people in the building. Now, having said that I haven't missed a delivery, doesn't come without a price. He'll leave a note on my door to come get my package, which means that I have to go down to his apartment and collect it. Let me preface whatever I put down in print with this; I have nothing at all against mentally handicapped people. I don't make fun of them, I do a bunch of charity work, and I think to see someone with a handicap overcome their disadvantage/handicap is wonderful. Having said that, here goes. When I go down to his apartment to collect my package, 9 out of 10 times he's not wearing a shirt or shoes, and it really kind of weirds me out. While I do appreciate the convenience, the bare chested gentleman is pretty creepy.

6. Every time I fire up the microwave for more than one minute and twenty-six seconds, it blows the fuse in my kitchen and bedroom. It took me over a year to figure out what lights I could and couldn't have on if I wanted to nuke a f'ing bag of popcorn. If anyone out there is looking for a two-bedroom in the Park Ave. area, and wants to move into the Berkeley apartments, you can have the TV in your bedroom on, but not the main light, or you can have the closet light on but not the main light and TV, and make sure that if you're making a hot pocket that you unplug the DVD player in your bedroom and cross your fingers. Yes, there have been explosions in the corner apartment.

7. I got a call a few weeks ago from my tool of a landlord that someone had complained that my surround sound system was too loud. One, if someone in the building thinks that my system is too loud, I would hope that they would simply come and ask me to turn the stupid thing down and not call the f'ing tool of a landlord. I'm 6'1" and 165 pounds soaking wet. I'm not the most physically intimidating person in the world. Two, it's not like I'm blaring this thing at 3:00 in the morning. If I do watch a movie, it's usually over by 11:00. Three, how the fuck does the tool of a landlord even know that I have a surround sound system? Oh yeah, see reason #1.

8. While all my utilities in this place are included in the rent, it's either feast or famine with the climate control. That's right, I don't have control over the heat. There was a note on everyone's door last week that said a computer controls it, and keeps the temperature between 67 and 69 degrees. Let me tell you this right now. There hasn't been a day in the last two years that I've lived here when the temperature has been anywhere near 67 or 69 degrees. The temperature in this place is one of two extremes. It's either Arctic Circle or hatching baby chicks in here. There's been many a night where I've woken up sweating at 4AM, kicked off the comforter and gone back to sleep, and then had my alarm go off 3 hours later and been able to cut diamonds with my nipples.

9. I watched the Boston Red Sox win a World Series in this apartment. I can't live with that, and neither should anyone else. If you hate the Red Sox as much as I do, and you watched that debacle in the place you live now, you should move. It's bad karma to stay.

Regardless, that's all I can come up with right now. I could probably write some more and fill up a few hundred pages on reasons to move, but I really feel like that would be wasted energy. And God knows, I need all the energy I can muster... moving is a bitch.

While I can't wait to move, I am absolutely dreading the moving process. Moving flat out sucks. However, I did get some good news the other day. I seemed to remember something about the place that I bought my TV from. I thought I heard them say something to the effect of moving my TV if I decide to move. Now, bear in mind that I have a 53" TV. I really don't want to move this f'ing monster. For one, the odds are far greater in favor of my dropping it a couple of stories than successfully negotiating the intricacies of a second floor Park Ave. apartment. Anyway, short story long, I called the place, and asked them if that was a service that they provided, and the response I got was music to my ears. The guy said, "sure, we can do that for you." Outstanding. Now that's customer service. Granted, I'm sure that I'm going to have to tip whoever comes to move this thing, but a small price to pay rather than buying a brand new TV.

Honestly though, it'll be a bittersweet day when I finally vacate these premises. I've had a lot of fun in the corner apartment. I started this blog, I got to meet the weirdo potter across the hall, and successfully endured five and a half months of unemployment... man, did that ever suck.

Regardless, I think I'll end this rant there. Although there are a few other things I wanted to write about; Terrell Owens and how he's a dick and should just go somewhere and shut his big fat yap for about the next 30 years, the NBA and their new dress code and how the players feel that it's an "infringement on hip-hop culture." Give me a fucking break. You overpaid assholes make about ten times what I do, and I have to adhere to a business casual dress code. It's a requirement of the job, you freaking crybaby jackasses. I listen to Jimmy Buffett. You don't hear me bitching that a business casual dress code is an infringement on parrot head culture. That really pisses me off. And, finally, I was going to write about my upcoming Festivus party. I already have the pole, constructed from aluminum for it's high strength to weight ratio, and there will absolutely be the airing of grievances and feats of strength. It will be celebrated on December 23, and if you're good, you might just get an evite. By the way, if you don't get an evite and/or you can't come to mine for geographic constraints or other reasons, you can host your own party and order your pole here.

Well, unless I get the time to post again before the move, that'll about wrap it up from the corner apartment. No, I won't be re-naming the site, so you won't have to change the bookmark that I know you all have. Hopefully the next post that you read will be from the second floor apartment, complete with pictures... provided, of course, that Time Warner can actually show up on time. I've got them meeting me at the new place on the 28th, sometime between 4PM and February.

Having said that, I'm going to log off. I've got to go get something out of my car. Think I'll pack a lunch for the trip.

Until next time...

R

Huh?

This is probably the most embarrassing thing I have posted so far. I won't go as far as saying that it's the most embarrassing thing that I will post, because those of you that know me know full well that I have a great knack for embarrassing myself without the benefit of digital media, but someday, somewhere, someone might catch a different pic that will be just as horrible.

I'm only posting this because I told the 5 Dog that I would, and I'm a man of my word. We went out Saturday night, and the Rychkid had a little too much to drink. Strange, I know. Regardless, he came back to my place, and I had the uncontrollable desire to go into my office and play guitar. It made a lot of sense at the time. The reason for the title, "Huh?" is simply this. 5 told me that my response to virtually every question that he asked me was just that... "huh?" So, without further adieu, here is the picture lovingly entitled, "huh?". Check out those eyes. Wow. Anybody notice the half full bottle of Corona on the table. Yeah, maybe water would have been the better choice at that stage of the game.

Anyway, I spent most of the day Sunday recovering and not picking up my phone. Since the Bills were on a bye and I have a TV in my bedroom, there wasn't a ton of motivation for me to rouse myself from my bed.

You'll be glad to know, my loyal readers, that I have managed to fully recover, and all is right with the world... at least until next weekend.

Until next time...

R

Buffett in Vegas... Is there a better weekend? I think not.

Well, sorry for not posting in a few days to you, my loyal readers, but I've been in fabulous Las Vegas since Friday seeing the great Jimmy Buffett with two of my best friends in the whole wide world, Chris & John.

I have an early meeting tomorrow, so I don't have time to go through the whole trip now, but here's a couple pics to tide you over. Brief synopsis; started around 1PM at the pre-show party at Margaritaville, where they had an entire street closed off with bands, booze, and drunken wackos like myself in full Parrot Head regalia. Here's a couple quick shots from that. I think my fav is the two guys with blue mohawks that wrote "FINS UP" on the side of their respective heads. Good stuff.I simply had to get a shot of the hats on these chicks.

Anyway... after a few Margaritas (of course) and a bunch of Coronas and "loaded Coronas," which I found out is Corona with a shot of lime-flavored Margaritaville brand tequila poured into the bottle. Yeah... it's really good, and it gets the job done. In hindsight, that's all I need... something to get me ripped faster. Now you people have me pouring tequila in my beer. Is it wrong when you refer to all alcohol as "pain-go-bye-bye juice?" I might as well check myself into Betty Ford right now and move to Utah. At least there I could avoid the whole monogamy thing and ski a lot. Then again, I hate the cold and I hate skiing, and I don't think the whole Mormon thing makes a lot of sense... anyway, never mind. Suffice it to say that by the time I left that pre-show party I was in a really good mood. Regardless, on with the day and the beat goes on.

Next was the second pre-show party back at the MGM around 4:00. Good stuff, aside from the old bitch that came up to our table and said that she had it "saved." We said, "OK," and sat there for another 10 minutes, finished our beers, and watched her revel in her annoyance that we didn't immediately jump up, kow tow, and pull out the chair for her old ass. The band started at the other pool, so we eventually left so that she could have her "saved" table. We figured, "hey, she's old, she's trying to get into heaven, so let her have her table... even though she is a bitch. But I digress.

It was a great party, but MGM was a little crazy with security. They actually had Nevada State Troopers walking around the party. Normally this would make me nervous and annoy the hell out of me, but these cops were actually all right... aside from the whole slapping the cuffs on me thing.

Not to worry, my loyal readers... I didn't actually get arrested. I just thought it would be a funny pic. You can exhale now.

Anyway, after we gave out about 200 strings of beads that we brought in an effort to make friends, and drank about 726 beers, and smoked 83 packs of cigarettes, into the show we headed. Again, I don't have the time to get into the whole thing, but it was awesome, as usual. One thing about going to a show at the MGM arena that you should know is that while security is tight outside, but inside is pretty f'ing lax. Let me explain. I walked in with my digital camera in the outside pocket of my shorts and it set off the metal detector when I walked in. I told the clown running the thing that I did, in fact, have a digital camera in my aforementioned outside pocket of my aforementioned shorts. The aforementioned clown told me to just walk over to the desk (about 20 yards away) and check my camera. So what did I do? I walked right into the arena, got a couple beers, and John and I headed to our seats, camera in tow. I got some great shots of Buffett, but I think if I post them here I'm going to get into some trouble. Suffice it to say I got some awesome shots of my idol in concert.

Now, bear in mind, it's Halloween weekend while we're there. Halloween in Vegas. Just take a stab at what kind of wierdos come out of the woodwork. Tons. However, I did see a great costume, and had to have my picture taken with them. If you're a fan of Reno 911, you'll appreciate this. If not, it's on Comedy Central (channel 38 here in Rochester), and it's hilarious.

I just noticed that if you look at my eyes in this picture, you can get a pretty good indication of how much alcohol I ingested that day. Jesus, I can't believe I kept going. Yes, you read that correctly, but that's a whole other post.

Anyway, like I said, I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I still have some stuff to do before I actually attend this thing. I'm sorry that I've been writing my posts in pieces lately, but such is life. Deal with it.

Having said that, I'll get going. Think I better find a good lawyer that specializes in a drunken Margarita binges.

Until next time...

R

Trouble in South Florida

This is kind of a moving story, so I felt that I had to go ahead and write a little something about it.

There's another hurricane heading through South Florida, and apparently six million people are still without power. I just talked to my friend that moved down there recently, and he says that it's pretty nasty. He has power but no internet or cable. I'm just glad he's OK. Anyway, I was able to find a sattelite picture of Hurricane Wilma, and here it is. I think you'll agree it looks pretty nasty.

Until next time...

R

You need this.

This is possibly the most addictive, stress relieving time waster that I have ever stumbled across. See if you can beat my high of 1,815. If you can, well, I'll be impressed. Click here, and enjoy.

Until next time...

R

As promised, the wedding, part 2

As I try to be a man of my word, I'll do my best to pick up where I left off... so here goes. Again, sorry for the interruption.

Hmmm... where was I? Ah, yes... the best man lost the rings. Anyway, after what seemed like roughly 3 hours of waiting for this dude to dig through his suit, he did eventually find them. Kinda funny, and it'll be something that mom & John will remember. My thinking is, hey, he found them, so no harm, no foul. On with the show. The priest does his thing, they say the "I do's" and now it's picture time... I just f'ing love picture time. I love 8 different cameras flashing in my face and 11 different people telling me when to smile. Sure enough, as the last few cameras were going off, my teeth started to dry, and I hate that feeling. So what do I do? Well, I close my mouth and lick my teeth. Of course, as I do that, 3 cameras flash. Can't wait to see the 8x10 glossies of those babies.

So now, it's off to the reception. And if you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know what's coming. Yes, it's the Beth factor. Ready? Good.

As advertised, Beth showed up with her new husband in tow. No problem whatsoever. The thing that was cool was this; I went up to them, she gave me a hug, I said "congratulations," and introduced myself to her husband. Just as I broke away from the embrace, I looked up and saw something that gave me the warmest feeling in the world and certainly a feeling of closure. It was almost like the feeling that I get whenever I happen to see a replay of the 1986 World Series and Mookie Wilson hit a routine ground ball that scooted through the legs of Bill Buckner. You know the feeling. Anyway, what did I see? Lemme tell ya.

I looked up, and saw her husband, and as God as my witness, he was wearing a bow tie. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Rychkid, you're just bitter and making this up, and by the way, nice minivan, geek." To silence my critics, I simply must respond. In anticipation of the response of my audience, I took a picture. I played the "Mom will want a shot of you two" card, and it worked to perfection. So, now, ladies and gentlemen, here it is; the bow tie in all its splendor. Brace yourself.

Well, now that we've gotten that out of the way...

Yes, I did crop out both his and her faces out of respect, and I would hate to think that the responsibility for the public mockery that both of them would undergo would rest squarely upon my shoulders.

Anyway, that was pretty much the last I saw of those two for the remainder of the day. Not that I tried to avoid them at all, I was just kind of wrapped up in other things... like the open bar that I unfortunately didn't really take advantage of.

Regardless, the whole dinner thing was great. My sister insisted on the two of us standing up before dinner and giving a toast, and I pretty much complied just to pacify her. Our toast was followed by mom's new husband, my new step-father, John. I gotta tell you, I don't know if what he said was something that he worked on prior to this thing and memorized it, or if it was something completely off the cuff, but he did a great job. Once again, and I'm secure enough to say it, the whole thing brought a tear to my eye. I believe that my mother is truly happy, and that John will treat her right.

Well, having now gone through all the wedding stuff, and I'm sorry that is was as uneventful as this post, I'll let you know what happened after...

My buddy Todd called, and told me that some of the boys were heading downtown. As I was certainly in the drinking mood after the long day I had, I was more than willing to head to downtown Rochester in all it's glory. I'm sorry to say, especially to one of my loyal readers in Oakfield that refers to her dog as Bradylicious, that I don't have any good drunk pictures from the remainder of the night. I really should have had my camera... these would have been some keepers.

I met the boys at Barfly, headed over to Soho, and finally wound up at Alexander Street Pub. Once again I was in luck. Rochester's best live band, The Taint, was playing again. Now, before I go on with this part of the story, bear in mind that I'm wearing a suit, tie, and overcoat. Having been seen by Anthony (bass) and John (vocals), they mercilessly brought me up on stage in my drunken state to do "Bring the Noize" by Anthrax & Public Enemy. Oh yeah, did I mention that I had a few shots before I got up there and that I was plastered? No? Oh, well, I was. To this day, I don't know how bad I massacred that song, or if I was a stellar version of Chuck D. Either way, doing a song with those guys is one of my favorite things in the world. Thanks guys.

So, that's the story. Sorry if the build-up didn't lead up to a more eventful post, but it didn't. Believe me, I wish I had something amazing that I could write about (aside from the bow tie) that would up my readership. Well, maybe next time.

Once again, ladies and germs, it's gotten to be really late and I have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow... I really need some sleep because this cold is absolutely kicking my ass.

I'll wrap it up... Mom's married, Beth is with some dude that has a thing for bow ties, my sister is more sensitive than I thought, I know all the words to a Public Enemy rap song, and all is right with the world. Now where the hell did I put the Drixoral?

Until next time...

R

The rant you've been waiting for... Wedding Part 1

Well, my loyal readers, once again I must apologize. I know it's been a few days since I posted, and I'm sorry. I know you've all been waiting for the post about the wedding, and I haven't gotten to it yet. Quite honestly, I don't know if I'll get to it tonight. For one, it's late, and for two, I'm not sure if I've really collected all my thoughts about the subject yet.

The reason that I'm posting so late is that I had to watch the end of the Houston/St. Louis game. I was pretty sure Houston was going to pull it out and go to their first World Series ever, and I was even more confident when the 'Stros brought in Brad Lidge to close things out in the ninth. He struck out the first two batters of the inning, then went 0-2 to that little weasel David Eckstein (I don't know why, but I just can't stand the little twerp) who slapped a base hit into left field. The next batter came up, and Lidge served up a meatball to Albert Pujols who hit one that hasn't landed yet. Bummer. Either way, the Yanks are out of it this year, so to be perfectly honest, I could give a shit who wins this thing. But I digress.

Regardless, I guess I'll get on with it.

The wedding was a weird day in my life. A virtual myriad of feelings and emotions washed over me like a really nice tequila buzz; right up until the point where you know it's just a little too much. We don't know exactly where that line is, but we know when we cross it. Bear in mind, that's not to say that the wedding was a bit too much and I just couldn't handle it, but simply that I don't think that I was fully prepared. The question is; how do you prepare yourself for something like that? I know that for the last couple of months I've peppered this stupid blog with random rants and ravings about the impending nuptials, but to tell you the truth, I don't know how much literary rubbish I could spew that would prepare me for the thing. Not that it was too bad or too good or too whatever you want to name it; but it's just a weird thing. Let's just leave it at that.

Anyway, that Saturday, my sister and I headed off to the church with a pretty good hangover, two packs of cigarettes to get me through the day, and a big 'ol bottle of Gatorade in tow. I pity the people that drove behind us on the expressway out to Webster... they must have inhaled about two packs worth of second hand smoke. As I looked into the rear view mirror of the minivan, I noticed that my sister was doing the exact same thing I was... smoking her brains out. For those of you that don't smoke, I'm sure you pretty much think that we're both retards. For those of you that do indulge in cigarette smoking, you know exactly where I'm coming from. So now, 18 minutes and 3 cigarettes later, we arrive at the church. Yes, I know that's way too much smoking in such a short period of time, but try not to focus on the wrong part of the story. We park the cars, head in to this house of worship, and start with the obligatory "hi... yes, it's really good to see you too. Yes, it has been a while. Yes, I am happy for my mother. No, I haven't been to Jamestown lately. No, I'm not married yet. No, I don't have any kids. Yada, yada, yada." I think you get the idea.

On with the show.

We take our seats, and down the aisle walk my mom and John. Of course I snapped a few pictures, and then Father Stan asked us to please be seated. So here we are now, and I know it's coming. The little voice in my head said, "wait for it, wait for it, wait for it." And then it happened. My sister shed a few tears, which apparently is a queue to my psyche to follow suit. Why did I cry you ask? I haven't the foggiest, but I did. I can't lie. No, I didn't break down and weep like a little bitch with a skinned knee, but I did let the water works run for a minute or so. If that makes me a wuss, I'm OK with it. Anyway, we made it through the ceremony without any major disasters... except for the best man forgetting which pocket in his suit he stuck the rings in. For crying out loud, this guy has one job in this production. How many pockets are in the standard suit coat? 4? 5? I don't know. Either way, it was good. I needed the laugh.

Know what? I'm going to have to apologize and continue this tomorrow. It's getting late, I have the worst cold ever, and I think it's taking a toll on me. I know this is the first time I've ever done such a thing, but I'm going to have to slap the old, "to be continued" on this thing. Sorry if I got you involved and then backed out. I promise I'll make up for it within the next day or so. You have my word.

Until next time...

R

That was a great burger. Now, am I going to McHell?

Well, here's the latest...

Unfortunately, I don't really have time to write about the whole wedding thing right now. I have to work with my boss tomorrow and there's a ton of stuff that I have to do to prepare. Thank God I don't have to clean the house again.

This is going to be a really short post, but a post, nonetheless.

Friday night, my sister came into town. Pat & I went to the hockey game, but cut out early to catch the end of the Yanks game back at my place... better known as the corner apartment. Regardless, we picked up my sister, and headed to Johnny's. After about 3 beers and 10 shots, we decided to head out, simply because we knew Saturday would be a long day. My sister apparently had a buzz on because she asked if we could stop at McDonald's for a happy meal. So we stop, pick up a happy meal, and start to head home. Now, bear in mind, I am not making this up and I have the pics to prove it.

Maybe I'm a little out of the loop, and maybe this character is supposed to represent something happy and joyous, and maybe in another picture this thing is handing out balloon animals to stray kittens and passing out cotton candy to terminally ill penguins, but this thing is downright scary. If someone, anyone knows what this is, please shoot me over an email so that I can be in the know. Anyway, here it is;

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's some sort of tribal chieftain with a goat skull affixed to his head, and he's extending his hands in a very welcoming manner. Now, if this isn't enough, when you lift the arms up, that little dot in the center of the thing on his chest shines a red light up into his face. It's just like when you're telling a ghost story and you hold a flashlight under your chin to make yourself look evil... apparently, that's the look they're going for. I tried to get a pic of that cute little effect that you want children of happy meal age embracing, but the damn flash kept going off and I'm evidently too much of a moron to figure out how to simply turn the stupid thing off. Anyway, here's my best effort; Yeah, I know it didn't come out too good, but you get the general idea.

Who's running the happy meal toy division over at Mickey D's? Alistair Crowley? Picture that marketing meeting. "Hey guys, yeah, I like the whole 'free fries' idea, but we're really not tapping into that Satanic demographic of happy meal consumers. That's something I'd really like to tackle. Now, after you're done sacrificing that kitten, pass me the goat blood and I want three evil toy ideas from each of you by 5:00. And, no, I don't want anymore 'free pentagram tattoo with every Shamrock Shake' ideas out of you, Johnson. That's been done to death."

Like I said, this is going to be a short post. I'm hungry and I've got a bunch of preparing to do before tomorrow comes. Maybe I'll hit up Subway for dinner... I hear they're giving away free bags of glass shards with the purchase of any foot long sub.

Until next time...

R

My apology, and the latest... sorry.

Well, first and foremost, let me just say what I have to say. My apologies to my loyal readers. I've been unbelievably busy lately, and I feel that I owe you, the reading public, a good explanation, and here it is. Three weeks ago I had a meeting in Buffalo... all week. The following week I had to play catch up because of missing time during the Buffalo meeting. This week I was in Cooperstown for another meeting, and honestly, this is the first chance I've had in almost a month to sit down and actually write something. Again, please accept my apology from the bottom of my cynical, sarcastic heart.

So, having said that, here's the latest.

Hmmm... where to start... well, the very latest is that my mother is getting married this weekend, or should I say "re-married?" I don't know. There's both good and bad news to this, and neither of which have to do with my mother or her husband to be. The good news is that my sister is coming into town tomorrow and she's pretty much going to be my date, because I have decided to go alone and not bring a real date. Before I get into that, let me say that our plan is simply to sit at the bar and drink... pretty much until they boot us out. Anyway, the bad news is ironically the same story. I kind of ended a relationship today with a girl that would have been my date. Trust me when I say that it was a difficult decision, but I believe that it is/was the right one. Interpret that however you like, I guess if it was the right decision, then there is no bad news... it's just... well, news, I guess. Regardless, lots of issues on both sides and I just wasn't sure if we were on the same page. But I digress.

Women, aside from the few that I work with (as far as I can tell, anyway), are nuts. I know... news flash. "This just in... the most cynical and sarcastic man on the planet actually put down in print that women are nuts... film at 11." Well, guess what... Rosebud in "Citizen Kane" is a sled, the girl in "The Crying Game" is actually a guy, there is no Easter Bunny, and women are nuts. Here's how I know; the girl that cuts my hair, Amy, is fantastic. Every time that I go in and have her cut what's left of my hair, I tell her pretty much anything. I tell her things that I would usually only tell my very closest friends and maybe a psychiatrist. Long story short, we inevitably started having the relationship conversation, and she said it. She said, "Rich, we're all nuts. It's just a matter of how much... just like all men are pigs and it's just a matter of how much." I can live with that. If she's willing to concede the former, I'll buy in on the latter. My suspicions have been confirmed. They're nuts and they know it.

Now, before I go on, I don't want to say that the aforementioned girl was nuts. Honestly, I don't have anything bad to say about her at all. Honestly, she really is a great girl. Smart, gorgeous... yada, yada, yada. There were just some "issues" and I didn't think that the whole thing would work out. Yes, I do know the difference between nuts and normal, or maybe I just think that I do, but I work with a girl that I talk to pretty much every day and she's not nuts. Well, let me retract that. She's a lot less nuts than a lot of the women that I know. There, that sounds better and I'm not going back and disagreeing with garbage that I wrote in the previous paragraph. Feel better? Good. Me too. Of course, this colleague of mine also refers to her dog as "beauty queen of only 18" and a bunch of other cutesy names, so, having said that, I guess it's really a sliding scale. I'll make sure to ask her for a list of the other pet names she has for that animal and post them here. That should be enough to keep my readers involved, at least for a few minutes.

Anyway, not to be a downer and pull out of that little story early, but I only have so much time before my sister gets here tomorrow, and the corner apartment needs a thorough cleaning. Now, granted, those of you that know me absolutely know that I could write for at least eleventy-six years on my whole "women are nuts" statement, but frankly, I don't have the time. Sorry about that. To be continued.

The other latest is that during the meeting in Buffalo, we had to write a little speech. No, it wasn't the kind of speech that you'd like to present to the company as inspiring words of wisdom, but rather something that you would more or less want read at your retirement dinner. I thought this was a pretty good idea. I mean, it gives you something to shoot for... like "blank had a great career here. He persevered in the face of adversity and never gave up and all that good stuff." Anyway, I though that was pretty cool. I don't think by any stretch of the imagination that mine was the best, and I'm not nearly conceited enough to tell you that it was, but I thought it would make a great blog entry anyway. No, I'm not going to use the one that I wrote at my company function, but rather, something that I'd like to be remembered for, and as time goes on, the one thing that people will hold close to them when I'm gone. More or less, I guess that's why I started this site to begin with. Now, if you've ever taken an English course at St. Bonaventure University (and I can't remember which one), you have to write your own obituary... not one of my favorite things, thinking of my own mortality, but it was an assignment. After that meeting, I decided to re-write that assignment. Having said that, mine would go something like this:

"Rychkid passed away this morning at the age of 93. He is survived by his wife, Diamond, 23, six ex-wives, and 24 children." No, wait, scratch that. I'll be mildly serious for just a minute here. Let's try that again.

"The Rychkid passed away today at his palacial estate in South Florida. He was 94 years old. He is survived by a tremendous group of friends, and thousands of loyal readers. While he did enjoy watching the New York Yankees win their 58th world championship, he never did make it to the big leagues. He did, however, witness Major League Baseball ban the entire Boston Red Sox organization for all eternity due to personal hygiene infractions, and numerous abuses of pine tar. He ran a website called "thecornerapartment," and was able to brighten up a reader's day by simply overstating the obvious and putting into print what most of us are thinking every day. He wrote about things that were going on in his life, attempted to make light of virtually everything... even when his mother re-married, his father dated a woman he lovingly referred to as "Frankendeb," his sister flashed the DJ at his favorite bar so that she could sing karaoke, he got tossed over a table in Las Vegas and slammed his head off the wall while wearing a cowboy hat, and who could forget the story about the five months when he sat in front of his computer writing about how much being unemployed sucks. He could bring a smile to anyone's face (except for that asshole that works the door at Mad Dog's in Allegheny... what a punk). He always said, "if I can make someone chuckle for a second a day, my efforts here have not gone to waste." Everyone looked forward to having the pleasure of spending time with him. His uplifting personality was an inspiration to us all, and he will be missed."

Something like that, anyway.

On with the show... more of the latest.

At the meeting this week, part of the event was a team building activity. My company put together a softball tournament for everyone in attendance. It was a ball. It was a ball right up until the third inning of the first game. Let me tell you why.

As I am such the quintessential athlete, I got the glorious duty of playing third base; the hot corner. As I dreamed of actually being Alex Rodriguez, with his gold glove caliber performance at third and the most beautiful swing in all of Major League Baseball, a co-worker hit a shot down the third base line. I sprung into action like a cat; made a beautiful backhand stab, gloved the ball, recovered, came up, turned, and fired a frozen rope to first base for the out. I will tell you this; at that moment in time, I was Alex Rodriguez. Anyway, before the MLB scouts could swarm the field and offer me $25.2M/year, I felt one of the most horrible pains ever in my, well... groin area. It was like someone cut a hole in my upper thigh, reached up, and yanked down... very, very sharply. In layman's terms, it fucking hurt. Now, remember... it was the third inning of the first game. What I have neglected to tell you is that I went on not only to finish that game, but played another two after it. Good move? Not so much. However, being the team player that I am... never mind, I'm not going to attempt to justify it. It was stupid. There, I feel better.

Anyway, later that night, my company had this big dinner for us, complete with lobster, booze and gambling... three of my very favorite things. Let me tell you... every step was like a new experience in pain. I don't mean the take-a-couple-Tylenol type of pain... I mean the take-17-Vicodin-and-about-a-pound-of-morphine type of pain. Once again, long story short, I figured I could simply drink the pain away. Yeah, that didn't do nearly enough. Well, I'll spare you all the juicy details... went back to the hotel, had a drink and went to bed. This is where it gets really horrible.

The really horrible part is that I didn't get a wink of sleep. This really sucks because for one, I was drunk, and for two, the reason that I couldn't sleep was that every time I moved even a little bit, the excruciating pain had me wide f'ing awake. So now, it's 6:30AM, I'm conscious, sober and have to be in a meeting at 9AM. It's a damn good thing that I was up that early, because I needed that extra time. I rolled out of bed like a feeble geriatric patient, and hobbled my way to the shower. My roommate, Mike, took mercy on me and went downstairs to get some Tylenol. I can't thank him enough for that. Anyway, after spending a good half hour in the shower, balancing on one leg, I made the effort to get dressed. Honestly, it was like there was some sadistic midget standing next to me, kicking me in the balls for an hour. If you've never had that done, don't.

I finally made it downstairs and into the meeting room, right on time. People were staring at me every time we took a break because I was walking around like I needed a wheelchair or walker or gurney or something. So, let me paint a little picture for you. No sleep, excruciating pain, can't walk, in a meeting. Clear? Good. Email me and I'll see if I can give you more details. With a little help from coffee and God I successfully made it through the meeting, drove 3 hours back home, and somehow managed to get my suitcase back to the safe confines of the corner apartment. I'll have to remember the next time that I get an A-Rod fantasy to ignore it. If this is the kind of pain that real athletes have to go through fairly regularly, I'll stick with my sales gig.

Unfortunately, due to my injury, I had to miss both dodgeball and bowling this week. Bummer. Pulled muscles really, really suck.

Whew... well, that's the latest. I better stop typing before carpal tunnel sets in and I can't pick up my sales bag.

Odds are that the next time you log on to my site, my mother will be married, and I will be hungover. That should be a fun post to read.

For now, I must be going... gotta clean in anticipation of my sister's arrival. And I almost forgot... gotta send that email for more cutesy dog names. I wonder if she's got any single friends.

Until next time...

R

Sorry for the inconvenience...

Well, kids... unfortunately the Rychkid will be out of town until Friday afternoon, so more than likely there probably won't be an update until sometime Saturday. Again, sorry for the inconvenience.

Until next time...

R

My sister's been practicing tennis a lot lately. Although she's getting really good, she's got some really wierd training drills.

Once again... Vegas, baby... Vegas!!!

Ladies and gentlemen... the latest is this; the Vegas trip has been booked. I finally scored a flight tonight for $276. It gets me into Vegas around 10AM on Friday, and taking the red eye back on Sunday night for arrival in sunny Rochester, NY on Halloween morning around 11AM. Granted, I've got a 4 hour layover in Chicago around 5AM, but, hey... I only paid $276. I can live with that. So here's the package... night out in Vegas on Friday, going to see the one and only, the great Jimmy Buffett on Saturday, bet on football all day on Sunday, fly all night/morning, and back to sunny Rochester. Would you pay $276 for that? Yeah, me too.

It's a good night tonight. Had a long but productive day at work, the Yankees are up 17-3 on Tampa Bay, and the flight finally got booked without me having to give up my first born child (providing there ever is one). So right now, resting in the solace of the corner apartment, I am watching Rock Star INXS and enjoying a lovely Beefeater martini, heavy on the olives. The reason for the latter is that lately I've been having enormous problems sleeping. I don't know if it's the stress of returning to work after 3 weeks off, if it's the stress of my mother re-marrying, or if it's just the cold hard reality that my life hasn't panned out the way I thought it would when I was 12. Nah... I've slept since age 12 a couple of times. Lately, though, at least for the past 3 nights, I've been tossing and turning until like 3:30AM... not cool when I have to wake up at 7. If I was tossing and turning with someone else until 3:30AM... yeah, that's cool. However, when I'm sleeping solo and look over at the clock and get pissed because I'm going to be a mess in about 3 hours, it's not real cool. Anyway, having said/written that... let's hope that the martini, in all it's wisdom, is able to alleviate my little problem. It better... I have to meet Janell at 9AM for work tomorrow and I really don't want to be a zombie.

Honestly, though, it does feel good to be back at work. As bizarre as this may seem, I actually feel good about actually earning my money. Don't get me wrong... I'd love to be independently wealthy and just write and play golf all day, but until my parents die, that's not going to happen. No, by the way, I don't want my parents to die. I had to go through the pain of watching the parents of my two best friends pass away, and I know it's a nightmare.

Anyway, back to this whole "my maturing" thing. The scary thing is that I'm actually considering buying a house, which seems to me like a very grown-up thing to do. The thing that I'm struggling with is that I feel like I'm really committing to Rochester if I do that... and you know how I feel about that "C" word. Yeah, it'd be nice to be paying my own mortgage instead of someone else's, but then again, I'll have all the hassles of ownership... mowing the lawn, keeping it clean, cleaning the gutters & buying a birdhouse. Who am I kidding... either this martini is doing it's job or I'm having a moment of clarity. My money's on the former.

Anyway, since I feel like the martini is doing it's job and I'm writing complete rubbish, I think I'm going to call it quits for tonight... got a long day tomorrow. Also, I haven't been getting the slew of emails that I usually get... just to refresh, my email address is here, and feel free to write to me about anything from how cops suck to something you'd like my take on.

For now, goodnight, and I'll try to write something remotely interesting tomorrow. Until then, thank you Beefeater... you are to be commended on a job well done.

Until next time...

R

Memoirs of a Drunken Rock Star Poker Player

Once again... the latest.

Went out with the 5 Dog this weekend... drank way too much, came home, drunk dialed a few people, and lost $20 playing garbage hands in poker. I really need to cut down on drunk poker playing... I think it's becoming hazardous to my wealth.

Anyway, an insane night of debauchery. We pretty much went everywhere on Alexander St. & East Ave., and once again had the pleasure of checking out The Taint at A Street. Anthony offered to put me up on stage once again, but once again the Rychkid had a few too many cocktails and managed to decline... probably a good thing. Typically when I get a few in me, I tend to think I'm a rock star, however the stage legs feel quite the contrary. Now, you may find this hard to believe, but a couple times when I've had the honor of sharing the stage with my favorite local band... I've frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

However, it doesn't end there. As much as we hated to do it, we wound up going to Soho for last call... well, 1AM, so, I guess, an hour before last call, but once again I had to stand in line with the drunken silk shirted hair gel mavens waiting to take a piss, so there's 20 minutes right there. At Soho, Paul Strowe was playing... the guy knows like 900 songs and he's way, way, way better than me. We started talking, and the drunken rock star decided it'd be a great idea to play a couple songs. Yeah, that didn't turn out as well as I saw that happening in my mind. I played "Patience" and "Brown Eyed Girl" and massacred them both. Think next time I'll stick with the alcohol and live out my rock star fantasies at home, alone, with a few Budweisers.

Regardless... on with the drama. I've been writing a lot lately about how my mom's pending nuptials are right around the corner, and the day is looming ever closer. Once again, I still don't know how I feel about that... still having the mixed feelings and all that bullshit. Be that as it may, I woke up on Sunday morning with a headache roughly the size of Rhode Island to the sounds of the theme from "The Magnificent Seven" emanating from my cell phone. I stumbled out of my room, saw that it was mom, opened it up, said, "what?", and lit a cigarette... all the while thinking, "there better be a God damn good reason for this call," until I looked at the clock and realized that it was, in fact, 3:00 in the afternoon. I guess the rest of the normal world doesn't have the respect for drunken late night poker players with a Jones for drunk dialing as I do. Either way, the reason for the call was that she wanted to know how things went with the hand job guy. If you don't know what I mean by "the hand job guy," you're going to have to read some of the earlier posts. Sorry, I'm not going to regurgitate that story again... although it does still make me laugh. Anyway, I told her my thumb was fine and that I was returning to work.

Now, here's the tricky part. I still don't know why this thought entered my mind or why I decided to ask her, but I did, knowing in my gut that I already had the answer.

First, let me preface this. A little while ago I wrote about how the love of my life got married a few weeks ago and how upsetting it was and all that lover's lament and bleeding heart crap. Her name's Beth, and her mother and my mother are pretty much best friends. Hence, that begs the question that I asked; "did you invite Beth?" Her response floored me. "Oh, yeah... of course." As if to say, "yeah, dipshit, I did... get over it." The rest of the conversation is as follows;

Mom: "Are you OK with that?"
Me: "Do I have a choice?"
Mom: "No."
Me: "Hey, it's your wedding."
Mom: "That's right, and she's been like a daughter to me."
Me: "I'll be fine."
Mom: "OK."

The thing is, I'm sure I will be fine. I think it's just going to be a bit of a gut check to see her with her new husband... and when I say "her," you may ask if I mean my mother or Beth. The truth is I don't know... a little from column A and a little from column B. See, I thought once Beth's wedding day was over, that would bring closure and I'd be fine... and I was right. Now, her showing up at my mother's wedding is just going to be a pain in the ass... as if it's not going to be a stressful enough day as is. I called my sister and talked to her about this little issue, and her solution was pretty simple. She said she was going to park her ass at the bar and that she'd meet me there. Sounds like a plan... that kind of thinking must run in the family.

Here's the thing, and I'm almost ashamed to say/write this because it almost seems like the mature thing to say, but... it doesn't matter. Whether or not I'm comfortable is immaterial. It's her day, and however the fuck comfortable I am or am not is of no consequence. I know this is so unlike my normal cynical-asshole-sarcastic-wiseass self, but that's the deal. Could it be that finally in my 34th year of life that I'm actually maturing? Jesus, I hope not. I thought it might be so for a minute, but then I re-read what I wrote earlier about going out, getting shit-faced and then playing poker until all hours of the morning. Never mind, I'm back. However, I do promise you, my loyal readers, that I won't create a scene, I won't be a wuss, I (probably) won't punch Beth's new husband in the throat, and I won't get drunk. Well, scratch that last one.

Honestly, I am fine with it... so I didn't lie to mom when I said that. After all, this whole debacle isn't about me and I know that. It's about my mom starting her new life with this guy and all that happy horseshit. I'm not going to write about that... this whole post is a little too sappy already, and for that I apologize.

Also, I must apologize because I've been a little blog lazy lately. This whole work thing is really getting in the way of my penchant for fucking off. You, my fans and loyal readers, have my word that I will try my very best to update more often. Until then, it's late and I'm still working. Well, waiting for my f'ing laptop to transmit so that I can do some more work.

Really, though, I do need to get to bed. I have some dreaming about being a rock star to do.

Until next time...

R

Work, Mom & Frankendeb

Well... it's happened... I've been cleared to return to work. I went to see the hand job guy (that still makes me laugh, by the way) and he took away the guard thingy that I had on it, and told me that (get this) I should rub my thumb on different textures. The reason for this is that when something in your body gets, as he put it, crushed, that your brain pretty much shuts down communication with whatever it is. So, yes, ladies and gentlemen, the assignment from the hand job guy until the next time I see him in 4 weeks is this; to rub my thumb on things. It's a lot of fun. No, really.

The bad news is that I now have to get back into the routine of getting up at 7AM every morning, which is going to be no small feat... seeing as I've been sleeping enough over the past few weeks to pretty much catch up on all the sleep that I missed during college, and the fact that I've been drinking enough to make Dean Martin vomit. The main thing that I'm bummed out about is that during the past 3 weeks of not working, I didn't do a damn thing. I pretty much stayed home and watched TV, played about 1,500 hands of online poker, and drank way too much. Regardless, after the hand job guy gave me my "return to work without restrictions" note, I called HR and left a message. They're supposed to get back to me within 24 hours, but who knows. The nuts and bolts of this thing is that my first day back will more than likely be this Friday.

The thing that is going to suck is this; in about 2 weeks, I'll be saying, "I really fucking need a vacation." It's gonna be that whole "don't know what you got 'til it's gone" thing. Son of a bitch. Although right now, again, I'm pretty fucking anxious to get back to work.

Anyway, the thing that's been on my mind the most lately is the fact that my mother's getting married a month from tomorrow. I got the invitation in the mail today. Now, really... did she have to send me an invitation? It's not like I'm going to get a phone call in a couple months saying, "hey, where were you for that whole wedding thing?" Yeah, mom, news flash... I know you're getting married again and I know where and when. I talk to her about twice a week, so I'm pretty sure she's clued me in about 900 times.

Regardless, I'm happy for her. The guy is really nice and he treats her well and all that happy horse shit. Seriously, I am happy for her. The one thing that I'm concerned about is my father. I know he is still in love with my mother, and I also know that it's going to be a dark day for him when she's got somebody else's last name. Who knows, though? Maybe this will give him some closure, and he can stop dating the bitch on wheels that he's been dating for the past few years. Did I say bitch on wheels? Sorry... that's not really her name. It's Deb. What I meant to say was Frankendeb. Yeah... pretty sure I don't like this broad. Why don't I like this broad, you may ask? Well... I won't give you the whole laundry list of complaints that I have... just suffice it to say that she's completely classless and has a stupid haircut. Then again, I don't have to date her. Neither does he, but I guess I'm a lot more out of her date range than he is. He's right on the front lines... poor bastard.

I guess if he really wanted to get out of that relationship, he would. He could follow in his son's footsteps and become a serial dater. That's pretty much what I've started to consider myself after the past few relationships I've been through. I know I don't really write much about them here, and there's a reason for that, but leave it at this; I have dated a lot of women. A few days ago, I wrote something about a girl and my relationship with her, but took it down a few hours later because I didn't feel good about it. I don't think it's fair because she doesn't write anything about me or what a pain in the ass it is to date me.

Anyway, I hope he figures it out for himself and that he one day finds himself in a relationship in which he's actually happy... not shackled like he is now. Jesus, the guy might as well be wearing a shock collar. As for me, if the day rolls around where he's actually sold on the idea of being Mr. Frankendeb... ugh... I don't even want to think about it. I think I'd rather grind off my nipples with a belt sander while chewing a mouthful of Dennis Rodman's toenails. How's that for a lovely mental image? My work here is done.

Well, kids... time for me to sign off. Gotta go load up my minivan with the things to go back to work... wonder if I could rub my thumb on the car and consider it physical therapy.

Until next time...

R

Confusion and The Shawshank Redemption

Hey TNT... The Shawshank Redemption is a good movie. I get it. You don't have to play it every 15 minutes.

The latest is I once again roused myself from bed sometime around 2:00 in the afternoon today... not good. The reason it's not good is this; I will more than likely be returning to work this week, and getting up at 7AM again is going to be something I'll need to get used to again, but I guess all that really depends on the hand job guy. That still makes me laugh. Don't get me wrong... it's not like I haven't been working, just not in the conventional sense of the word. I haven't been out seeing clients and doing the work that I'm actually paid to do, but I've typed about a zillion words on this stupid site. Go ahead... bookmark me. It's O.K., really.

Honestly, you would think that a little 3 week getaway from work would be awesome. Hell, when I left the hand job guy's office I was kind of psyched... I can sleep in, watch TV, do pretty much whatever now that I don't have the work shackles securing me to my world of paperwork, store owners and a minivan. What I didn't immediately realize was the simple fact that there's not a whole lot that I can do with a broken and extremely painful thumb. You wouldn't believe how much you miss your thumb when you can't use it. I can't hold a golf club, I can't shoot hoops, I can't play PS2... anyway, suffice it to say I am actually looking forward to getting back to work, believe it or not.

For now, I gotta run... Andy Dufrane is just about to crawl through 500 yards of raw sewage. I can't bring myself to miss that.

Until next time...

R

Doing my little part

To all my loyal readers... with gas prices eclipsing the $3 mark, I found a site that will tell you the cheapest gas prices in Rochester and where they are. The link is here... hope it helps save you a couple bucks.

Happy Birthday, Russ... now, anyone got Tylenol?

Good God... It's 3:04 PM on Saturday, and I just woke up... just a little bit of a hangover from last night's festivities. I woke up this afternoon and my liver was sitting next to me having a cup of coffee saying, "thanks a lot, asshole." If you hadn't heard, me and the boys took Russ out for his birthday... had a hard time getting into my apartment because I think I drank it. Wow... haven't had that much to drink since my birthday. Anyway, in the glorious tradition of my literary endeavors... here, in photos, is the course of events that took place last night.

The plan was to meet at Woody's at 9:30 and get started there. I showed up at about 9:50 and was the only one... everybody else turned out to be late too. Regardless... a couple cocktails went by, and everyone showed up around 10:15 or so, which was fine because it gave me a little bit of a head start on my alcoholic haze that I planned to strap on for the night... and strap it on I did. Anyway... a couple more cocktails and we headed over to the Alexander Street Pub. My favorite Rochester band, The Taint, was playing. It's always good to see those guys. Check them out if you get the chance.

The bass player in the red shirt is my buddy Anthony... used to work with him in a former life. Good stuff... every now and again they'll let me live out my rock star fantasies and get up on stage. Pretty cool. The link to their website is above.

Alas, last night I didn't have the pleasure of my alter ego getting up on stage. Instead, we hung out and watched the band for a while, then retreated out to the deck for a couple more cocktails. It was a really nice night out... about 70*, no rain (surprisingly), and the booze is flowing, cigarettes are burning, and the Rychkid's mouth is running. I asked a girl to snap a quick picture of us, she agreed, and then pointed to a dimple in her chin and said, "we're twins," referring to the fact that I too have a dimple in my chin. Now, folks, I don't know if that was an invitation to conversation or not, but, sadly, I did not engage. Maybe if I did I'd have more to write about. Anyway, she took a couple shots of us, and here they are.

From Alexander Street, we made our way, once again, to Soho. I have to put this in because I thought it was pretty funny... let me start by saying this; Russ hates smoking, and I am a smoker. We're standing outside at the bar, I pull out a cigarette, screw it into my lips, and proceed to light up... aah... flavor country. Russ promptly grabs it out of my mouth, throws it to the ground and stomps it out. I gave him my standard really-confused-what-the-fuck-was-that look, whipped out my camera and actually took a picture of him doing this. Nice shoes, by the way.

Anyway, on with the show. Soho's fun... I like it, but it would be a tremendously wise investment to put another fucking bathroom in that joint. Jesus, every time I have to take a piss, I pretty much have to plan an hour in advance. I have to fight my way through this crowd of drunken morons with silk shirts and enough gel in their hair to grease a Ferrari, then wait in line with 30 other assholes, half of which are just going in to check the mirror, finally take a piss, then fight my way out through the aforementioned drunken, silk shirted morons, and find my friends all over again. Then, I have to attempt to re-join the conversation, and now I'm lost. I think next time I plan to go there, I'm going to go to the doctor the day before and get fitted with a colostomy bag. Of course, then it's going to be even more difficult to talk to women, what with carrying around a piece of luggage filled with my own urine. The other side of that coin is that it'd probably be a great conversation piece. Hmmm... decisions, decisions.

But I digress... here's a few more shots from the night. Ugh... did someone just say shots?

Russ, doing his very best drunken goldfish impression.

Can anyone tell that I've had a few hundred too many in this pic?

Nick, the 5 Dog & me... more game than Parker Brothers.

Todd, Nick & Russ... the boys.

Anyway... a damn good night. Hope you had a good birthday, Russ. My liver thanks you.

So, that's it for now. I think I might need to park it on the couch for a while, or maybe do a little online shopping... I'm running low on silk shirts and gel.

Until next time...

R

Hippopotami Love Noodles

A little mid-day cheerer upper, for my friend in the windy city. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it is a darn amusing little song. Enjoy, and I hope your day gets better. Click here.

Funny stuff

Wanna see a CNN weather guy snap on some anchor woman? Click here.

My Own Private Evolution

After sitting home for the past 2 weeks, I think I've finally found my true calling and what to do for a career. It took a lot of soul searching, but I think I have to follow my heart on this one. I know people, I know, I know I've had this revelation before, but this is something I need to do. Here it is; I'm going to travel the country with an orangutan that knows obscene finger gestures, and make my living bare knuckle fighting in rusty old car lots. I'm going to wear skin tight t-shirts and call myself Filo. If anyone can find a flaw in this plan, I'd be more than happy to entertain any thoughts on the subject.

Obviously people, I've had a lot of time to think about just about anything and everything during my time off. It's amazing the stuff that goes through your mind just sitting home. Stuff like, maybe I should buy a house, maybe it's time to get married, maybe I should head South and not deal with the amazingly lousy winters of Upstate NY, or maybe I should add another olive to this martini. How many olives are too many, by the way?

The thinking last night was a result of something that my sister sent me in a text message. It was something to the effect of how it kind of sucks that our mom is getting married for the second time and we haven't had a chance yet. To be perfectly honest, I thought that was kind of bullshit... for a couple reasons. Reason one is that I did have a chance to get married. I was actually engaged... obviously that didn't pan out because I'm not writing an alimony check every month. Reason two is that I think that any one of us has a chance every day. The trick is not to settle (no, I don't think that my mom is settling by any stretch of the imagination). People, the fact that I'm not married has absolutely nothing to do with my happiness. So I'm not married and maybe I never will be. Three words... big fucking deal. I don't need that to validate my life or who I am. Would it be nice to have someone to share my life with? Sure it would. However, it's not something that's going to keep me up at night. I have a great group of friends, and I like to think that I, more or less, share my life with them. Granted I'm not sleeping with them, well, most of them, but you get the idea.

Why she (my sister) is so bummed about this is beyond me. Maybe it's different for girls. Maybe somewhere in the evolutionary ladder there was some point where if a female Neanderthal wasn't married (or clubbed over the head and dragged by her hair) by a certain age, all the other Neanderthals pointed and giggled. Quick sidebar here... I'm not sure if that would have actually happened because of the opposable thumb and forefinger that we currently have, and I don't know when that happened in the evolution of the species. Or maybe earlier in the evolutionary process if a chimp didn't breed or take a mate by a certain age, then they weren't able to attend any of the monkey bridal showers or monkey bachelorette parties. I know it doesn't seem like a big deal now, because you're probably thinking the same thing I'm thinking... how much fun could a monkey bachelor/bachelorette party be? What with the ridiculous pricing on monkey flights to Vegas, monkey strippers, monkey wet t-shirt contests, monkey mud wrestling... you know what I mean. Not to mention what a pain in the ass it has to be to find a monkey limo driver. It's just not the same.

I will tell you this, though. It's just not that big a deal for guys. Well, I should say it's not that big a deal for most guys. When you're a guy (such as I am), you can be 40 years old and single and nobody will give it a second thought. We just don't care. Well, I shouldn't say that. It's not that we don't care, it's simply that it's not a priority. People ask me this all the time when I tell them my age; don't you want to get married? My standard answer is, "I don't know." Really, think about it... there's so much to consider in that question. It's not like, "don't you want some ice cream?" That's an easy one. I don't have to consider if I'm going to spend the rest of my life with that ice cream. Simply because it'll either pass through my digestive system or melt and eventually evaporate. It's a little different with a life altering decision. I guess it would be an easier answer if there were a different set of circumstances in my life right now. Am I ready to get married today? No. Tomorrow? Probably not. Next week? Next month? Next year? Again, I don't know, but as long as Blogger will keep hosting my page, I promise I'll keep you updated.

As far as my dear sister goes... she'll be fine. I lived with her for 14 years under my parent's roof, and if that's any indication, I'm sure she's not the easiest person in the world to date. I'm sure I'm not either... but I think I'm getting better. Once I get this bare-knuckled fighting thing off the ground, I'm sure I'll be a better spousal match for just about anyone.

Regardless, I do have to get going. It's almost 7:30 and time for Seinfeld, and besides, my phone's been ringing off the hook with text messages, and I feel guilty ignoring whoever is on the sending end of this wonder of modern wireless technology. Hence, in order to clear my conscience, I must sign off... wonder if "The Bachelor" is on tonight.

Until next time...

R

Again with the thumb...

So get this... if you're a loyal reader of my stuff, you know the deal about the thumb and who broke it and how and me passing out and yada, yada, yada. Anyway, as I was watching my beloved Yankees last night, who comes up to bat but... you guessed it, Mark Bellhorn in a Yankees uniform. What are the odds? Last I knew, this clown was playing for my arch rivals, the Boston Red Sox and I hated him because he broke my thumb, and now he's in pinstripes and I pretty much have to like him. Irony. Bitter, bitter irony.

I think it must be a sign; a Red Sox scumbag breaks my thumb, and now he's playing for my favorite team in all of sport. It's a sign. I'm sold... might as well chalk up world championship number 27.

In other news, while on the thumb topic, after the injury, I got a call from Dan Mason, GM of the Rochester Red Wings. All I can say is, what a guy. He said that he was really sorry about the injury, and that next time I wanted to come to a game, he'd take care of me. I told him that he need not apologize... I go to a bunch of games and I know this sort of thing happens every now and again. I complimented him on the professionalism of the emergency staff and thanked him for the phone call. What a nice guy... completely unnecessary, but he did it anyway. That's good stuff. Anyway, I called him today and asked if I could take him up on his offer. He said, "absolutely," and told me that there'll be 2 tickets waiting for me at will call tomorrow night. He also offered to have some of the players sign a ball for me, but I told him that he'd done more than enough already. I gotta say, I am totally impressed with this guy.

This brings up an interesting point. Think about other businesses and what happens when they screw up (not to say that the Rochester Red Wings screwed up at all... I made a lousy attempt at fielding the stupid ball). The answer is, pretty much nothing. Say your cable goes out for a few hours. Does Time Warner call you up and say, "hey, we're going to pro-rate your bill for this month because the service that you over-pay for every month sucked."? I think not. The day that happens is the same day that Tara Reid finally starts returning my phone calls.

More good news... my buddy in Charlotte called me up with the news that he has a bunch of tickets to see the great Jimmy Buffett in, of all places, fabulous Las Vegas on Saturday, October 29th. Can I go? Uh, yeah. I'm all in. Great thing is... non-stop flights from Buffalo are only like $200. I'll be gone Friday through Sunday night. Yeah, you could say I'm excited.

Anyway, again, I must apologize for this post. I know they're usually a little more philosophical than this, but I'm really tired and I don't think the creative juices have managed to surface yet.

By the way, if you haven't been there yet, you simply must give this place a try. It's pretty much my favorite watering hole in Rochester. It's busy, but not so much so that you have to fight for a drink. He always has great bands, and after about your 3rd time in there, he'll start calling you by name. It's called Johnny's Irish Pub, and it's on Culver & Merchants toward Irondequoit. You can pretty much find me there every Friday night... although not this Friday... I have plans... a bunch of us are going out for my buddy's birthday. Happy Birthday, Russ. I know it was Monday the 29th, but Happy Birthday anyway. I'll buy you a shot or 5 on Friday.

On that note, I'm going to sign off. Gotta go play a chess match between my thumb and my heart. OK, Bellhorn, you won this round.

Until next time...

R