So today is "World No Tobacco" day... a little gift from "Health Professionals Against Tobacco." Thanks guys... no, really, thanks a ton. Wow, what would I do without a whole day dedicated to no tobacco? Hmm... guess I'd have to up my smoking to 2 packs a day.
I think the biggest problem with smoking that I have is that guy. You know the guy I'm talking about; that guy in every single stinkin' 7-11, standing there with a loaded gun, saying, "buy those God damn cancer sticks and have that pack done by the end of the day or I'm coming looking for you." That's the guy that wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. He scares me worse than the Boogey Man, Freddy, Jason, and the Menendez brothers all rolled into one. Man, if I wasn't forced to smoke by that guy, I would certainly stop this very minute... but because he's out there, somewhere, polishing that cold steel and carrying around that one bullet like Barney Fife in his left shirt pocket with my name on it, I have no choice but to light up this lovely tobacco product, grown right in the heart of Virginia. Mmmmmmmmm... that's better.
For those of you that don't get cynicism or sarcasm, that guy does not exist. There's no firearm-wielding disciplinary smoking Nazi that forces me to pay $5/pack for cigarettes. No one's making me smoke. No one's banging on my door at 3AM yelling through my peephole that I'd better light up or they're going to have to identify me by dental records. No one's holding my guitar hostage. No one's got my Mizuno softball mitt in some deep dark dungeon and sending it back to me finger by finger. No one's stolen my Lance Armstrong bracelet and is sending me emails that say they're going to cut it in half with a rusty pair of scissors if I don't light one up right this very minute because they've hidden a remote control camera in my stuffed gorilla head cover and they'll know if I don't do it. I was convinced for a while that my ex was doing all of the above, but it turned out just to be Columbia House. Thanks for the CDs, by the way... 12 CDs for a penny??? How can I lose?
What am I getting at here? In case you're sitting at home reading this with a helmet on, the point that I'm making here is this; smoking is a choice. No matter how much those Truth.com ads on TV say that big tobacco spends on marketing per year, the bottom line is that it's still a choice. Yes, people, I do, in fact, smoke. I like to smoke. I enjoy the practice of smoking, and I do so pretty much whenever the hell I want. The key phrase of that sentence is "whenever the hell I want." In other words, if I don't want to, I don't have to.
Friends, I do acknowledge that smoking is harmful and addictive. I get it. I'm not going to tell you that cigarettes have Vitamin C and Calcium in them. They don't. But here's the thing; I know this. I know that it's not good for me. You don't have to tell me this, or hold up signs or spend your marketing money on television ads that tell me that smoking is a health hazard. I'm not stupid. I get it.
What I don't get are these TV ads. The one that's particularly moving is the one that shows some poor woman in a wheelchair with an oxygen tube running below her nose, then cuts to the picture of some kid, and has the tagline; cigarettes killed their mother. While it's sad and tragic, and my heart goes out to those poor kids that do/did lose a parent to smoking, that ad does not, in any sense of the word, make sense. Was there a giant horde or giant cigarettes that suddenly sprouted arms and legs and showed up her door one night wielding guns, or did she make the conscious decision to smoke for however long, contract a disease because of smoking and then die? I think it's the latter. I think a more appropriate tagline for that little media blitz should be, "Smoking killed their mother."
Here's my question; let's say that I decide to head out to my local watering hole tonight. Let's say that my favorite beer is on sale tonight at the low, low price of 6 for a dollar. Let's say that I have $2 in my pocket, and that I drink the amount that my cash reserve allows. Hmm... a little quick math... 12 of my favorite beers consumed. Let's now say that somewhere around beer 10.5 that some girl starts talking to me, and has a thing for guys with a receding hairline, a penchant for Jimmy Buffett's music, and blue eyes. Let's further say that I finish my remaining 1.5 beers, convince her that she should really see my Pez dispenser collection, and she should hop in the car with me. Furthermore, let's go forward and say that because I've had an inordinate amount of beers and now I'm behind the wheel and in no condition to drive, that on the way home, I slam into a busload of penguins that are on their way back from a free minnow convention, and a couple of them hit the seat in front of them and choke on vendor samples of platinum minnows that were made for Paris Hilton and they die. Yes, people, I know it's getting a little ugly, but I'm making a point here. If any penguins are actually reading this, I don't mean you any harm or malcontent. Anyway, let's say that 10 months later, the aforementioned girl from the bar calls me up and says, "congratulations, it's a boy." Meanwhile, I've had my license revoked, and I've been in court for the last 10 months with penguin support groups. I'm now bankrupt and have a kid... all because I got hammered and made a few bad decisions.
My question is; is it fair to say that beer ruined my life? Did beer make me do all this? I knew the risks, I made the choices... how far off is this? I know it's kind of a long way to go for this analogy, but seriously, is this any more ridiculous than suing McDonald's for making their coffee too hot and burning my legs when I spilled it, or suing that same company for my own obesity? Would we start to see commercials with my ugly mug plastered all over it with the tagline, "beer ruined this guy's life"? Again, I think the appropriate slogan would be, "drinking ruined this guy's life."
Please, please, please understand that I know it's a pretty big leap in logic, but really how far off is that analogy? Yes, I know there's not a lot of busloads full of penguins out there at 3AM in the Park Avenue area of Rochester, NY. Come to think of it, I've only seen like 3 and I've lived here for 10 years. Also, please, please, please understand that my heart does go out to any child who's lost a loved one to any smoking-related illness, and I am not making light of the situation. To be honest, I can't think of many things sadder than growing up minus a parent. It's got to be difficult, and if this has affected you, I am truly sorry.
The only point I'm making here is that it is, in fact, a choice. There is no "that guy." I don't think that we really need a "World No Tobacco" day. If you want to quit, quit. There are plenty of smoking cessation tools out there, and a bunch of them are free. Yes, I know it's tough to do. My old man says, "quitting is easy, I've done it a hundred times." If you want to quit, quit for whatever reason you feel you need to, be it your wife wants you to, your kids don't want to see you get sick, or you're afraid of penguins (they're attracted to cigarette smoke).
On that note, I'm going to get going... can't seem to find my Mizuno softball mitt.
Until next time, as always...
R
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
The Wall Street Journal and Mindi with and "i"
So here's the deal. In the midst of recovering from a four day weekend, I did have to extract myself from my posh luxury two bedroom suite to make the journey to the local grocery Mecca that we Rochesterians call; Wegmans. I don't know how those bastards do it, but I went in with the intention once again of picking up my standard case of Diet Vanilla Pepsi, case of Dasani, and a couple frozen pizzas... or something to keep me sustained in my vicious literary endeavors, but somehow I walked out once again spending $70.03. Whoever they've hired to do their merchandising is worth every penny. Regardless... on with the rant of the day.
For the last seven or eight days that I've been in and out of my meager domicile, I've noticed a disturbing gathering of copies of the Wall Street Journal. They're stacking up in my entranceway, and no one is bothering to pick these stupid things up. As they don't belong to me, I have elected, in my infinite wisdom, to join my fellow apartment-dwelling compatriots in the dutiful act of doing absolutely nothing about them. Now, believe it or not, I do have a take on people that actually have the Wall Street Journal (henceforth to be referred to as "WSJ") delivered to their doorstep... and here it is.
There are 2 types of people that have the WSJ delivered to their doorstep; (1) stock brokers or people that work in the financial sector, and (2) pretentious assholes. My guess is that the individual that is letting these monuments to professional financial advice stack up in my entranceway is, in fact, the latter. This is the guy that likes the idea of being someone that is in the habit of reading the WSJ every day and taking whatever the hell it says as gospel, but pretty much uses it to line the bottom of his kitty litter box. Yes, I do believe that it's a guy with a cat. Guys, especially single guys, should not own a cat... but that's a whole other post and I won't get into it now.
What this little episode reminds me of is the girl that lived across the street from me from age 8-18. Her name was Mindi... yes, with an "i." Mindi was the girl that so desperately wanted to be popular and respected, but just couldn't quite muster whatever it is that popular people had... either could I, but I accepted that a long, long time ago. Anyway, on with the point I'm trying to make. When we were in high school, Mindi went to the mall and bought non-prescription glasses in an effort to make her look smarter and give her some kind of indefinable quality that would make people think she actually had a brain. I think she was going for that kind of Molly Ringwald/Ally Sheedy thing... that girl that isn't really in, but you should really get to know her because there's something deeper, something you need to delve into, something you just stay up and think about at night because you know that it's something that makes you want to be better. Yeah... uh, no... that didn't really work out for her.
Anyhoo, (my grandmother says that), I think the point that I'm getting at is; why bother? Equating buying the WSJ to buying non-prescription glasses may be some kind of leap in logic, but I think it's pretty right on. I must say, I've been guilty of it... we've all probably been guilty of it. Maybe not to the same extremes that my neighbor or Mindi with an "i" have, but we've all done stuff like that to make people think something different about us. Now I'm not advocating trying not to fit in, but are the people you're going to meet while wearing those glasses or pretending to read the WSJ while sipping a double chocolate half caf double mocha espresso grande at Spin Cafe really the people that you want to devote your time to? I personally don't think so, but if that's what brings you happiness and makes your life complete; more power to you.
So that's all I've got for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I'll have some more better (my grandmother again) inspiration for what I would classify as a suitable rant. For now, as I crawl out from under my hangover from this long weekend and get ready to greet the world tomorrow, I'm just content to get something down in print. Otherwise, until that happens, I'm out... I think Pretty in Pink is on TBS.
Until next time, as always...
R
For the last seven or eight days that I've been in and out of my meager domicile, I've noticed a disturbing gathering of copies of the Wall Street Journal. They're stacking up in my entranceway, and no one is bothering to pick these stupid things up. As they don't belong to me, I have elected, in my infinite wisdom, to join my fellow apartment-dwelling compatriots in the dutiful act of doing absolutely nothing about them. Now, believe it or not, I do have a take on people that actually have the Wall Street Journal (henceforth to be referred to as "WSJ") delivered to their doorstep... and here it is.
There are 2 types of people that have the WSJ delivered to their doorstep; (1) stock brokers or people that work in the financial sector, and (2) pretentious assholes. My guess is that the individual that is letting these monuments to professional financial advice stack up in my entranceway is, in fact, the latter. This is the guy that likes the idea of being someone that is in the habit of reading the WSJ every day and taking whatever the hell it says as gospel, but pretty much uses it to line the bottom of his kitty litter box. Yes, I do believe that it's a guy with a cat. Guys, especially single guys, should not own a cat... but that's a whole other post and I won't get into it now.
What this little episode reminds me of is the girl that lived across the street from me from age 8-18. Her name was Mindi... yes, with an "i." Mindi was the girl that so desperately wanted to be popular and respected, but just couldn't quite muster whatever it is that popular people had... either could I, but I accepted that a long, long time ago. Anyway, on with the point I'm trying to make. When we were in high school, Mindi went to the mall and bought non-prescription glasses in an effort to make her look smarter and give her some kind of indefinable quality that would make people think she actually had a brain. I think she was going for that kind of Molly Ringwald/Ally Sheedy thing... that girl that isn't really in, but you should really get to know her because there's something deeper, something you need to delve into, something you just stay up and think about at night because you know that it's something that makes you want to be better. Yeah... uh, no... that didn't really work out for her.
Anyhoo, (my grandmother says that), I think the point that I'm getting at is; why bother? Equating buying the WSJ to buying non-prescription glasses may be some kind of leap in logic, but I think it's pretty right on. I must say, I've been guilty of it... we've all probably been guilty of it. Maybe not to the same extremes that my neighbor or Mindi with an "i" have, but we've all done stuff like that to make people think something different about us. Now I'm not advocating trying not to fit in, but are the people you're going to meet while wearing those glasses or pretending to read the WSJ while sipping a double chocolate half caf double mocha espresso grande at Spin Cafe really the people that you want to devote your time to? I personally don't think so, but if that's what brings you happiness and makes your life complete; more power to you.
So that's all I've got for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I'll have some more better (my grandmother again) inspiration for what I would classify as a suitable rant. For now, as I crawl out from under my hangover from this long weekend and get ready to greet the world tomorrow, I'm just content to get something down in print. Otherwise, until that happens, I'm out... I think Pretty in Pink is on TBS.
Until next time, as always...
R
Saturday, May 21, 2005
For the first time ever... Q & A
Those of you that are loyal readers know that I never do this... but I have had such a barrage of emails that I feel I must follow up. For the first time ever, I'm going to do a little Q & A. Once again, I apologize in advance if I offend anyone.
Off we go.
Q: Hey jerk, I am a cop, and I'm out there putting my life on the line every day to protect assholes like you. You should be thankful that there are people like me!
A: You're putting your life on the line to protect assholes? What... did you flunk out of proctology school and decide to become one of Rochester's finest? Wow... I think it may be time to re-assess your career path. And lasty, you're right... I am thankful that there are people like you. Without people like you, i.e. cops, skinheads, neo Nazis, rodeo clowns, the Boston Red Sox, Red Sox fans, demolition derby judges, guys that wear a baseball cap turned sideways, and the people that hang out at the Pennzoil station across from city hall in Jamestown, NY on Friday & Saturday nights, I would have absolutely no one to make fun of and at which to direct my pithy nuances. Now go home and trim your mustache.
Q: I'm a cop, and you better pray that I never have the pleasure of pulling your punk ass over some night.
A: I've gotten a few of these threatening emails... telling me that they're out to get me and that they're going to make my life a living hell. I'd like to address this once and for all, and end this. The morons that sent me the "I'm going to get you" emails are simply proving my point for me... and that point is that Rochester cops have nothing better to do. This is exactly the reason that they're on Park Avenue at 4:46PM writing tickets. Shouldn't you be out nailing drug dealers? Isn't there someone else out there that is actually breaking the law? Isn't there someone out there other than a person with no criminal record parking a minivan that you should be out there attempting to apprehend? I'm pretty sure that there are far greater threats to society at large than me. Finally, to answer your moronic, jack-booted thug email... I hope you pull me over some night. Again, I have no criminal record, I have no outstanding parking tickets or warrants, I don't drive drunk, and my father is one of the most feared attorneys in New York State. Pull me over.
Q: My brother is a cop, and I pray every night that he's safe while he's taking care of you, me, and all of us.
A: Good take... I respect that. I pray that he's safe, and I pray that he is not one of the countless assholes that is, in fact, out there being a militant asshole. One other thing that I would pray for... pray that he gets out of that line of work and lands a job where he's not dodging bullets for $34K/year. That's all I've got on this one.
Q: Who the fuck do you think you are??? There are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people. You're just an opinionated ass.
A: I think I'm the guy that owns this domain, therefore, it's my job and my God-given right to be an opinionated ass. You see, when you don't live in a Nazi regime, you have the freedom to write, print or say virtually whatever you want. This is America, welcome to it. And to answer your assertion that there are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people; until I meet one and he doesn't try to intimidate or overpower me by flashing his badge, either professionally or socially, literally or figuratively, I stand by my statement.
I could go on for days with this Q & A, but I'll spare you the boring literary marathon, simply because it would be just that; a marathon. Quite frankly, I'm 33 years old and I just don't have the stamina anymore... besides, there are so many emails that are just so unbelievably retarded that I fail to muster the energy or inclination to actually dignify them with a response. If I didn't get to yours, I apologize.
So, that's it. I've done my best. That might be it for today, but who knows... I might run outside and see a ticket for the tire pressure being too low on the minivan. Until then, rest in the solace that is... the corner apartment.
Until next time...
R
Off we go.
Q: Hey jerk, I am a cop, and I'm out there putting my life on the line every day to protect assholes like you. You should be thankful that there are people like me!
A: You're putting your life on the line to protect assholes? What... did you flunk out of proctology school and decide to become one of Rochester's finest? Wow... I think it may be time to re-assess your career path. And lasty, you're right... I am thankful that there are people like you. Without people like you, i.e. cops, skinheads, neo Nazis, rodeo clowns, the Boston Red Sox, Red Sox fans, demolition derby judges, guys that wear a baseball cap turned sideways, and the people that hang out at the Pennzoil station across from city hall in Jamestown, NY on Friday & Saturday nights, I would have absolutely no one to make fun of and at which to direct my pithy nuances. Now go home and trim your mustache.
Q: I'm a cop, and you better pray that I never have the pleasure of pulling your punk ass over some night.
A: I've gotten a few of these threatening emails... telling me that they're out to get me and that they're going to make my life a living hell. I'd like to address this once and for all, and end this. The morons that sent me the "I'm going to get you" emails are simply proving my point for me... and that point is that Rochester cops have nothing better to do. This is exactly the reason that they're on Park Avenue at 4:46PM writing tickets. Shouldn't you be out nailing drug dealers? Isn't there someone else out there that is actually breaking the law? Isn't there someone out there other than a person with no criminal record parking a minivan that you should be out there attempting to apprehend? I'm pretty sure that there are far greater threats to society at large than me. Finally, to answer your moronic, jack-booted thug email... I hope you pull me over some night. Again, I have no criminal record, I have no outstanding parking tickets or warrants, I don't drive drunk, and my father is one of the most feared attorneys in New York State. Pull me over.
Q: My brother is a cop, and I pray every night that he's safe while he's taking care of you, me, and all of us.
A: Good take... I respect that. I pray that he's safe, and I pray that he is not one of the countless assholes that is, in fact, out there being a militant asshole. One other thing that I would pray for... pray that he gets out of that line of work and lands a job where he's not dodging bullets for $34K/year. That's all I've got on this one.
Q: Who the fuck do you think you are??? There are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people. You're just an opinionated ass.
A: I think I'm the guy that owns this domain, therefore, it's my job and my God-given right to be an opinionated ass. You see, when you don't live in a Nazi regime, you have the freedom to write, print or say virtually whatever you want. This is America, welcome to it. And to answer your assertion that there are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people; until I meet one and he doesn't try to intimidate or overpower me by flashing his badge, either professionally or socially, literally or figuratively, I stand by my statement.
I could go on for days with this Q & A, but I'll spare you the boring literary marathon, simply because it would be just that; a marathon. Quite frankly, I'm 33 years old and I just don't have the stamina anymore... besides, there are so many emails that are just so unbelievably retarded that I fail to muster the energy or inclination to actually dignify them with a response. If I didn't get to yours, I apologize.
So, that's it. I've done my best. That might be it for today, but who knows... I might run outside and see a ticket for the tire pressure being too low on the minivan. Until then, rest in the solace that is... the corner apartment.
Until next time...
R
Thursday, May 19, 2005
To Protect and to Serve... more like Hassle and Annoy
Kids, before I get started, let me lay some ground work.
Those of you that are loyal readers are aware that I don't delve into the profanities of the English language in my writings too often. However, I must warn you that this rant, monologue or soliloquy or whatever the F you want to call it is going to be peppered with expletives. Having said that, off we go.
When I'm not a world class vocalist (as many of you who bought the album know), I do have a real job. I love my real job. I work with a wonderful group, and I get to meet a lot of interesting people that I would typically not run into. Today, I worked with my boss and got done circa 3:45PM. After a couple more stops, the Rychkid is done for the day, and heads to his luxury two bedroom apartment in the heart of Park Avenue, Rochester, NY. This puts us in the timeframe of 4:30ish, Eastern Standard Time. As my lovely dwelling complex does not have off-street parking, it is mandatory to move your vehicle from one side of the street to the other. Those of you that feel my pain know it as alternate parking... one of the few nightmares of living in the artsy-fartsy cultural area of Park Avenue. Needless to say, parking is at a premium. Having said that; typically when I end my day somewhere around 5, I do honor the mandatory alternate parking, and park on the appropriate side for that evening. Again, this is at 4:30PM. Pretty much everyone in this area that doesn't have the blessing of off-street parking does the same thing: when you get home at 5/5:30, you park on the correct side. This has never been a problem... until today, May 18, 2005.
Ok... so I park my minivan. No, that's not a misprint. I drive a minivan. OK? Let's move on. I park my minivan and head into my luxury two bedroom suite, complete with Ramen noodles, sweet pickles, stale popcorn, ketchup and empty cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi that currently reside in my meager kitchen. I grab a water, a bag of Tostitos (the kind with the "hint of lime") and head to the couch. I catch the tail end of Maury, who's got a great paternity test show going on... should've TIVO'd that one.
Now I know that I have a softball game at 8:30, under the lights, and I'm still exhausted from the Vegas excursion. Taking all this into consideration, I realize that it is in my best interest to attempt a nap.
So now I've set the stage; parked the minivan (yes, again, I said minivan), got a nutritious snack, and parked my ass on the couch. I do succeed in my endeavor to take a nap, and wake up at 7:30 to the sound of my phone ringing. It's Chopper... apparently I have some of his clothes in my luggage from the Vegas trip, and he has the $100 he owes me. Perfect... I'm awake and rested in time for the game, and I'm going to get some money from Chop. Outstanding, and all is right with the world.
Now the annoyance and hassle begins. I get changed for softball, screw a Marlboro Light into my lips, and head downstairs. When I walked out the front door, I could not believe my eyes. I had a ticket on my minivan. Once again, yes, I said minivan. I look at the time that is written on it, and it's 4:46PM.
Those of you who are going to be offended by expletives should stop reading here. Those of you who don't give a fuck, read on.
This next statement may be a generality, an over-statement, and I may even be painting with a really wide brush here, but I must say it. If you are reading this, and you are a Rochester cop, you are an asshole. If you are reading this and you are not a Rochester cop, you should be made aware that cops in Rochester, NY are assholes. This statement is not going to go unfounded, and the goal for the rest of this post is to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this statement is, in fact, true.
In the Park Ave. area of Rochester, parking is at a premium. The asshole that wrote this ticket, as I'm sure it's not his first time through here, nor is it his first day of being an asshole, knows this. Let me pose this question to any and all of my loyal readers. Who, other than an asshole, knowing what I have just said, would, in fact, penalize me for it? Your answer? No one. Logic says; this person is an asshole.
Now, I do have an education from one of the finest correspondence schools in New York State. Logic also says that this does not necessarily mean that all Rochester cops are assholes. Logic would say;
This person is a cop.
This person is an asshole.
-------------------------
All cops are not necessarily assholes.
Ladies and gentlemen, until I meet one that is not, I have no other choice but to assume this conclusion that I have drawn on my own through years of clinical research and experience. And that conclusion is that all Rochester cops are assholes. I will pose this question, and open it for comments, and I will also honor and respect your response... unless of course you are a Rochester cop, in which case you are probably an asshole and your opinion shouldn't count anyway. My question is this:
Have you ever met someone that you thought was an asshole, and then found out later that he was a cop? And then when you found out he was a cop, did you say to yourself or anyone else, "that figures."? Better yet, have you ever met a cop, Rochester or otherwise, that was not an asshole? I haven't, and I will be amazed, going forward, if I do. Maybe that's a little too general, and I apologize. Strike that.
Friends and neighbors, I want you to step back in time with me for a moment. Indulge me if you will. It won't take long, I promise.
Go back with me to your high school days. Back to the days of mullets, rat tails, parachute pants and Camaros. A glorious time. A time of chicks with big hair and leg warmers. A time of Poison, Ratt, Styx and Bon Jovi. A time when I had hair that was spiked up and looked like that dude from A Flock of Seagulls, and I had more of it. A simpler time. A more peaceful time. A time of Ron Reagan's Star Wars Program, and the country was still riding that crest of a wave of when the 1980 USA Hockey Team beat the Soviets and took home the gold on a frozen pond in a little barn in Lake Placid, NY. By the way, they actually beat Finland for the gold... rent "Miracle" if you haven't seen it. The country was riding that wave. If you look up into the mountains outside of Las Vegas, you can almost make out where the wave finally broke, and eased back to low water mark.
Now that I have you in that frame of mind, I want you to think about that guy. You know the one I'm talking about. That guy that wasn't quite in the "in" crowd. The guy that would show up to parties with some girl from another school you'd never heard of, and hang out in the corner and talk to her about how much he maxed on the bench that day. The guy that would wear really tight t-shirts and tapered jeans with work boots. The guy that carries a 225 bowling average. The guy that would talk about government conspiracy theories and swear that every teacher was flunking him because he could do more curls in gym class. The guy that would hold a high ranking government office had the Nazis won the war. You can usually identify this guy by his mode of dress, or by his buzz cut hair style. Remember that guy? Got that mental picture? That's the guy I'm talking about.
This guy went on to become one of two things, and they're both pretty much in the same vein. They're either a cop or a bouncer in a titty bar. These are the guys that go home every night, watch "Roadhouse," and jerk off to it. They have an autographed picture of Patrick Swayze somewhere in their home, and they talk about how much they wish that the coach would have put them in during the final minutes of the fourth quarter... then they would've won State.
That's my take on cops. Feel free to comment on this, and quite honestly, I'll be amazed if I get any negative feedback on this.
Well, friends... have I proven my point? I don't know, but it's late and the Rychkid has to be in Buffalo at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
Whether I proved anything or nothing here tonight, I stand by my statement. If you're not sure what that statement is, go into your basement, get a tack hammer and smack yourself in the head. Repeat as needed.
I'm out... gotta get some sleep and figure out my defense for this parking ticket. Think I'll plead insanity.
Until next time...
R
Those of you that are loyal readers are aware that I don't delve into the profanities of the English language in my writings too often. However, I must warn you that this rant, monologue or soliloquy or whatever the F you want to call it is going to be peppered with expletives. Having said that, off we go.
When I'm not a world class vocalist (as many of you who bought the album know), I do have a real job. I love my real job. I work with a wonderful group, and I get to meet a lot of interesting people that I would typically not run into. Today, I worked with my boss and got done circa 3:45PM. After a couple more stops, the Rychkid is done for the day, and heads to his luxury two bedroom apartment in the heart of Park Avenue, Rochester, NY. This puts us in the timeframe of 4:30ish, Eastern Standard Time. As my lovely dwelling complex does not have off-street parking, it is mandatory to move your vehicle from one side of the street to the other. Those of you that feel my pain know it as alternate parking... one of the few nightmares of living in the artsy-fartsy cultural area of Park Avenue. Needless to say, parking is at a premium. Having said that; typically when I end my day somewhere around 5, I do honor the mandatory alternate parking, and park on the appropriate side for that evening. Again, this is at 4:30PM. Pretty much everyone in this area that doesn't have the blessing of off-street parking does the same thing: when you get home at 5/5:30, you park on the correct side. This has never been a problem... until today, May 18, 2005.
Ok... so I park my minivan. No, that's not a misprint. I drive a minivan. OK? Let's move on. I park my minivan and head into my luxury two bedroom suite, complete with Ramen noodles, sweet pickles, stale popcorn, ketchup and empty cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi that currently reside in my meager kitchen. I grab a water, a bag of Tostitos (the kind with the "hint of lime") and head to the couch. I catch the tail end of Maury, who's got a great paternity test show going on... should've TIVO'd that one.
Now I know that I have a softball game at 8:30, under the lights, and I'm still exhausted from the Vegas excursion. Taking all this into consideration, I realize that it is in my best interest to attempt a nap.
So now I've set the stage; parked the minivan (yes, again, I said minivan), got a nutritious snack, and parked my ass on the couch. I do succeed in my endeavor to take a nap, and wake up at 7:30 to the sound of my phone ringing. It's Chopper... apparently I have some of his clothes in my luggage from the Vegas trip, and he has the $100 he owes me. Perfect... I'm awake and rested in time for the game, and I'm going to get some money from Chop. Outstanding, and all is right with the world.
Now the annoyance and hassle begins. I get changed for softball, screw a Marlboro Light into my lips, and head downstairs. When I walked out the front door, I could not believe my eyes. I had a ticket on my minivan. Once again, yes, I said minivan. I look at the time that is written on it, and it's 4:46PM.
Those of you who are going to be offended by expletives should stop reading here. Those of you who don't give a fuck, read on.
This next statement may be a generality, an over-statement, and I may even be painting with a really wide brush here, but I must say it. If you are reading this, and you are a Rochester cop, you are an asshole. If you are reading this and you are not a Rochester cop, you should be made aware that cops in Rochester, NY are assholes. This statement is not going to go unfounded, and the goal for the rest of this post is to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this statement is, in fact, true.
In the Park Ave. area of Rochester, parking is at a premium. The asshole that wrote this ticket, as I'm sure it's not his first time through here, nor is it his first day of being an asshole, knows this. Let me pose this question to any and all of my loyal readers. Who, other than an asshole, knowing what I have just said, would, in fact, penalize me for it? Your answer? No one. Logic says; this person is an asshole.
Now, I do have an education from one of the finest correspondence schools in New York State. Logic also says that this does not necessarily mean that all Rochester cops are assholes. Logic would say;
This person is a cop.
This person is an asshole.
-------------------------
All cops are not necessarily assholes.
Ladies and gentlemen, until I meet one that is not, I have no other choice but to assume this conclusion that I have drawn on my own through years of clinical research and experience. And that conclusion is that all Rochester cops are assholes. I will pose this question, and open it for comments, and I will also honor and respect your response... unless of course you are a Rochester cop, in which case you are probably an asshole and your opinion shouldn't count anyway. My question is this:
Have you ever met someone that you thought was an asshole, and then found out later that he was a cop? And then when you found out he was a cop, did you say to yourself or anyone else, "that figures."? Better yet, have you ever met a cop, Rochester or otherwise, that was not an asshole? I haven't, and I will be amazed, going forward, if I do. Maybe that's a little too general, and I apologize. Strike that.
Friends and neighbors, I want you to step back in time with me for a moment. Indulge me if you will. It won't take long, I promise.
Go back with me to your high school days. Back to the days of mullets, rat tails, parachute pants and Camaros. A glorious time. A time of chicks with big hair and leg warmers. A time of Poison, Ratt, Styx and Bon Jovi. A time when I had hair that was spiked up and looked like that dude from A Flock of Seagulls, and I had more of it. A simpler time. A more peaceful time. A time of Ron Reagan's Star Wars Program, and the country was still riding that crest of a wave of when the 1980 USA Hockey Team beat the Soviets and took home the gold on a frozen pond in a little barn in Lake Placid, NY. By the way, they actually beat Finland for the gold... rent "Miracle" if you haven't seen it. The country was riding that wave. If you look up into the mountains outside of Las Vegas, you can almost make out where the wave finally broke, and eased back to low water mark.
Now that I have you in that frame of mind, I want you to think about that guy. You know the one I'm talking about. That guy that wasn't quite in the "in" crowd. The guy that would show up to parties with some girl from another school you'd never heard of, and hang out in the corner and talk to her about how much he maxed on the bench that day. The guy that would wear really tight t-shirts and tapered jeans with work boots. The guy that carries a 225 bowling average. The guy that would talk about government conspiracy theories and swear that every teacher was flunking him because he could do more curls in gym class. The guy that would hold a high ranking government office had the Nazis won the war. You can usually identify this guy by his mode of dress, or by his buzz cut hair style. Remember that guy? Got that mental picture? That's the guy I'm talking about.
This guy went on to become one of two things, and they're both pretty much in the same vein. They're either a cop or a bouncer in a titty bar. These are the guys that go home every night, watch "Roadhouse," and jerk off to it. They have an autographed picture of Patrick Swayze somewhere in their home, and they talk about how much they wish that the coach would have put them in during the final minutes of the fourth quarter... then they would've won State.
That's my take on cops. Feel free to comment on this, and quite honestly, I'll be amazed if I get any negative feedback on this.
Well, friends... have I proven my point? I don't know, but it's late and the Rychkid has to be in Buffalo at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
Whether I proved anything or nothing here tonight, I stand by my statement. If you're not sure what that statement is, go into your basement, get a tack hammer and smack yourself in the head. Repeat as needed.
I'm out... gotta get some sleep and figure out my defense for this parking ticket. Think I'll plead insanity.
Until next time...
R
Monday, May 16, 2005
Vegas, baby... Vegas!!!
Yes, my loyal readers, I know it's been like 3 months since my last post, but things have been just a little hectic here in sunny Rochester, NY. Just to re-cap... old friend turned girlfriend, and now since my last post... just friend again; long story, and I'll get into that later. Richmond trip, Chicago trip, Vegas trip; still more to write about. Old boss, new boss; everything's cool. Best friend has a new girlfriend... actually, not sure if I'm supposed to refer to her as such, but for all practical purposes, let's just leave it as that. Sister finally got a real job; congrats. Bought some really cool shirts, and actually bought a 3-pack of "wife beaters..." something I normally wouldn't even consider... but it was appropriate for the Vegas trip.
So that's the update... now to the juice that is... my blog. So there.
Off we go.
Last night, I got back to Rochester from Vegas somewhere around 2:30AM... rude awakening. When I got on the plane, 95* and sunny. Off the plane, dark, overcast, and 50*. Not that I expected anything different, but it just bums me out. To top it off, I jump on the NYS Thruway because we flew into Buffalo, and good old Uncle Pataki decided to raise all the tolls. I heart New York.
Regardless, back to the Vegas trip. I love that f'ing town. In case that's not clear enough... I f'ing love that f'ing town. It is the be-all end-all of everything I love. I won't get into all the things that I love about it... there's too much. Suffice it to say that I just love it. The awesome thing about this particular trip was that one of the guys that I go with organized a package where we had limo service every night, VIP entrance and seating to all the clubs every night, and bottle service every night. Outstanding. While 2,000 idiots are standing in line with one hand on their wallet and the other on their crank, just hoping that the line moves a quarter of an inch so that they can breathe a little fresh air and overcome the sleazeball in the silk shirt in front of him, we were getting walked into the VIP entrance with absolutely no line and no wait. Thanks, Doc. Well done.
We hit a total of 5 clubs in 4 nights... pretty impressive. Tangerine at Treasure Island was the first club we hit... that was Wednesday... very cool. It's at Treasure Island, and the outside part of the bar was right on the little lake on which TI does their big f'ing pirate show with ships and pirates and girls in bikinis and all that good stuff. Pretty cool. So we're there until like 2AM, and who walks in? Guess. No, seriously, stop reading and guess. Done guessing? OK, I'll tell you. Just kidding, guess one more time. OK, fine... Britney Spears and Mr. Britney Spears... Kevin Something or other. Unfortunately I couldn't get close enough for Britney to get a good look at me, which is probably for the best... the phone calls have just stopped since the last time when I saw her at Ghost Bar. Man, can that girl dial a phone. I'm still pissed at my friend that gave her my number in the first place. Overall rating for Tangerine: 7.2 out of a possible 10. The inside part of the bar was a little lacking in size, and it is a HUGE pain in the ass to get a drink... otherwise, good crowd and great view.
Thursday night; Vivid in The Venetian. Vivid, as in Vivid Entertainment. Yes, as in Vivid Adult Entertainment. That's the company that owns the club. A disappointment. Pretty cool layout on the inside, considering there is no outside, but that's not a big deal. The disappointing thing about Vivid is that it was pretty much dead. I would guess maybe 50 people there. I didn't really care because I was with some of my best friends... just about some of my favorite people in the world and I thoroughly enjoy hanging out with them, but 50 people in a club in Las Vegas on a Thursday night is pretty lame. Nevertheless, VIP entrance and bottle service, and that's always a plus, and we had a bunch of people back to the suite that night for a little get together, and that was pretty cool. Oh, did I mention that we had a few rooms and a couple of suites comped at the Flamingo? Yeah, we did. Rock star treatment.
Friday night; this was THE night. Friday was the night by which I will remember this trip. We started out at The Foundation Room in Mandalay Bay, or should I say, on TOP of Mandalay Bay. You have to take an elevator to get up there, and it's invite-only. We were invited. So now, 65 floors later, I'm in the Foundation Room. Great music, amazing view... there's an outside patio that you can go out on, and it's right next to the big lighted Mandalay Bay sign at the very top of the hotel. I was watching planes and helicopters come into the airport below us. Now, those of you that know me, know that I am terrified of heights. Going out on to that patio was a bit of a challenge for me. Yes, it is an unbelievable view, but I got that feeling in my gut that's yelling at me to go inside. While we were out there, my friends are all standing at the railing looking out over the amazing Las Vegas skyline, and I was cowering over by the wall of the building, digging my fingernails into the concrete. Needless to say, I spent the majority of our tenure at the Foundation Room at our VIP table. Still had a blast.
From the Foundation Room, we made our way to Ra in the Luxor. Ra, in this writer's opinion, is the best club in Vegas. The place is absolutely huge, the VIP tables are right in the middle of the action, and the music is great. The place was just slamming from the time we walked in to the time we left. Bottle service pricing was not outrageous, comparatively speaking, and there's enough room where you're not constantly bumping into people. 9.5 out of 10.
Saturday night, the last night in Sin City; Body English at the Hard Rock. This was a close second to Ra, even though the VIP room at Body English was fantastic. If you do hit Body English on your next Vegas outing, I strongly suggest going with a VIP package. The dance floor is constantly packed, as is the outside bar. The VIP package gives you a private room, private bar, and a bouncer that remembers your name and won't let anyone else in unless you bring them in with you... which is nice. The club is actually below the Hard Rock... I would guess a couple hundred feet below. The only drawback here is that there's no cellular reception, so I guess it's nice if you don't want the wife or psycho ex calling or being able to find you in any way, shape or form. I would have to throw this place a 9.3 out of a possible 10. Outstanding, and the staff is great.
I know this is not my typical post... usually I'll wax intellectual or philosophical, but to be honest, 4 nights of drinking until about 5AM has really drained my literary capabilities... for that I apologize. I also apologize for not posting in 3 months, and I promise to try not to let that happen again.
Until next time...
R
P.S. Britney, give me a call... let's try to work it out.
So that's the update... now to the juice that is... my blog. So there.
Off we go.
Last night, I got back to Rochester from Vegas somewhere around 2:30AM... rude awakening. When I got on the plane, 95* and sunny. Off the plane, dark, overcast, and 50*. Not that I expected anything different, but it just bums me out. To top it off, I jump on the NYS Thruway because we flew into Buffalo, and good old Uncle Pataki decided to raise all the tolls. I heart New York.
Regardless, back to the Vegas trip. I love that f'ing town. In case that's not clear enough... I f'ing love that f'ing town. It is the be-all end-all of everything I love. I won't get into all the things that I love about it... there's too much. Suffice it to say that I just love it. The awesome thing about this particular trip was that one of the guys that I go with organized a package where we had limo service every night, VIP entrance and seating to all the clubs every night, and bottle service every night. Outstanding. While 2,000 idiots are standing in line with one hand on their wallet and the other on their crank, just hoping that the line moves a quarter of an inch so that they can breathe a little fresh air and overcome the sleazeball in the silk shirt in front of him, we were getting walked into the VIP entrance with absolutely no line and no wait. Thanks, Doc. Well done.
We hit a total of 5 clubs in 4 nights... pretty impressive. Tangerine at Treasure Island was the first club we hit... that was Wednesday... very cool. It's at Treasure Island, and the outside part of the bar was right on the little lake on which TI does their big f'ing pirate show with ships and pirates and girls in bikinis and all that good stuff. Pretty cool. So we're there until like 2AM, and who walks in? Guess. No, seriously, stop reading and guess. Done guessing? OK, I'll tell you. Just kidding, guess one more time. OK, fine... Britney Spears and Mr. Britney Spears... Kevin Something or other. Unfortunately I couldn't get close enough for Britney to get a good look at me, which is probably for the best... the phone calls have just stopped since the last time when I saw her at Ghost Bar. Man, can that girl dial a phone. I'm still pissed at my friend that gave her my number in the first place. Overall rating for Tangerine: 7.2 out of a possible 10. The inside part of the bar was a little lacking in size, and it is a HUGE pain in the ass to get a drink... otherwise, good crowd and great view.
Thursday night; Vivid in The Venetian. Vivid, as in Vivid Entertainment. Yes, as in Vivid Adult Entertainment. That's the company that owns the club. A disappointment. Pretty cool layout on the inside, considering there is no outside, but that's not a big deal. The disappointing thing about Vivid is that it was pretty much dead. I would guess maybe 50 people there. I didn't really care because I was with some of my best friends... just about some of my favorite people in the world and I thoroughly enjoy hanging out with them, but 50 people in a club in Las Vegas on a Thursday night is pretty lame. Nevertheless, VIP entrance and bottle service, and that's always a plus, and we had a bunch of people back to the suite that night for a little get together, and that was pretty cool. Oh, did I mention that we had a few rooms and a couple of suites comped at the Flamingo? Yeah, we did. Rock star treatment.
Friday night; this was THE night. Friday was the night by which I will remember this trip. We started out at The Foundation Room in Mandalay Bay, or should I say, on TOP of Mandalay Bay. You have to take an elevator to get up there, and it's invite-only. We were invited. So now, 65 floors later, I'm in the Foundation Room. Great music, amazing view... there's an outside patio that you can go out on, and it's right next to the big lighted Mandalay Bay sign at the very top of the hotel. I was watching planes and helicopters come into the airport below us. Now, those of you that know me, know that I am terrified of heights. Going out on to that patio was a bit of a challenge for me. Yes, it is an unbelievable view, but I got that feeling in my gut that's yelling at me to go inside. While we were out there, my friends are all standing at the railing looking out over the amazing Las Vegas skyline, and I was cowering over by the wall of the building, digging my fingernails into the concrete. Needless to say, I spent the majority of our tenure at the Foundation Room at our VIP table. Still had a blast.
From the Foundation Room, we made our way to Ra in the Luxor. Ra, in this writer's opinion, is the best club in Vegas. The place is absolutely huge, the VIP tables are right in the middle of the action, and the music is great. The place was just slamming from the time we walked in to the time we left. Bottle service pricing was not outrageous, comparatively speaking, and there's enough room where you're not constantly bumping into people. 9.5 out of 10.
Saturday night, the last night in Sin City; Body English at the Hard Rock. This was a close second to Ra, even though the VIP room at Body English was fantastic. If you do hit Body English on your next Vegas outing, I strongly suggest going with a VIP package. The dance floor is constantly packed, as is the outside bar. The VIP package gives you a private room, private bar, and a bouncer that remembers your name and won't let anyone else in unless you bring them in with you... which is nice. The club is actually below the Hard Rock... I would guess a couple hundred feet below. The only drawback here is that there's no cellular reception, so I guess it's nice if you don't want the wife or psycho ex calling or being able to find you in any way, shape or form. I would have to throw this place a 9.3 out of a possible 10. Outstanding, and the staff is great.
I know this is not my typical post... usually I'll wax intellectual or philosophical, but to be honest, 4 nights of drinking until about 5AM has really drained my literary capabilities... for that I apologize. I also apologize for not posting in 3 months, and I promise to try not to let that happen again.
Until next time...
R
P.S. Britney, give me a call... let's try to work it out.
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