I know, I know... it's been a while. I really have nothing to write right now. Regardless, will you be my friend?
Until next time...
R
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Booze, Bulls, & Josh
Well kids... a lot has been going on since my last post. I'll try to sum it up in one paragraph, although you and I both know that's probably not going to happen. Alas, there are no pics... I didn't bring the camera out this year. The event that I'm alluding to is the fact that I celebrated the 6th anniversary of my 29th birthday. If you can't do the math on that one, just click the "home" button on your browser because you're probably not going to get any of my pithy nuances anyway.
Here goes.
Russ, Todd & Noah came over. We started out at the corner apartment sometime around 10:00 PM on Friday. My birthday wasn't actually until Sunday, but why put off the hangover that you can have on Saturday for the one that you'll have on Sunday, right? Right. Moving on. We had a couple of warm-up cocktails and made our way to A Pub Live. The best live band in Rochester and my personal favorite, The Taint, was playing. We hung out there for a little while, when Russ asked if we wanted to go check out the bull at Daisy Dukes. Why not. Sure. After a couple rounds and about an hour of watching morons get tossed ass over teacups, we headed upstairs to SoHo. I hate SoHo. The people there have an uncanny ability to annoy the shit out of me. When I see secretaries that make $20K a year acting like they're CEOs and I'm supposed to be excited because they've got knock off Prada and Louis Vuitton bags, I just get annoyed. Give me a broad with tattoos and an attitude any day.
Regardless, after a couple shots and a couple beers, we headed back down to A Pub. At this stage of the game, I have officially been over-served. Be that as it may, the band was gracious enough to have me up on stage to butcher a song. God bless those guys. I never get tired of that.
After thoroughly embarrassing myself, I was far from done. We headed back over to Daisy Dukes, where Russ took it upon himself to talk to the bull guy. Yes, my loyal readers, I became one of those morons getting tossed ass over teacups. Twice.
So... that was the end of that... right up until I learned that Noah had invited the bar back to the corner apartment for after hours. Here's the abbreviated story, as I know this whole post has been; Dave passed out in my recliner, at which point I took it upon myself to draw on his face in permanent marker. I gave him a Mickey Mouse nose, a hitler moustache, and wrote "Hi" backwards on his forehead... just a little reminder for when he looked in the mirror the next day. After that, we hung out, drank, I did some street magic, drank, turned on the iPod, drank, found out the names of all the people that were in my kitchen, drank, and then finally got to bed around 5AM. A good time was had by all.
I know this is a pretty short post and not my usual writing style, but it's 90+ degrees in my office, and for some reason, the a/c doesn't reach in here.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, something else happened that was kind of big, and not in a good way. One of my best friends, Josh's, father passed away last night. He had been struggling with liver problems for a few months, and ultimately and unfortunately lost the battle. He was 52 years old. I couldn't even find the words when he called me last night and gave me the news. I was so sad for him. I couldn't imagine.
Those of you that have been loyal readers for the last couple years know that my two closest friends, John & Chris, both lost their fathers to terrible diseases that overcame them. No matter how many times you experience it, regardless of the circumstances, it's still a crushing blow. It was one to me, but again, I can't imagine the sorrow that my friends have gone through. It seems like yesterday that Josh and I were sitting in the old corner apartment and somehow the subject came up of me being a pall bearer for Chris's dad, Al, and how I didn't really like it. How I was kind of uncomfortable... even though it was someone that I cared very deeply about that I was carrying to his final resting place. I remember Josh saying that there's nothing nicer that you can do for someone than to lay them down for the last time, and that it was an honor. I thought about that, and realized that he was right, and I felt better about it, and I was honored. We haven't talked about it at all, but should he ask me to do it again, I'd be honored.
After work today, I stopped at the mall and picked up a baseball hat for Josh, and dropped it off to him at his parent's house. He and his dad were both Baltimore Orioles fans, and they used to go to Red Wings games together, back when the Wings were the O's AAA affiliate... hence, he became a Baltimore fan. I remember him saying that he used to have an O's hat that had their old logo on it... it's kind of a cartoon bird, and I knew what he was talking about. Luckily, I was able to find it at the mall and give it to him. He liked it. He said that it reminded him of his dad. I'm glad. Anytime you can give someone a gift that has some sort of sentimental value, especially when you know they've just had something like losing a parent thrust upon them, it makes you feel good. Plus, I'm looking for some karma points.
We took a quick walk down to the church at the end of his parent's street so that he could smoke a cigarette, and just talked for a little while. I did my best to listen. That's pretty much all you can do. I didn't pull a quarter out of the air, I didn't tell him a joke, and I didn't tell him about being a moron that got tossed ass over teacups. I just listened. I think that's the best course of action sometimes.
He talked about the fact that you just never know how long someone is going to be around. He talked about how his father passed away while he was there, and how he was going to move back home to be with his mother. I just didn't know what to say. Just, "yeah, I'm really sorry." That's pretty much all I could think of that would be appropriate.
I don't know really what to take away from all this. Is it that you can't take people for granted because you don't know how long they're going to be here? Is it that you should live every day like it was your last? I think it's the former. If I lived every day like it was my last, Budweiser and Cuervo stock would go through the roof, and I'd be in rehab pretty much every other day. I don't have that kind of time or energy. I try to live every weekend like it was my last, and that's plenty for me.
I guess it's the not taking people you care about for granted thing. I know Josh's family didn't take his father for granted. I could tell you more stories about Josh's dad and I never even met the man. I think that's a lot of why I feel so bad for him.
I'm going to sign off now. I have my company's annual sales meeting all week this week, so I have meetings all day, every day. Oh God... it's death by PowerPoint. Ugh. Maybe you guys should go buy some stock in Starbucks. I'm fairly sure I can boost their bottom line this week alone. This ass-over-teacups-moron needs some sleep.
Until next time...
R
Here goes.
Russ, Todd & Noah came over. We started out at the corner apartment sometime around 10:00 PM on Friday. My birthday wasn't actually until Sunday, but why put off the hangover that you can have on Saturday for the one that you'll have on Sunday, right? Right. Moving on. We had a couple of warm-up cocktails and made our way to A Pub Live. The best live band in Rochester and my personal favorite, The Taint, was playing. We hung out there for a little while, when Russ asked if we wanted to go check out the bull at Daisy Dukes. Why not. Sure. After a couple rounds and about an hour of watching morons get tossed ass over teacups, we headed upstairs to SoHo. I hate SoHo. The people there have an uncanny ability to annoy the shit out of me. When I see secretaries that make $20K a year acting like they're CEOs and I'm supposed to be excited because they've got knock off Prada and Louis Vuitton bags, I just get annoyed. Give me a broad with tattoos and an attitude any day.
Regardless, after a couple shots and a couple beers, we headed back down to A Pub. At this stage of the game, I have officially been over-served. Be that as it may, the band was gracious enough to have me up on stage to butcher a song. God bless those guys. I never get tired of that.
After thoroughly embarrassing myself, I was far from done. We headed back over to Daisy Dukes, where Russ took it upon himself to talk to the bull guy. Yes, my loyal readers, I became one of those morons getting tossed ass over teacups. Twice.
So... that was the end of that... right up until I learned that Noah had invited the bar back to the corner apartment for after hours. Here's the abbreviated story, as I know this whole post has been; Dave passed out in my recliner, at which point I took it upon myself to draw on his face in permanent marker. I gave him a Mickey Mouse nose, a hitler moustache, and wrote "Hi" backwards on his forehead... just a little reminder for when he looked in the mirror the next day. After that, we hung out, drank, I did some street magic, drank, turned on the iPod, drank, found out the names of all the people that were in my kitchen, drank, and then finally got to bed around 5AM. A good time was had by all.
I know this is a pretty short post and not my usual writing style, but it's 90+ degrees in my office, and for some reason, the a/c doesn't reach in here.
Now that I've gotten that out of the way, something else happened that was kind of big, and not in a good way. One of my best friends, Josh's, father passed away last night. He had been struggling with liver problems for a few months, and ultimately and unfortunately lost the battle. He was 52 years old. I couldn't even find the words when he called me last night and gave me the news. I was so sad for him. I couldn't imagine.
Those of you that have been loyal readers for the last couple years know that my two closest friends, John & Chris, both lost their fathers to terrible diseases that overcame them. No matter how many times you experience it, regardless of the circumstances, it's still a crushing blow. It was one to me, but again, I can't imagine the sorrow that my friends have gone through. It seems like yesterday that Josh and I were sitting in the old corner apartment and somehow the subject came up of me being a pall bearer for Chris's dad, Al, and how I didn't really like it. How I was kind of uncomfortable... even though it was someone that I cared very deeply about that I was carrying to his final resting place. I remember Josh saying that there's nothing nicer that you can do for someone than to lay them down for the last time, and that it was an honor. I thought about that, and realized that he was right, and I felt better about it, and I was honored. We haven't talked about it at all, but should he ask me to do it again, I'd be honored.
After work today, I stopped at the mall and picked up a baseball hat for Josh, and dropped it off to him at his parent's house. He and his dad were both Baltimore Orioles fans, and they used to go to Red Wings games together, back when the Wings were the O's AAA affiliate... hence, he became a Baltimore fan. I remember him saying that he used to have an O's hat that had their old logo on it... it's kind of a cartoon bird, and I knew what he was talking about. Luckily, I was able to find it at the mall and give it to him. He liked it. He said that it reminded him of his dad. I'm glad. Anytime you can give someone a gift that has some sort of sentimental value, especially when you know they've just had something like losing a parent thrust upon them, it makes you feel good. Plus, I'm looking for some karma points.
We took a quick walk down to the church at the end of his parent's street so that he could smoke a cigarette, and just talked for a little while. I did my best to listen. That's pretty much all you can do. I didn't pull a quarter out of the air, I didn't tell him a joke, and I didn't tell him about being a moron that got tossed ass over teacups. I just listened. I think that's the best course of action sometimes.
He talked about the fact that you just never know how long someone is going to be around. He talked about how his father passed away while he was there, and how he was going to move back home to be with his mother. I just didn't know what to say. Just, "yeah, I'm really sorry." That's pretty much all I could think of that would be appropriate.
I don't know really what to take away from all this. Is it that you can't take people for granted because you don't know how long they're going to be here? Is it that you should live every day like it was your last? I think it's the former. If I lived every day like it was my last, Budweiser and Cuervo stock would go through the roof, and I'd be in rehab pretty much every other day. I don't have that kind of time or energy. I try to live every weekend like it was my last, and that's plenty for me.
I guess it's the not taking people you care about for granted thing. I know Josh's family didn't take his father for granted. I could tell you more stories about Josh's dad and I never even met the man. I think that's a lot of why I feel so bad for him.
I'm going to sign off now. I have my company's annual sales meeting all week this week, so I have meetings all day, every day. Oh God... it's death by PowerPoint. Ugh. Maybe you guys should go buy some stock in Starbucks. I'm fairly sure I can boost their bottom line this week alone. This ass-over-teacups-moron needs some sleep.
Until next time...
R
Thursday, July 20, 2006
I don't know... make up your own title.
Well, my loyal readers, I'll start off with the much deserved apology. Sorry. I know I haven't updated in a few weeks. I've been really busy, and it's been really hot. About the last thing that I want to do is sit in my office and write, but you've been patient, so here you go.
As I sit in front of this monitor, my bags packed for Toronto to go see my beloved Yankees this weekend, I'm enjoying a Blue Moon Belgian White Wheat Ale and taking slow, methodical drags on a Marlboro light. You see, there's been a lot on my mind lately about, what other than, the fairer sex. I'm unbelievably confused right now, as I have been for about the past two months. Specifically, I've been getting mixed signals, and I don't know what to think. I sort of think that I'm gaining some headway, but another part of me thinks that my head is just getting fucked with.
Here's the rant for today... at what point do we just give up? I'm going to be 35 years old in a little more than a week. I'm not getting any younger. Now, don't get me wrong... I haven't given up on life or anything morbid like that. I'm way too smart and way too good looking to start thinking that way. Things are actually going pretty well. I've got a good job, I just bought an Explorer, and my golf game is starting to come back into form. I'm just kind of at that point in a certain aspect of my life where maybe the best thing to do is stop trying.
I know lately that I've been likening pretty much everything to baseball, so why stop now? The only reason that I'm not giving up is the Chicago Cubs. For those of you that don't know, the Cubs haven't won a World Series title yet in the God knows how many years of their existence. The thing is that their fans are great, and they keep buying their season tickets year after year in the hopes that this is the year. There's a saying in sports; "there's always next year." Yeah... well, that's great if you're a baseball franchise and you can keep signing young players as fast as the veterans retire, but if you're 35... essentially one year closer to adult diapers, cardigan sweaters, baldness, people referring to you as though you were furniture and death... when do you just stop trying with women?
Ladies and gentlemen, I have dated my share of women. Some for a couple hours, and some for a couple of years. Honestly, mostly the former. Regardless... moving on. Is there something inherently wrong with my biological makeup where I can't just have a mutual understanding and happiness with a woman that lasts for longer than it takes to do a load of laundry?
I don't know... maybe it's just not in the cards. Maybe I'm destined to be single forever. Maybe my "soulmate" died in a tragic gardening accident a long time ago. It's not that I'm not O.K. with that. I am. I've written about this before, so you know where I'm at with this, but I really find myself questioning the theory on whether or not there is some grand plan out there lately. I don't know if it's the impending chronological change in my life where I have to start checking the "35-42" box on electronics warranties or the fact that I see couples walking down Park Avenue holding hands without a care in the world except people like me finding fault in their coupled bliss and exploiting and mocking it to the point of putting it in print. Here's your parachute. Get in line.
I guess the other side of that coin is the glaring reality that it's 10:38 on a Thursday night, and I'm sitting in front of a computer spilling my guts into a blog with a fairly limited, yet selective readership while they're sitting outside at Cibon with a pair of martinis, staring into each other's eyes like that meatball scene in the alley in "Lady and the Tramp." Jesus... I want to kick my own ass for making that reference. Poor bastards.
Just kidding... but not really. Seriously, I was.
Anyway, at what point do I just give up with women? I don't know. I'm a geek... or a dork... or whatever you want to call it. It all kind of hit me as I was putting away my laundry earlier. I had the iPod cranked, I had it on shuffle, and a Jason Mraz song came on. I'm going to share a little bit of the lyrics of that song.
"I don't care what she might think about me.
She'll get by without me if she won't.
I could be the one to take her home.
Baby we could rock the night alone.
If we never get down, it wouldn't be a let down,
But sugar don't forget what you already know.
That I could be the one to turn you out.
We could be the talk across the town.
Don't judge it by the color,
Confuse it for another,
You might forget what you let slip away,
Like the geek in the pink."
Here's what I took that as, and it came at a time when I was actually thinking about one girl that I've been thinking a lot about lately. I kind of took it as, hey, it's her loss so screw it. Immediately after that, "Never There" by Hoobastank came on. Check out the lyrics to this one.
"I'm filling up inside
Like i need to open wide
And pour my heart out to you
But i'll just get denied
And all i wanted was someone to hear what i'm going through.
You were supposed to see
All the signs i left right in front of your face
You were supposed to be
The closest thing to being me
But you're the furthest away
That's because.....
[chorus:] Everytime that i need you around
You're never there (never there) You're never there (never there)
Because in my life is where i need you now
But you're never there (never there)
You're never there (never there)
You're never there
And I doubt
That I will ever find out
If there's a way to get out
Of feeling all alone
Cause latley
I've been thinking
Maybe
That no one's going to save me
I'll do it on my own.....
On my own
[chorus:] Everytime that i need you around
You're never there (never there)
You're never there (never there)
Because in my life is where i need you now
But you're never there (never there)
You're never there (never there)"
In other words, I'm putting a pant-load of effor in here, but I feel like I'm getting no reciprocation, so screw it.
I don't know. Do I take that as a sign, or do I persevere? I don't know, and it's pissing me off that I'm so confused about this. I don't do this. I don't get like this. Do I accept the notion that my head is being fucked with, or do I buy a season ticket to Wrigley and move to Chicago? Jesus, I don't know. I guess if I had that answer, I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be at the Park Bench trying to pick up some trash and downing shots of tequila, talking about how my beloved God damn Yankees just lost to Toronto on a walk-off home run. Shit.
As per usual, I'm listening to my trusty iPod. Check out the song that came on as I dropped the last period on that sentence. It's "Next Ex-Girlfriend" by Bowling for Soup. Check the lyrics on this catchy little diddy.
"I don’t wanna meet your dad
Don’t wanna hump your sister
Don’t wanna do it to your best friend either
I don’t want you messin around and givin me a blister
And leave me illin for the penicillin
When you walk out
I don’t wanna feel left out
Cuz sooner or later its just over, over
I don’t wanna get inside your mind or your pants
I don’t wanna waste my time with love and romance
I want my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t want the fairy tale and
I don’t want the girl from hell
Don't wanna be your biggest mistake
You can be my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t wanna learn to dance don’t wanna rent the limo
I know your thinking I’m a weirdo
I just want the bragging rights
I want to let the world know
Convince my friends I’m not a homo
When you walk out I don’t wanna feel left out
Cuz sooner or later its just over, over
I don’t wanna get inside your mind or your pants
I don’t wanna waste my time with love and romance
I want my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t want the fairy tale andI don’t want the girl from hell
Don't wanna be your biggest mistake
You can be my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
Tell everyone im good in the sack
But all your friends were giving you flack
And you just couldn’t put up with that
So no your never taking me back
I don’t wanna get inside your mind or your pants
I don’t wanna waste my time with love and romance
I want my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t want the fairy tale and
I don’t want the girl from hell
And I don’t want to spend the time
And I don’t need no valentine
My next-ex-girl friend, my next-ex-girlfriend"
I don't know... take it for what it's worth. I guess that's why they call it the "shuffle" feature.
Anyway... it's late. I need to sign off. Besides, I have to get up early and drive to Toronto tomorrow after work. The Skydome in Toronto has an awesome gift shop. Maybe the have converted Cubs fans hats.
Until next time...
R
As I sit in front of this monitor, my bags packed for Toronto to go see my beloved Yankees this weekend, I'm enjoying a Blue Moon Belgian White Wheat Ale and taking slow, methodical drags on a Marlboro light. You see, there's been a lot on my mind lately about, what other than, the fairer sex. I'm unbelievably confused right now, as I have been for about the past two months. Specifically, I've been getting mixed signals, and I don't know what to think. I sort of think that I'm gaining some headway, but another part of me thinks that my head is just getting fucked with.
Here's the rant for today... at what point do we just give up? I'm going to be 35 years old in a little more than a week. I'm not getting any younger. Now, don't get me wrong... I haven't given up on life or anything morbid like that. I'm way too smart and way too good looking to start thinking that way. Things are actually going pretty well. I've got a good job, I just bought an Explorer, and my golf game is starting to come back into form. I'm just kind of at that point in a certain aspect of my life where maybe the best thing to do is stop trying.
I know lately that I've been likening pretty much everything to baseball, so why stop now? The only reason that I'm not giving up is the Chicago Cubs. For those of you that don't know, the Cubs haven't won a World Series title yet in the God knows how many years of their existence. The thing is that their fans are great, and they keep buying their season tickets year after year in the hopes that this is the year. There's a saying in sports; "there's always next year." Yeah... well, that's great if you're a baseball franchise and you can keep signing young players as fast as the veterans retire, but if you're 35... essentially one year closer to adult diapers, cardigan sweaters, baldness, people referring to you as though you were furniture and death... when do you just stop trying with women?
Ladies and gentlemen, I have dated my share of women. Some for a couple hours, and some for a couple of years. Honestly, mostly the former. Regardless... moving on. Is there something inherently wrong with my biological makeup where I can't just have a mutual understanding and happiness with a woman that lasts for longer than it takes to do a load of laundry?
I don't know... maybe it's just not in the cards. Maybe I'm destined to be single forever. Maybe my "soulmate" died in a tragic gardening accident a long time ago. It's not that I'm not O.K. with that. I am. I've written about this before, so you know where I'm at with this, but I really find myself questioning the theory on whether or not there is some grand plan out there lately. I don't know if it's the impending chronological change in my life where I have to start checking the "35-42" box on electronics warranties or the fact that I see couples walking down Park Avenue holding hands without a care in the world except people like me finding fault in their coupled bliss and exploiting and mocking it to the point of putting it in print. Here's your parachute. Get in line.
I guess the other side of that coin is the glaring reality that it's 10:38 on a Thursday night, and I'm sitting in front of a computer spilling my guts into a blog with a fairly limited, yet selective readership while they're sitting outside at Cibon with a pair of martinis, staring into each other's eyes like that meatball scene in the alley in "Lady and the Tramp." Jesus... I want to kick my own ass for making that reference. Poor bastards.
Just kidding... but not really. Seriously, I was.
Anyway, at what point do I just give up with women? I don't know. I'm a geek... or a dork... or whatever you want to call it. It all kind of hit me as I was putting away my laundry earlier. I had the iPod cranked, I had it on shuffle, and a Jason Mraz song came on. I'm going to share a little bit of the lyrics of that song.
"I don't care what she might think about me.
She'll get by without me if she won't.
I could be the one to take her home.
Baby we could rock the night alone.
If we never get down, it wouldn't be a let down,
But sugar don't forget what you already know.
That I could be the one to turn you out.
We could be the talk across the town.
Don't judge it by the color,
Confuse it for another,
You might forget what you let slip away,
Like the geek in the pink."
Here's what I took that as, and it came at a time when I was actually thinking about one girl that I've been thinking a lot about lately. I kind of took it as, hey, it's her loss so screw it. Immediately after that, "Never There" by Hoobastank came on. Check out the lyrics to this one.
"I'm filling up inside
Like i need to open wide
And pour my heart out to you
But i'll just get denied
And all i wanted was someone to hear what i'm going through.
You were supposed to see
All the signs i left right in front of your face
You were supposed to be
The closest thing to being me
But you're the furthest away
That's because.....
[chorus:] Everytime that i need you around
You're never there (never there) You're never there (never there)
Because in my life is where i need you now
But you're never there (never there)
You're never there (never there)
You're never there
And I doubt
That I will ever find out
If there's a way to get out
Of feeling all alone
Cause latley
I've been thinking
Maybe
That no one's going to save me
I'll do it on my own.....
On my own
[chorus:] Everytime that i need you around
You're never there (never there)
You're never there (never there)
Because in my life is where i need you now
But you're never there (never there)
You're never there (never there)"
In other words, I'm putting a pant-load of effor in here, but I feel like I'm getting no reciprocation, so screw it.
I don't know. Do I take that as a sign, or do I persevere? I don't know, and it's pissing me off that I'm so confused about this. I don't do this. I don't get like this. Do I accept the notion that my head is being fucked with, or do I buy a season ticket to Wrigley and move to Chicago? Jesus, I don't know. I guess if I had that answer, I wouldn't be writing this. I'd be at the Park Bench trying to pick up some trash and downing shots of tequila, talking about how my beloved God damn Yankees just lost to Toronto on a walk-off home run. Shit.
As per usual, I'm listening to my trusty iPod. Check out the song that came on as I dropped the last period on that sentence. It's "Next Ex-Girlfriend" by Bowling for Soup. Check the lyrics on this catchy little diddy.
"I don’t wanna meet your dad
Don’t wanna hump your sister
Don’t wanna do it to your best friend either
I don’t want you messin around and givin me a blister
And leave me illin for the penicillin
When you walk out
I don’t wanna feel left out
Cuz sooner or later its just over, over
I don’t wanna get inside your mind or your pants
I don’t wanna waste my time with love and romance
I want my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t want the fairy tale and
I don’t want the girl from hell
Don't wanna be your biggest mistake
You can be my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t wanna learn to dance don’t wanna rent the limo
I know your thinking I’m a weirdo
I just want the bragging rights
I want to let the world know
Convince my friends I’m not a homo
When you walk out I don’t wanna feel left out
Cuz sooner or later its just over, over
I don’t wanna get inside your mind or your pants
I don’t wanna waste my time with love and romance
I want my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t want the fairy tale andI don’t want the girl from hell
Don't wanna be your biggest mistake
You can be my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
Tell everyone im good in the sack
But all your friends were giving you flack
And you just couldn’t put up with that
So no your never taking me back
I don’t wanna get inside your mind or your pants
I don’t wanna waste my time with love and romance
I want my next-ex-girlfriend, my next-ex-girlfriend
I don’t want the fairy tale and
I don’t want the girl from hell
And I don’t want to spend the time
And I don’t need no valentine
My next-ex-girl friend, my next-ex-girlfriend"
I don't know... take it for what it's worth. I guess that's why they call it the "shuffle" feature.
Anyway... it's late. I need to sign off. Besides, I have to get up early and drive to Toronto tomorrow after work. The Skydome in Toronto has an awesome gift shop. Maybe the have converted Cubs fans hats.
Until next time...
R
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Don't Worry... Be Happy... or something like that.
I don't have a real good opener right here, but I had to put this down in print somewhere. After softball tonight, I came home, got something to eat, and turned on a new show called "America's Got Talent." The judges are David Hasselhoff, Brandy and Piers Morgan. Now this Morgan guy has been the editor of some fairly well known rags. In other words, he can spot talent, recognize it, and report it. Fine. I'm O.K. with that.
Now, here's a question for you, my loyal readers; am I the only person in America that sees the unbelievably glaring and bitter irony in Brandy and David Hasselhoff judging competition on a show called "America's Got Talent?" For the sake of the planet, I hope not. Nice job, NBC... ya really knocked it out of the park with selecting a no-talent hack with a great ass that can't sing her way out of a paper bag, and the guy that played the lead in "Knight Rider." Well done.
Dear NBC, I've got an idea for a show. It's called, "Competitive Target Shooting With a High Powered Firearm at a Bullseye Wedged Between Two Puppies" hosted by Stevie Wonder. No? Too risque? O.K.... maybe. Wait, I've got another one. It's called "How To Pick Up Chicks The Safe Way" hosted by Mike Tyson. That's a winner if I've ever heard one.
By the way, it's on in the background, and they just put a guy through to the next level that strapped 25 bicycle horns to an orange jumpsuit and played "Frere Jacques." 'Nuff said? Good. Let's move on.
I got a lot of emails and feedback on the last post that I wrote about marriage... ranging from the stupid to the sublime and everything in between. I won't post them all here. I don't think that Blogger gives me enough space to slap them all up here, and the majority of you probably have neither the time nor the inclination to read a bunch of stuff that was meant for my eyes only. Yes, I could post them anonymously, but then, what fun would that be. I will tell you, however, that neither side provided enough compelling evidence for me to be in favor of either marriage or the single life. Whilst (I've been itching to use that word) the majority are of the opinion that it's a bad idea to get married, I'm not 100% sold. I'm somwhere in the 65%-80% range. The reason being that I like the idea of me having someone else out there that's going to enhance my existence to the point of essentially legally complying with the idea of having sex with that one person for the rest of my natural life. It's like some really long and really twisted game of "Where's Waldo," only the pages in the open book are the size of a freaking planet. Thanks, God. Wanna narrow the field or at least thin the herd a little bit here? No? How about a hint. No? O.K.... how about this; give me a sign. If the phone rings in the next 10 minutes, I'll marry the person that's on the other end of the conversation, and accept the fact that you, God, said that it's gospel, and I'll live out my days that way. Ready? Go.
Well, it's now 10 blasphemous minutes later, and I'm engaged to Phil from Overstock.com letting me know that they received my order today for a new Palm Pilot. Shit. I was really kind of hoping that girl from Nebraska still had my number. Rats. Anyway, a September wedding is planned, provided that Phil can get the week off. Apparently Overstock is planning a liquidation sale or something and he might have to bag on the whole idea. Damn... aside from the lisp, Phil sounded like a nice guy. I'll post the pictures sometime in October. I hear I look great in a tux.
O.K.... now that we've got the rest of my life planned out, let's move on. Really, this time.
I've been thinking about the whole marriage thing, and I've boiled it down to this; happiness. I'm not just talking about marriage here, people. It's about being happy in general. If you're not happy in your marriage, get the hell out. Go somewhere and do something that makes you happy. I had a fleeting moment of this tonight. Again, I was on the outside looking in (kinda), but a beautiful moment nevertheless. Details you ask? Here you go.
I mentioned that I had a softball game tonight. Short story; we won 17-3. We hit over .700 as a team. For those of you that aren't into the whole stats thing... that's really f'ing good. Regardless, I was on deck behind Noah. Before I continue, let me say this; Noah can hit a softball like no human I have ever seen. It's pretty amazing. Moving on. The count was 2-1, and the pitcher tossed an absolute meatball that split the heart of the plate and descended like a badminton birdie to Noah's waist. There's no other way to put this other than this; Noah just uncoiled and absolutely crushed the ball in a mammoth arc over the left field fence. It took off like a shot in a perfect angle, froze for a moment when it started it's descent, and landed somewhere in the Western side of the 585 area code. The ball's family has been notified, and will release it's name after careful examination of the dental records and DNA testing.
As the ball rose, Noah dropped the bat, stood in the batter's box for just a second or two admiring the moonshot that had just lept off the molded piece of aluminum that had settled at his feet, and audibly said, "thank you" to the pitcher.
Wanna see what pure joy looks like? Come to my game next week. It's at 7:15. Bring a telescope.
I have never hit a home run. I'm not a big guy, I don't work out, and every time I round second, I drop the ashtray. Anyway, in all likelihood, I never will... unless, of course, Barry Bonds and Rafael Palmiero happen to give me a call and clue me in on their training regimen. I'm looking for something that will allow me to hit home runs, but at the same time expand my head to double the size that it is presently... and if you can throw in some fits of rage and uncontrollable back acne, that would be great. Again, moving on.
As I was saying, I have never hit a home run. Here's what I think that feeling is like. It's complete satisfaction and happiness. Now, maybe I'm making it out to be more than it actually is. I'm sure for guys that can do it, it's not that big a deal, but here's my take.
I believe it to be the same kind of feeling that I get after sitting on my couch with a pen, paper, guitar, and a martini, and putting something into print and verse that no one has ever heard before, and I know in my heart of hearts (yeah, I don't know what that phrase means) that it's good. It's the feeling after you come off stage with your band that has never played in public before and you know you just rocked the house and people come up and ask when and where you're playing again. It's the feeling of hitting a 6-iron out of the rough on #4 at Riverton from behind a tree, and you feel that ball just give, and you know as soon as it leaves the club that it's pin-high and you're putting for birdie... all before you see the ball even land, and get back in the cart and pick up your friend that hit a drive into the fairway and just air mailed his second shot. It's the feeling of... wait... never mind. That's enough and I'm rambling. You get the idea.
What I'm getting at here is that it's different for everybody. Like with Noah hitting that ball that hasn't landed yet, I'm sure it's a very happy and satisfying moment for him personally, but those of us that aren't blessed with incredible hitting power, perfect timing and a swing that would make Alex Rodriguez jealous have to have other things. It's really a matter of necessity, but, again, it's different for everybody.
The reason that I say it's a matter of necessity is because if you didn't have at least one thing that made you really happy, why stick around? I'm not saying that it's something you have to do, say or experience every day, but everybody has that something, and I'm sure that not a lot of people have the same thing. For a lot of us, it probably changes from time to time, but again, it's different for everybody and whatever it is, it doesn't really matter. Right now, one of my favorite things is an email exchange that I have that's been going on for about a month now. I'll be sitting in my office, I'll glance down at the clock in the lower right hand corner of my screen, and I'll see that little envelope that tells me I have a new email. That makes me happy. Check that... it makes me really happy. You know who you are.
Do yourself and me a favor here. I'll feel like I've done my job if this happens. When you're done reading this, think about the last time you were really just happy and satisfied. That time when you just had that happy and contented feeling and nothing else in the world mattered and you could give a frog's fat ass what your boss was nagging you for, where your girlfriend wanted you to take her, or how you were going to somehow work a moonwalk into a wedding reception after 10 glasses of red wine. It's a challenge, I know.
Seriously, take some time. Sit back in your chair. Take a long hard pull off of that bottle of water or cup of coffee that you're drinking. Stop reading this and think. Find it. Flip open that mental rolodex and go back. Remember it. Remember who was there. Remember what you were wearing. Remember how cold it was or how un-Godly hot it was. Remember what song was playing, or remember the deafening silence that covered you like a blanket. Remember what card was turned, what club you hit, what beer someone had just bought you, or what hat you were wearing after someone made your randomly selected card appear in ashes on his arm.
Find it.
I have my memory locked away. I won't put it in print here... it's something that I keep just for me. I'll tell you this; I can tell you what that moment smells like. It's that vivid to me.
O.K.... got it? If not, scroll up two or three paragraphs and re-read... then continue.
Got it now? Good. Remember that feeling? Pretty good, right?
Now, do this; make a point of doing something that will make that happen again within the next week. Lather, rinse, repeat. Know what? Let's make it two weeks. That'll give me enough time to filter through the emails.
Do it. You'll thank me.
As for me... I'm going to sign off for the night. I've got batting practice in the morning, and Phil's supposed to call me later. We're going to go through Overstock's discount China patterns.
Until next time...
R
Now, here's a question for you, my loyal readers; am I the only person in America that sees the unbelievably glaring and bitter irony in Brandy and David Hasselhoff judging competition on a show called "America's Got Talent?" For the sake of the planet, I hope not. Nice job, NBC... ya really knocked it out of the park with selecting a no-talent hack with a great ass that can't sing her way out of a paper bag, and the guy that played the lead in "Knight Rider." Well done.
Dear NBC, I've got an idea for a show. It's called, "Competitive Target Shooting With a High Powered Firearm at a Bullseye Wedged Between Two Puppies" hosted by Stevie Wonder. No? Too risque? O.K.... maybe. Wait, I've got another one. It's called "How To Pick Up Chicks The Safe Way" hosted by Mike Tyson. That's a winner if I've ever heard one.
By the way, it's on in the background, and they just put a guy through to the next level that strapped 25 bicycle horns to an orange jumpsuit and played "Frere Jacques." 'Nuff said? Good. Let's move on.
I got a lot of emails and feedback on the last post that I wrote about marriage... ranging from the stupid to the sublime and everything in between. I won't post them all here. I don't think that Blogger gives me enough space to slap them all up here, and the majority of you probably have neither the time nor the inclination to read a bunch of stuff that was meant for my eyes only. Yes, I could post them anonymously, but then, what fun would that be. I will tell you, however, that neither side provided enough compelling evidence for me to be in favor of either marriage or the single life. Whilst (I've been itching to use that word) the majority are of the opinion that it's a bad idea to get married, I'm not 100% sold. I'm somwhere in the 65%-80% range. The reason being that I like the idea of me having someone else out there that's going to enhance my existence to the point of essentially legally complying with the idea of having sex with that one person for the rest of my natural life. It's like some really long and really twisted game of "Where's Waldo," only the pages in the open book are the size of a freaking planet. Thanks, God. Wanna narrow the field or at least thin the herd a little bit here? No? How about a hint. No? O.K.... how about this; give me a sign. If the phone rings in the next 10 minutes, I'll marry the person that's on the other end of the conversation, and accept the fact that you, God, said that it's gospel, and I'll live out my days that way. Ready? Go.
Well, it's now 10 blasphemous minutes later, and I'm engaged to Phil from Overstock.com letting me know that they received my order today for a new Palm Pilot. Shit. I was really kind of hoping that girl from Nebraska still had my number. Rats. Anyway, a September wedding is planned, provided that Phil can get the week off. Apparently Overstock is planning a liquidation sale or something and he might have to bag on the whole idea. Damn... aside from the lisp, Phil sounded like a nice guy. I'll post the pictures sometime in October. I hear I look great in a tux.
O.K.... now that we've got the rest of my life planned out, let's move on. Really, this time.
I've been thinking about the whole marriage thing, and I've boiled it down to this; happiness. I'm not just talking about marriage here, people. It's about being happy in general. If you're not happy in your marriage, get the hell out. Go somewhere and do something that makes you happy. I had a fleeting moment of this tonight. Again, I was on the outside looking in (kinda), but a beautiful moment nevertheless. Details you ask? Here you go.
I mentioned that I had a softball game tonight. Short story; we won 17-3. We hit over .700 as a team. For those of you that aren't into the whole stats thing... that's really f'ing good. Regardless, I was on deck behind Noah. Before I continue, let me say this; Noah can hit a softball like no human I have ever seen. It's pretty amazing. Moving on. The count was 2-1, and the pitcher tossed an absolute meatball that split the heart of the plate and descended like a badminton birdie to Noah's waist. There's no other way to put this other than this; Noah just uncoiled and absolutely crushed the ball in a mammoth arc over the left field fence. It took off like a shot in a perfect angle, froze for a moment when it started it's descent, and landed somewhere in the Western side of the 585 area code. The ball's family has been notified, and will release it's name after careful examination of the dental records and DNA testing.
As the ball rose, Noah dropped the bat, stood in the batter's box for just a second or two admiring the moonshot that had just lept off the molded piece of aluminum that had settled at his feet, and audibly said, "thank you" to the pitcher.
Wanna see what pure joy looks like? Come to my game next week. It's at 7:15. Bring a telescope.
I have never hit a home run. I'm not a big guy, I don't work out, and every time I round second, I drop the ashtray. Anyway, in all likelihood, I never will... unless, of course, Barry Bonds and Rafael Palmiero happen to give me a call and clue me in on their training regimen. I'm looking for something that will allow me to hit home runs, but at the same time expand my head to double the size that it is presently... and if you can throw in some fits of rage and uncontrollable back acne, that would be great. Again, moving on.
As I was saying, I have never hit a home run. Here's what I think that feeling is like. It's complete satisfaction and happiness. Now, maybe I'm making it out to be more than it actually is. I'm sure for guys that can do it, it's not that big a deal, but here's my take.
I believe it to be the same kind of feeling that I get after sitting on my couch with a pen, paper, guitar, and a martini, and putting something into print and verse that no one has ever heard before, and I know in my heart of hearts (yeah, I don't know what that phrase means) that it's good. It's the feeling after you come off stage with your band that has never played in public before and you know you just rocked the house and people come up and ask when and where you're playing again. It's the feeling of hitting a 6-iron out of the rough on #4 at Riverton from behind a tree, and you feel that ball just give, and you know as soon as it leaves the club that it's pin-high and you're putting for birdie... all before you see the ball even land, and get back in the cart and pick up your friend that hit a drive into the fairway and just air mailed his second shot. It's the feeling of... wait... never mind. That's enough and I'm rambling. You get the idea.
What I'm getting at here is that it's different for everybody. Like with Noah hitting that ball that hasn't landed yet, I'm sure it's a very happy and satisfying moment for him personally, but those of us that aren't blessed with incredible hitting power, perfect timing and a swing that would make Alex Rodriguez jealous have to have other things. It's really a matter of necessity, but, again, it's different for everybody.
The reason that I say it's a matter of necessity is because if you didn't have at least one thing that made you really happy, why stick around? I'm not saying that it's something you have to do, say or experience every day, but everybody has that something, and I'm sure that not a lot of people have the same thing. For a lot of us, it probably changes from time to time, but again, it's different for everybody and whatever it is, it doesn't really matter. Right now, one of my favorite things is an email exchange that I have that's been going on for about a month now. I'll be sitting in my office, I'll glance down at the clock in the lower right hand corner of my screen, and I'll see that little envelope that tells me I have a new email. That makes me happy. Check that... it makes me really happy. You know who you are.
Do yourself and me a favor here. I'll feel like I've done my job if this happens. When you're done reading this, think about the last time you were really just happy and satisfied. That time when you just had that happy and contented feeling and nothing else in the world mattered and you could give a frog's fat ass what your boss was nagging you for, where your girlfriend wanted you to take her, or how you were going to somehow work a moonwalk into a wedding reception after 10 glasses of red wine. It's a challenge, I know.
Seriously, take some time. Sit back in your chair. Take a long hard pull off of that bottle of water or cup of coffee that you're drinking. Stop reading this and think. Find it. Flip open that mental rolodex and go back. Remember it. Remember who was there. Remember what you were wearing. Remember how cold it was or how un-Godly hot it was. Remember what song was playing, or remember the deafening silence that covered you like a blanket. Remember what card was turned, what club you hit, what beer someone had just bought you, or what hat you were wearing after someone made your randomly selected card appear in ashes on his arm.
Find it.
I have my memory locked away. I won't put it in print here... it's something that I keep just for me. I'll tell you this; I can tell you what that moment smells like. It's that vivid to me.
O.K.... got it? If not, scroll up two or three paragraphs and re-read... then continue.
Got it now? Good. Remember that feeling? Pretty good, right?
Now, do this; make a point of doing something that will make that happen again within the next week. Lather, rinse, repeat. Know what? Let's make it two weeks. That'll give me enough time to filter through the emails.
Do it. You'll thank me.
As for me... I'm going to sign off for the night. I've got batting practice in the morning, and Phil's supposed to call me later. We're going to go through Overstock's discount China patterns.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Marriage & Baseball... I hope she still has my number.
Pretty funny... although I was loving the comments that I was getting on my Vegas posts, I think it's time to throw up yet another. Before I get started, however, I'm going to apologize to my Canadian friends for; one, not putting up the pictures just yet... primarily because it takes a bunch of time, it's a pain in the ass, and the Yanks are playing those f'ing unshaven dirtbags from Boston, and two, for not referring to them by name. Sorry about both of those, Dina, Sonia & Julie. You guys are very cool and I consider it an honor that you even read my little slice of Richiedom... so I promise I'll get them up soon. My bad.
Also, in order to capture the mood, I'm going to do my "this is what I'm listening to on my iPod" thing again. I liked going back and reading that one. Enough self-indulgence... here you go.
(Ohio by Bowling for Soup)
Anyway, I feel compelled to write this after a brief conversation with my friend... let's call her "Val" for the duration of this post. Her name has been changed to protect the innocent. Our conversation won't be the only thing in this post, but I've been thinking about the substance of our interaction for a couple of weeks now, and I think I've finally collected my thoughts enough to put it into print.
(Lit Up by Buckcherry)
Pretty much the nuts and bolts of our conversation were pretty much, "what now." What I mean by that is we're both just about the same age, we're both single, and we're both kind of wondering what's next. Are we supposed to get married? Are we supposed to pump out about 2.4 kids, buy a minivan and move to the burbs? Maybe... all except for the minivan thing. Trust me... they suck. Ask anyone that I used to work with. They'll tell you the same thing. But I digress.
(911 is a Joke by Public Enemy)
(Rollin' by Limp Bizkit)
To get back on the subject, the best answer I can give to that is this; maybe. I don't know. Here's the thing... well, a couple things really. For one, I refuse to get married just to get married and have kids. I refuse to jump into what's supposed to be a lifetime commitment in order to simply do what I'm "supposed" to do. When and IF I do it, it's going to be once, it's going to be for the right reason(s), and it's going to be the first and last time. Yes, I know I capitalized the word "if" because I wanted to convey the message that it's a big fucking if.
Here's the other thing; the divorce rate in America is over 50%. Think about that. I'll wait.
(My Own Worst Enemy by Lit)
Thought about it? Good. To recap that, the divorce rate is over 50% in the U.S. Now, having said that, I want you to consider this scenario. If you were going skydiving, and the jumpmaster came out in front of your group and said, "hey... just so you know, only half the chutes are going to open," would you go? Yeah... me either. Didn't think so.
Now, reading what you've just read, you would probably be of the train of thought that The Rychkid is anti-marriage. Well... yes and no. (Numb by Linkin Park) I really have no frame of reference. I have never been married, although I was engaged in 1997. I wrote about that a while ago, so if you're not a loyal reader you can go back to the archives and find it. I'm not about to re-hash that whole thing now.
Regardless, if I would have gone through with the whole marriage thing, to be honest, I would be divorced right now with a big, fat alimony payment. It's not a bad thing (me not getting married... not the alimony thing). She's a great girl and any guy would be lucky to spend the rest of his life with her, but we both knew... well, know now, that we're better off as friends. I'm cool with it and so is she... and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be writing about Vegas trips would I have gone through with the whole thing.
(Again by Lenny Kravitz)
Let me try to bring this train back on the pretentiousness track. Sorry... kind of went off on a tangent there.
Anyway, as I was saying, I have no frame of reference. I am essentially on the outside looking in on the whole marriage thing. The good thing about that is that I can view this whole dynamic of married couples like I'm watching a baseball game. (Schoolboy Heart by Jimmy Buffett) That may sound like a bit of an obscure segue analogy, but bear with me.
(Two Pina Coladas by Garth Brooks)
I go to a lot of baseball games in the summer. Probably 9 out of 10 of them that I attend, I go to with Pat. Pat is one of my best friends (as you loyal readers should know), and he's a baseball guy just like me. He's a Yankees fan, he used to play, and he gets the game. The great thing about us going to games together is we can pretty much talk about anything, but we will talk about what's happening in the game, and discuss what the right move is at any given point in the game. "Would you send him?" "I'd go high and tight with this guy... he's a left hander and there's a runner on second." "Gotta lay one down here... runner on first, down by one, no outs and we're down by two." Get it? Well, if you didn't, call your dad and say any one of those things to him and he'll know what you're talking about.
(Photograph by Nickelback)
That's the analogy right there. I see all of my married friends, and I watch married couples when I am wherever it is I go, and I have yet to hear the following statement; "dude, you gotta get married... it's the best!" The second I hear that, I'll walk into the closest bar, buy everyone in there a shot and a beer, make a phone call, get on a plane to Vegas, and get hitched. Either that or turn gay. Nah, wait... I couldn't do that. I don't think I'd make a good homosexual. While I do care about what I look like before I leave the house, I'm into wine, art and music... I don't know any show tunes. Maybe I should just book an open-ended ticket right now.
(Catholic Boy by Jim Carroll)
Sorry... lost my train of thought. I'm doing laundry as I write this, and I just had to run to the basement. Where the hell was I going with this?
(Let My Love Open The Door by Pete Townsend)
I always find it funny when I have to go back and read some of my own dribble to remember where the hell I was and what the hell I was writing about. There have been times when I've gone back after doing something very important (like grabbing another beer) and deleted a post of about a thousand words and started over. I'm going to try not to do that right now, although the urge is becoming overwhealming.
(Fly by Sugar Ray)
Again, let's try to get back on track.
Over a couple of beers and a Sabres shutout later, Val had to leave. Her friend was picking her up outside the bar in a couple of minutes, and she asked, "do you ever just panic?" It took me a second or two, but my answer was definitive. "No." I tried to impart some wisdom from the world of the Rychkid, but I'm not sure if it made a whole lot of sense at the time. It was something in the vein of "I like who I am and I don't need someone to complete me." Yeah, it'd be nice to have someone to come home to that I'm actually looking forward to seeing every night when I come home, (Next to You by Buckcherry) but that's not going to stop me from feeling like I'm missing out on anything. If at any point, I feel like I need to get married, I will. Until that happens, I'll hang out in the corner apartment with my ridiculous amount of disposable income, my guitar and a fantastic bottle of Penfolds Shiraz Cabernet. I'm halfway through it right now, and I feel like the only thing that I need right now to complete me is a big box of Cadbury Eggs and the scene with Christopher Walken from True Romance. Guess I'll have to settle for the lone Hershey's Kiss in my fridge.
(Far Behind by Candlebox)
(Rock Show by Blink 182)
Writer's block.
(Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects)
To sum it up, no, I don't panic, and I am neither pro nor con. I won't get into the whole, "my parents are divorced so marriage sucks" thing. That's got nothing to do with it either way.
(Carousel by Buckcherry) For the love of God I have a bunch of Buckcherry songs on my iPod... but they're SO fucking good. Do yourself a favor and check them out. Thank me in the comments section.
I don't look at one isolated thing and just throw the whole idea out completely. I do see marriages that work, or rather, are working. I wish them the best, and go on my way. (Story Of A Girl by Nine Days) I hope and pray that all my family and friend's marriages work out. I wish them all the wedded bliss that was promised to them on their wedding day.... the day when they stood before God and man and pledged their eternal love and to forever have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer. (I Wish by Skee-Lo) I don't know... (shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders) people change and that's life. If we didn't, we wouldn't be human. Sometimes better and sometimes worse. The only thing with the vows is that you're promising all that stuff to the person standing in front of you right at that moment. Take those same vows in 10 years and let me know. Sorry... that sounded bitter. That may be the shiraz cabernet talking.
(Midnight Rider by The Allman Brothers)
Let me close with this. It's not so much about me. Will I find someone that's looking for a 34 year-old (at the moment) sales rep that likes to drink and smoke, is losing his hair, plays guitar and piano, writes songs, loves baseball and the Yankees, (Wrecking Hotel Rooms by MxPx) likes to gamble, can make you laugh at a tax audit or the emergency room, doesn't like to work out, is into fashion and art, drug & disease free, with killler blue eyes, can tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue, likes Tarantino movies, can make a really cool wall piece out of wine corks, is afraid of heights but doesn't mind flying, loves going out to see live music, especially The Taint, has an impressive Pez dispenser collection, (Boys Don't Cry by The Cure) can separate lights from darks in the laundry, puts the seat down, has all the shirts in his closet going the same way, likes punk rock but whose favorite musician is Jimmy Buffett, has a bad tattoo with a great story, wears his great grandmother's ring on his left pinkie for sentimental reasons and has done so since age 18 regardless of how many people make fun of him for it, (Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond) and has probably the best singing voice you've ever heard outside a recording? Maybe, maybe not. It's a tall order. Jesus Christ, did I just write a personal ad? How late is match.com open?
(Pretty Vegas by INXS)
As I've said in numerous posts before, I don't have the answers. If you do, shoot me an email or leave a comment. I'll be waiting with baited breath and a bottle of tequila. Either that or I'll just delete them if I don't like them. Like I've said... it's my blog and I'll do and write what I want. However, until then, I'll just sign off. It's late and I have to get up extra early because I have to leave work early for my softball game. If there's a runner on second and less than two outs, don't throw me an outside pitch. I'm taking that opposite field for a double and an RBI.
Val, like I said, I don't have the answers, but if you have questions, my personal ad is posted about two paragraphs above. (Runaway Train by Soul Asylum) You're a wonderful girl and I hope you find what you're looking for, but, more importantly, I hope you get what you want. You should be my girlfriend. Again... refer to the ad above.
By the way, the Yankees won 2-1. Thank God for that Melky Cabrera guy... he's doing a hell of a job filling in. I hope someday I can do the same.
(Lost It In The Sun by The Gathering Field)
Until next time...
R
Also, in order to capture the mood, I'm going to do my "this is what I'm listening to on my iPod" thing again. I liked going back and reading that one. Enough self-indulgence... here you go.
(Ohio by Bowling for Soup)
Anyway, I feel compelled to write this after a brief conversation with my friend... let's call her "Val" for the duration of this post. Her name has been changed to protect the innocent. Our conversation won't be the only thing in this post, but I've been thinking about the substance of our interaction for a couple of weeks now, and I think I've finally collected my thoughts enough to put it into print.
(Lit Up by Buckcherry)
Pretty much the nuts and bolts of our conversation were pretty much, "what now." What I mean by that is we're both just about the same age, we're both single, and we're both kind of wondering what's next. Are we supposed to get married? Are we supposed to pump out about 2.4 kids, buy a minivan and move to the burbs? Maybe... all except for the minivan thing. Trust me... they suck. Ask anyone that I used to work with. They'll tell you the same thing. But I digress.
(911 is a Joke by Public Enemy)
(Rollin' by Limp Bizkit)
To get back on the subject, the best answer I can give to that is this; maybe. I don't know. Here's the thing... well, a couple things really. For one, I refuse to get married just to get married and have kids. I refuse to jump into what's supposed to be a lifetime commitment in order to simply do what I'm "supposed" to do. When and IF I do it, it's going to be once, it's going to be for the right reason(s), and it's going to be the first and last time. Yes, I know I capitalized the word "if" because I wanted to convey the message that it's a big fucking if.
Here's the other thing; the divorce rate in America is over 50%. Think about that. I'll wait.
(My Own Worst Enemy by Lit)
Thought about it? Good. To recap that, the divorce rate is over 50% in the U.S. Now, having said that, I want you to consider this scenario. If you were going skydiving, and the jumpmaster came out in front of your group and said, "hey... just so you know, only half the chutes are going to open," would you go? Yeah... me either. Didn't think so.
Now, reading what you've just read, you would probably be of the train of thought that The Rychkid is anti-marriage. Well... yes and no. (Numb by Linkin Park) I really have no frame of reference. I have never been married, although I was engaged in 1997. I wrote about that a while ago, so if you're not a loyal reader you can go back to the archives and find it. I'm not about to re-hash that whole thing now.
Regardless, if I would have gone through with the whole marriage thing, to be honest, I would be divorced right now with a big, fat alimony payment. It's not a bad thing (me not getting married... not the alimony thing). She's a great girl and any guy would be lucky to spend the rest of his life with her, but we both knew... well, know now, that we're better off as friends. I'm cool with it and so is she... and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be writing about Vegas trips would I have gone through with the whole thing.
(Again by Lenny Kravitz)
Let me try to bring this train back on the pretentiousness track. Sorry... kind of went off on a tangent there.
Anyway, as I was saying, I have no frame of reference. I am essentially on the outside looking in on the whole marriage thing. The good thing about that is that I can view this whole dynamic of married couples like I'm watching a baseball game. (Schoolboy Heart by Jimmy Buffett) That may sound like a bit of an obscure segue analogy, but bear with me.
(Two Pina Coladas by Garth Brooks)
I go to a lot of baseball games in the summer. Probably 9 out of 10 of them that I attend, I go to with Pat. Pat is one of my best friends (as you loyal readers should know), and he's a baseball guy just like me. He's a Yankees fan, he used to play, and he gets the game. The great thing about us going to games together is we can pretty much talk about anything, but we will talk about what's happening in the game, and discuss what the right move is at any given point in the game. "Would you send him?" "I'd go high and tight with this guy... he's a left hander and there's a runner on second." "Gotta lay one down here... runner on first, down by one, no outs and we're down by two." Get it? Well, if you didn't, call your dad and say any one of those things to him and he'll know what you're talking about.
(Photograph by Nickelback)
That's the analogy right there. I see all of my married friends, and I watch married couples when I am wherever it is I go, and I have yet to hear the following statement; "dude, you gotta get married... it's the best!" The second I hear that, I'll walk into the closest bar, buy everyone in there a shot and a beer, make a phone call, get on a plane to Vegas, and get hitched. Either that or turn gay. Nah, wait... I couldn't do that. I don't think I'd make a good homosexual. While I do care about what I look like before I leave the house, I'm into wine, art and music... I don't know any show tunes. Maybe I should just book an open-ended ticket right now.
(Catholic Boy by Jim Carroll)
Sorry... lost my train of thought. I'm doing laundry as I write this, and I just had to run to the basement. Where the hell was I going with this?
(Let My Love Open The Door by Pete Townsend)
I always find it funny when I have to go back and read some of my own dribble to remember where the hell I was and what the hell I was writing about. There have been times when I've gone back after doing something very important (like grabbing another beer) and deleted a post of about a thousand words and started over. I'm going to try not to do that right now, although the urge is becoming overwhealming.
(Fly by Sugar Ray)
Again, let's try to get back on track.
Over a couple of beers and a Sabres shutout later, Val had to leave. Her friend was picking her up outside the bar in a couple of minutes, and she asked, "do you ever just panic?" It took me a second or two, but my answer was definitive. "No." I tried to impart some wisdom from the world of the Rychkid, but I'm not sure if it made a whole lot of sense at the time. It was something in the vein of "I like who I am and I don't need someone to complete me." Yeah, it'd be nice to have someone to come home to that I'm actually looking forward to seeing every night when I come home, (Next to You by Buckcherry) but that's not going to stop me from feeling like I'm missing out on anything. If at any point, I feel like I need to get married, I will. Until that happens, I'll hang out in the corner apartment with my ridiculous amount of disposable income, my guitar and a fantastic bottle of Penfolds Shiraz Cabernet. I'm halfway through it right now, and I feel like the only thing that I need right now to complete me is a big box of Cadbury Eggs and the scene with Christopher Walken from True Romance. Guess I'll have to settle for the lone Hershey's Kiss in my fridge.
(Far Behind by Candlebox)
(Rock Show by Blink 182)
Writer's block.
(Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects)
To sum it up, no, I don't panic, and I am neither pro nor con. I won't get into the whole, "my parents are divorced so marriage sucks" thing. That's got nothing to do with it either way.
(Carousel by Buckcherry) For the love of God I have a bunch of Buckcherry songs on my iPod... but they're SO fucking good. Do yourself a favor and check them out. Thank me in the comments section.
I don't look at one isolated thing and just throw the whole idea out completely. I do see marriages that work, or rather, are working. I wish them the best, and go on my way. (Story Of A Girl by Nine Days) I hope and pray that all my family and friend's marriages work out. I wish them all the wedded bliss that was promised to them on their wedding day.... the day when they stood before God and man and pledged their eternal love and to forever have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer. (I Wish by Skee-Lo) I don't know... (shaking my head and shrugging my shoulders) people change and that's life. If we didn't, we wouldn't be human. Sometimes better and sometimes worse. The only thing with the vows is that you're promising all that stuff to the person standing in front of you right at that moment. Take those same vows in 10 years and let me know. Sorry... that sounded bitter. That may be the shiraz cabernet talking.
(Midnight Rider by The Allman Brothers)
Let me close with this. It's not so much about me. Will I find someone that's looking for a 34 year-old (at the moment) sales rep that likes to drink and smoke, is losing his hair, plays guitar and piano, writes songs, loves baseball and the Yankees, (Wrecking Hotel Rooms by MxPx) likes to gamble, can make you laugh at a tax audit or the emergency room, doesn't like to work out, is into fashion and art, drug & disease free, with killler blue eyes, can tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue, likes Tarantino movies, can make a really cool wall piece out of wine corks, is afraid of heights but doesn't mind flying, loves going out to see live music, especially The Taint, has an impressive Pez dispenser collection, (Boys Don't Cry by The Cure) can separate lights from darks in the laundry, puts the seat down, has all the shirts in his closet going the same way, likes punk rock but whose favorite musician is Jimmy Buffett, has a bad tattoo with a great story, wears his great grandmother's ring on his left pinkie for sentimental reasons and has done so since age 18 regardless of how many people make fun of him for it, (Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond) and has probably the best singing voice you've ever heard outside a recording? Maybe, maybe not. It's a tall order. Jesus Christ, did I just write a personal ad? How late is match.com open?
(Pretty Vegas by INXS)
As I've said in numerous posts before, I don't have the answers. If you do, shoot me an email or leave a comment. I'll be waiting with baited breath and a bottle of tequila. Either that or I'll just delete them if I don't like them. Like I've said... it's my blog and I'll do and write what I want. However, until then, I'll just sign off. It's late and I have to get up extra early because I have to leave work early for my softball game. If there's a runner on second and less than two outs, don't throw me an outside pitch. I'm taking that opposite field for a double and an RBI.
Val, like I said, I don't have the answers, but if you have questions, my personal ad is posted about two paragraphs above. (Runaway Train by Soul Asylum) You're a wonderful girl and I hope you find what you're looking for, but, more importantly, I hope you get what you want. You should be my girlfriend. Again... refer to the ad above.
By the way, the Yankees won 2-1. Thank God for that Melky Cabrera guy... he's doing a hell of a job filling in. I hope someday I can do the same.
(Lost It In The Sun by The Gathering Field)
Until next time...
R
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Vegas '06 baby... Vegas '06!!! Part Three... The Final Chapter.
Hmmm... where was I? Ah, yes. I had placed my bet on the Preakness and headed over to Harrah's. Now I remember. Yes, I did have to go back and see what the hell I wrote about yesterday. I think four and a half days of drinking and no sleep are finally catching up to me. Anyway, onward and upward.
After a couple cocktails at Harrah's, it struck me that The Preakness was on, and I had some cash riding on that thing. Luckily, there are four flat panels right over the bar for your viewing pleasure. I'm thinking, once again that this is a no brainer. This horse has never lost, right? Right... relax... you're going to win.
As the horses come to the gate, I light up. Daddy needs a little stress reliever for this bad boy. Here we go... silence... and... false start. Goddammit. Let's get it right you freaking midgets. O.K.... let's try that again. Silence, and then... the gate opens and the horses break. Normally, I wouldn't mean that in a literal sense. For those of you that watched that stupid miscarriage of justice and mockery of a sporting event, you know what I mean. For those of you that don't, here it is; the f'ing horse that I bet on, the one that had never lost, the one that was a sure thing, the one that was a no-brainer broke his fucking leg about ten feet out of the gate. You should have seen the bar. It was like a well choreographed dance routine. About fifty people pulled their racing tickets out of their pocket, tore them in half, cast them skyward, and made the same gesture that my grandfather makes when he thinks something is bullshit. Un-fucking-believable. That stupid fucking nag lost me $170. End of the world? No. But I do hope that pony is a baseball glove by the end of the week.
Anyway... happier and brighter thoughts.... ok... I'm better now. Another round... on me. MIght as well drown my sorrows and curse that stupid horse with a nice buzz. Amazing how so many girls get very photogenic and proud of what their plastic surgeon did after a few cocktails... here's the pics to prove it.
After a couple cocktails at Harrah's, it struck me that The Preakness was on, and I had some cash riding on that thing. Luckily, there are four flat panels right over the bar for your viewing pleasure. I'm thinking, once again that this is a no brainer. This horse has never lost, right? Right... relax... you're going to win.
As the horses come to the gate, I light up. Daddy needs a little stress reliever for this bad boy. Here we go... silence... and... false start. Goddammit. Let's get it right you freaking midgets. O.K.... let's try that again. Silence, and then... the gate opens and the horses break. Normally, I wouldn't mean that in a literal sense. For those of you that watched that stupid miscarriage of justice and mockery of a sporting event, you know what I mean. For those of you that don't, here it is; the f'ing horse that I bet on, the one that had never lost, the one that was a sure thing, the one that was a no-brainer broke his fucking leg about ten feet out of the gate. You should have seen the bar. It was like a well choreographed dance routine. About fifty people pulled their racing tickets out of their pocket, tore them in half, cast them skyward, and made the same gesture that my grandfather makes when he thinks something is bullshit. Un-fucking-believable. That stupid fucking nag lost me $170. End of the world? No. But I do hope that pony is a baseball glove by the end of the week.
Anyway... happier and brighter thoughts.... ok... I'm better now. Another round... on me. MIght as well drown my sorrows and curse that stupid horse with a nice buzz. Amazing how so many girls get very photogenic and proud of what their plastic surgeon did after a few cocktails... here's the pics to prove it.
Well... I absolutely have to put these pics up or I'll just hate myself. Here's the other two California girls. They're a lot of fun if you ever make it out West.
Don't worry... I've got more, and you'll see them.
Anyway, after a few rounds at Harrah's, we were due for a change of scenery. Well, Margaritaville is two doors down... yeah, I'm in.
Margaritaville, as always, was cool. We walked in, and who is just walking out? You guessed it; my new friends from Canadia (yes, I know it's Canada, without the "i," but it's way more fun to say Canadia. Go ahead and try it... I'll wait. Done? Good. Yes, I know I'm right). Turns out they're going to be the same place as me and the rest of the Rochester contingent. Cool. I like them. Regardless... a quick margarita and a body shot or two of Patron, and it's upstairs time... which was cool because I've never sat on the roof of my church.
The upstairs outside bar of Margaritaville is cool. Nice, clean, breezy, and a great view of the strip. Oh yeah, the company was outstanding too. That always helps. Sooo... why stop now? Fire up the blender and get daddy and the blondes some of that frozen concoction that helps me hang on (hang on, hang on, hang on). If you didn't get that Buffett reference, I'm sorry. Now go listen to the "Songs You Know By Heart" or "Feeding Frenzy" album and come back. I promise I won't go anywhere.
Wow... back already? That was quick. Nice job.
The unique thing about Vegas is that you meet a bunch of people from all over the place, and they're all there for the same reason (more or less)... to have a good time. We met a couple from Cincinnatti that was very cool. I bought them a round, and they sent one back... although I think I was driving the girl nuts because I kept asking to bum her matches. Nobody has a lighter in that freaking town. Anyway, as I promised them... here they are. I think the guy is an electrical contractor, so if you're in the Cinci area and doing some building or remodeling, give him a shout. He's cool.
Well, after a few more rounds, Jen (one of the Cali girls) made a very bold statement. She said that she wasn't going to get on that plane and leave Vegas without making out with some guy. Well, I'm sure you know what happened. Who am I to deprive a girl of her parting wish? Like I said before, I'm a team player. God, I love this town.
How remiss would I be if I didn't include a group shot of, ya know what... I'm going to stop referring to them as "the Cali girls." I did go to the trouble of actually learning their names. So, here's the group shot of me, Mel, Jen and Frisky. Yes, my shirt says "dork" on it.
Well, it was getting to be about that time. They had to get on a plane, I gave a girl her departing wish, and I still needed some food and a nap before we hit the town. We said our tearful goodbyes, traded hugs, kisses and emails, and off they went. Always hard to say goodbye... especially to a certain one of them. But she knows that too, and it's cool.
Sorry to bring the room down there for a minute. I'm back.
Night 4... Body English at The Hard Rock. I love this club. I love it for a couple reasons; one is that when about a thousand people are waiting in line, we get escorted right by, into an elevator, and over to the VIP room. Again, it's times like these that I could kiss Russ. The other reason is that the VIP room is just that; a room. It's actually walled off from the rest of the club. Which is nice because I can only tolerate so many drunken, over-gelled assholes in silk shirts at one time. Yes, I'm one of them (except for the silk shirt... I'm a cotton kind of guy), but I'm not nearly as obnoxious and I can handle my alcohol. There's leather couches and tables galore, and they must have one hell of an exhaust system because with all the people smoking, you'd think it'd be a gas chamber in there... but it's not.
Well, as the vodka started flowing and the mouths started running and the looks started streaming from my eyes, somebody was able to locate our new friends from the Great White North. I'm talking, of course, about Peru. Again, I'm kidding. I'll stop that. No, not really. Anyway, the Canadian girls showed up... nothing but good vibes from that crew.
As I was hanging out (or oot, in Canadian), drinking, chatting, smoking, etc... a girl walked by that caught my eye and I had to talk to her. She had a spiky kind of mohawk thing going on with her hair, and was the textbook "girl all the bad guys want." I needed to talk to her. I did, for at least a little while, and had the presence of mind to snap a picture of her and her friend with my phone.
She had an awesome personality and was really easy to talk to... I thought I was in love. Another endearing quality that she posessed was... hmmm... how can I say this delicately so as not to offend? I got it; the biggest fucking rack I have ever seen in my entire life. There... tough to find just the right words sometimes. You know what I mean. And, yes, I did have the presence of mind to snap that picture too, but decorum prohibits me from posting it here. No, really, I can't. No, seriously... it'd be rude. No. Uh, no. Really, I'm not comfortable. Promise not to tell? Seriously, now? O.K. Here you go.
Uh, yeah... she was pretty proud of them. Wouldn't you be? Jesus. Again... I love this town.
I can't really remember what happened next, but I found myself in a limo headed back to the Flamingo with Todd and the Canadians from Canadia (yes, I know).
As we walked through the lobby for our last night there, we decided it would be a good idea to play a little blackjack. O.K.... a lot of blackjack. I think I did well. I didn't cash in my plane ticket, so that's always a good sign. Anyway, after a couple hours of that nonsense, we went back up to the room and, say it with me... nothing happened.
Well, the last day... departure day. I haven't used my camera nearly enough, so I'll try and make some use out of it. We had until 3:00 to get to the lobby, so obviously it's time to throw some cards and kill some time. Nick, Phil and I got some lunch, planned the strategy and headed to the tables. For some reason, I wasn't feeling it, and started walking around. Hmmm... what can one do in a casino to kill time? You guessed it... slots. I threw a twenty into one of the zillion machines, and three pulls later...
Holy balls! That worked out well. I cashed out, and tried to figure out something else to do to kill some more time. Well, there's a couple other slots in the casino, I think. Let's take a whack at one of them. Another twenty... I hit it for $160. This is retarded. Nobody wins on slots. There's no thinking involved. O.K.... maybe one more machine. Another twenty... I hit it for $130. RiGoddamndiculous. Just as I cashed that puppy out, Todd called, telling me that we've got to get our asses down to VIP to check out. Bummer... I felt a streak starting.
Over to the elevators and up to the room. A couple people didn't have the greatest luck in the world on the felt this trip. I told you I wouldn't say who won or who lost, but here's a shot of Nick with what's left of his bankroll.
Yeah... he's had better trips to the LV. Anybody catch the look on his face? Priceless. I will tell you though, even though they didn't do as well as they'd hoped, Nick and Phil still had the gangsta lean. Ya gotta love this town.
Unfortunately, it was time to say our last goodbyes to suite 25169 at the fabulous Flamingo Hotel and Casino... but not without a couple shots of the boys in the room. I couldn't pass that up.
It was time... we had to go. The Flamingo was nice enough to comp everything. In the immortal words of Russ, "they sure as fuck better."
We headed out front to the awaiting limos, loaded our gear, and headed off to the airport. As much as I hate to do it... here are the last shots from the Vegas '06 trip.
Wait, wait, wait... I have to get in this one. Excuse me, miss? Miss? Would you mind taking a picture of us? Great. Thanks.
Oh shit... wait. I don't think we were ready on that one. Would you mind taking another? Yes, Noah will kiss you if you'll take just one more. Deal? Great. Thanks again.
Thanks. Noah... give her a kiss. Thanks again. Enjoy your stay.
O.K.... that's done. Off to the airport. One problem... the second limo isn't here yet. The driver of the first one assured us that it would be inside of five minutes, so we didn't panic. It did eventually get there, but we pretty much were wishing for Superman to fly backwards around the Earth really fast and freeze time so that we wouldn't miss our flight. Turns out that wasn't the case... read on.
As we ran to the check-in line, I got the call from Russ. "Hey, don't bother hurrying... you've got some time. Our flight's been delayed three hours." Fabulous. I just love killing 3 extra hours in an airport. Oh well, at least we won't miss our flight.
Well, after clearing security, we met up, got some food, and still had about two and a half hours to kill. I don't know if you know this, but there are slot machines in the Vegas airport. That's right... they get you as soon as you get off the plane. However... not today. Not on my watch.
I sit down at a dollar machine and win $50 on the first pull. I go to another one and hit $110 on the third pull. I hit another one and pop that sucker for $150. O.K... need a break. Let's go have a smoke. Guess what? There are slot machines in the smoking lounge. Yes, ladies and gentlemen. During the course of one cigarette, I hit another one for $65. Uh, yeah... you could say I was hot... and I don't just mean my chisled upper body. Yes, it's O.K. to laugh now.
Well, we finally got on the plane and got into Buffalo around 2:30AM. It was exactly 5:03 when I finally fell into my own bed. I slept for an hour and a half, woke up, got showered and dressed, and actually made it to work by 9:00 AM. I know you're impressed.
So that's it. Such is the close of the Vegas '06 trip. If you enjoyed reading it half as much as I enjoyed stirring up all those memories and writing about it, then my work here was not in vain.
There is more... there's Tommy's tirade that he threw after losing $1,600 on a single hand of blackjack, there's the best gummi worm shot of all time that I executed, there's... well, let's just say there's a lot more... but this should do it for your Friday morning at work entertainment before a long weekend.
I gotta get going... I've got a serious Jones for some back bacon, maple syrup and a tall, ice cold Molson.
Until next time...
R
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Vegas '06 baby... Vegas '06!!! Part Two
Well folks, it's 7:09 PM on Wednesday, and I have a softball game at 9:45... but since I'm a team player in every sense of the word, I'll do my best to finish this thing up. No promises, however.
Let's see... where were we? Ah, yes... just leaving the pool. One thing I did neglect to write about were some very cool people from North of the border during the day at the pool. Oddly enough, they live about an hour and a half from those of us in sunny Rah-cha-cha (that's Rochester for you non-native New Yorkers). Lots of fun drinking with those lovely ladies, and they were kind enough to give me a cigarette or two after the child from hell soaked mine into a soggy pile of tobacco mush. Little fucker.
Anyway, you have to love the Canadian ladies. How can you not love them when the legal drinking age is 19 up there? I remember countless breaks during college when we'd head North of the border for booze and ballet. If you don't know what I mean by ballet... oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand. Suffice it to say that they were cool and a lot of fun to hang out with. They're only about an hour and a half away, so maybe someday our paths will cross again. I'd like that.
Another thing that I neglected to write was the fact that I had minimal sunscreen on during this whole 5 hour poolside escapade. Now, that does not bode well for a person with skin similar to that of Casper the Friendly Ghost. What's the best way to put this... hmmm. I got it. I got fucking cooked. My shoulders, neck, forehead, nose and top of my head resembled something like an overcooked piece of bacon. I didn't realize the full effect until later, after my nap... read on.
Well, after my nap, it was once again time to hit the showers, get prettied up and head to the club. The shower was a new experience in pain. It was like someone took a big vat of bacon grease and dumped it over my head at close range. The shower was reminiscent of being 13 years old, living at my parent's house, and having my sister flush the toilet in one of the other bathrooms... only this time I couldn't kick her ass after I got out. Every time I tried to step into the stream of water, it was just miserable. But I digress. You'll hear more about that later. Or, since I believe that a couple of our Canadian friends may be reading this, I'll say, "you'll hear more aboot that later."
Tonight the target was Rain at The Palms. We caught the limo around 10:30, and then it was go time.
We had about 20 minutes or so to kill before we were actually slated to go into the club. Apparently it doesn't open until 11. While we were standing around the entrance, this woman sitting at a slot machine just started a conversation out of nowhere with Dave and me. Her opening line was, get this... "me and my friend just had dinner with Robin Leach. She's just picking up a couple things for him and she'll be right back." Uh huh. No, seriously, I believe you. As we stood listening to her mindless bullshit, it becomes all to obvious to this writer that this woman is what Nevada is famous for; bright lights. No, wait... I mean she was a hooker. I kind of pull Dave aside and say, "dude... this broad is a fucking hooker." "Really? Are you sure?" he asks. My response is one that doesn't take him long to figure out. "Have you ever done this well with a woman in your life?" That question is followed up by a look from Dave that says, "you have got to be fucking kidding me." I say, "it's been a pleasure" and start to walk away. Without missing a beat, she grabs Dave's shirt, gives him her number and says, "if you guys want me to tuck you in, give me a call... just don't make it too late because I have a few places I need to be." Uh, yeah, Dave... I'm sure she's a hooker.
On a lighter note, we rolled into Rain about 11:00, walking right past a line of about a thousand people that had obviously been waiting there for a couple hours at least. It's times like these when I could kiss Russ. Thanks to him, we don't do lines, and we don't wait for service. God bless Russ.
Rain is pretty cool. When we walked in, there was this fog-like thing going on. You couldn't really see clearly to the other side of the club. The light show was absolutely ridiculous, and bursts of flame shot from the ceiling. Sounds pretty fucking cool, right? Yeah, not so much when everything from your shoulders up is burned beyond recognition and you're standing below a blast from that flame cannon or whatever the hell you want to call it. I found that out the hard way. Note to self; when sun burned beyond belief, don't stand below something that shoots giant flames directly over your head within 5 feet. It really, really, really hurts. For the remainder of the evening, I will stay securely within the safe confines of the VIP area. You run into fewer assholes that way anyway.
Regardless, a little while later, the California girls and the Canadian girls showed up. Cool... friendly faces without access to flamethrowers; always a welcome addition to any party. At some point during the night... guessing it was somewhere between the second and third bottle of vodka, I remembered that I can dance. The previous life strikes again. Amazing what a whole lot of booze can do towards forgetting the excruciating pain of a Nevada desert sunburn.
Now, the bad part about dancing with a whole lot of booze and a drink in your hand is that you obviously become prone to dropping the aforementioned drink in your hand. I dropped one, the girl I was dancing with dropped one or two... but you should see what happens when you drop a drink in the VIP section. About three bouncers come in and surround the mess, then one radios to some guy with a mop, and they clean the whole thing up in about 15 seconds. The bad thing is that you're pretty much expected to tip the guy that's taking care of your table each time you fuck up and drop a glass. Needless to say, at $20 a shot, I was a whole bunch more careful with my beverages going forward.
I think we wound up leaving around 2:00 or somewhere in there, and we caught another limo back to the Flamingo. Now, I can't tell you exactly what happened in that limo, but I can tell you that I engaged in some rather racy and unscrupulous behavior with all the windows down and a car full of people while rolling down Las Vegas Boulevard at about 2:15 AM Pacific Standard Time. Let's just say that fantasy #784 has since been crossed off my list.
Anyway, to close the night, we made it back up to the suite again with a bunch of girls... and nothing happened.
On to day 4... if you've stayed with me this long, I give you a lot of credit. None of my first three wives did. Kidding... it's actually 5. Freaking alimony is killing me.
I woke up Saturday, again right about the crack of noon, and awoke to find this on the couch out in the suite. Poor Dave... there's only three beds in the rooms adjoining the suite. Dave was #4, and it was his first trip... for the duration of the trip, these are his sleeping quarters. Well, for at least most of the trip.
Let's see... where were we? Ah, yes... just leaving the pool. One thing I did neglect to write about were some very cool people from North of the border during the day at the pool. Oddly enough, they live about an hour and a half from those of us in sunny Rah-cha-cha (that's Rochester for you non-native New Yorkers). Lots of fun drinking with those lovely ladies, and they were kind enough to give me a cigarette or two after the child from hell soaked mine into a soggy pile of tobacco mush. Little fucker.
Anyway, you have to love the Canadian ladies. How can you not love them when the legal drinking age is 19 up there? I remember countless breaks during college when we'd head North of the border for booze and ballet. If you don't know what I mean by ballet... oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand. Suffice it to say that they were cool and a lot of fun to hang out with. They're only about an hour and a half away, so maybe someday our paths will cross again. I'd like that.
Another thing that I neglected to write was the fact that I had minimal sunscreen on during this whole 5 hour poolside escapade. Now, that does not bode well for a person with skin similar to that of Casper the Friendly Ghost. What's the best way to put this... hmmm. I got it. I got fucking cooked. My shoulders, neck, forehead, nose and top of my head resembled something like an overcooked piece of bacon. I didn't realize the full effect until later, after my nap... read on.
Well, after my nap, it was once again time to hit the showers, get prettied up and head to the club. The shower was a new experience in pain. It was like someone took a big vat of bacon grease and dumped it over my head at close range. The shower was reminiscent of being 13 years old, living at my parent's house, and having my sister flush the toilet in one of the other bathrooms... only this time I couldn't kick her ass after I got out. Every time I tried to step into the stream of water, it was just miserable. But I digress. You'll hear more about that later. Or, since I believe that a couple of our Canadian friends may be reading this, I'll say, "you'll hear more aboot that later."
Tonight the target was Rain at The Palms. We caught the limo around 10:30, and then it was go time.
We had about 20 minutes or so to kill before we were actually slated to go into the club. Apparently it doesn't open until 11. While we were standing around the entrance, this woman sitting at a slot machine just started a conversation out of nowhere with Dave and me. Her opening line was, get this... "me and my friend just had dinner with Robin Leach. She's just picking up a couple things for him and she'll be right back." Uh huh. No, seriously, I believe you. As we stood listening to her mindless bullshit, it becomes all to obvious to this writer that this woman is what Nevada is famous for; bright lights. No, wait... I mean she was a hooker. I kind of pull Dave aside and say, "dude... this broad is a fucking hooker." "Really? Are you sure?" he asks. My response is one that doesn't take him long to figure out. "Have you ever done this well with a woman in your life?" That question is followed up by a look from Dave that says, "you have got to be fucking kidding me." I say, "it's been a pleasure" and start to walk away. Without missing a beat, she grabs Dave's shirt, gives him her number and says, "if you guys want me to tuck you in, give me a call... just don't make it too late because I have a few places I need to be." Uh, yeah, Dave... I'm sure she's a hooker.
On a lighter note, we rolled into Rain about 11:00, walking right past a line of about a thousand people that had obviously been waiting there for a couple hours at least. It's times like these when I could kiss Russ. Thanks to him, we don't do lines, and we don't wait for service. God bless Russ.
Rain is pretty cool. When we walked in, there was this fog-like thing going on. You couldn't really see clearly to the other side of the club. The light show was absolutely ridiculous, and bursts of flame shot from the ceiling. Sounds pretty fucking cool, right? Yeah, not so much when everything from your shoulders up is burned beyond recognition and you're standing below a blast from that flame cannon or whatever the hell you want to call it. I found that out the hard way. Note to self; when sun burned beyond belief, don't stand below something that shoots giant flames directly over your head within 5 feet. It really, really, really hurts. For the remainder of the evening, I will stay securely within the safe confines of the VIP area. You run into fewer assholes that way anyway.
Regardless, a little while later, the California girls and the Canadian girls showed up. Cool... friendly faces without access to flamethrowers; always a welcome addition to any party. At some point during the night... guessing it was somewhere between the second and third bottle of vodka, I remembered that I can dance. The previous life strikes again. Amazing what a whole lot of booze can do towards forgetting the excruciating pain of a Nevada desert sunburn.
Now, the bad part about dancing with a whole lot of booze and a drink in your hand is that you obviously become prone to dropping the aforementioned drink in your hand. I dropped one, the girl I was dancing with dropped one or two... but you should see what happens when you drop a drink in the VIP section. About three bouncers come in and surround the mess, then one radios to some guy with a mop, and they clean the whole thing up in about 15 seconds. The bad thing is that you're pretty much expected to tip the guy that's taking care of your table each time you fuck up and drop a glass. Needless to say, at $20 a shot, I was a whole bunch more careful with my beverages going forward.
I think we wound up leaving around 2:00 or somewhere in there, and we caught another limo back to the Flamingo. Now, I can't tell you exactly what happened in that limo, but I can tell you that I engaged in some rather racy and unscrupulous behavior with all the windows down and a car full of people while rolling down Las Vegas Boulevard at about 2:15 AM Pacific Standard Time. Let's just say that fantasy #784 has since been crossed off my list.
Anyway, to close the night, we made it back up to the suite again with a bunch of girls... and nothing happened.
On to day 4... if you've stayed with me this long, I give you a lot of credit. None of my first three wives did. Kidding... it's actually 5. Freaking alimony is killing me.
I woke up Saturday, again right about the crack of noon, and awoke to find this on the couch out in the suite. Poor Dave... there's only three beds in the rooms adjoining the suite. Dave was #4, and it was his first trip... for the duration of the trip, these are his sleeping quarters. Well, for at least most of the trip.
The main room of the suite was in general disarray... guess that's what happens when you have some people back. Luckily, I had the presence of mind to grab a quick picture of the evidence.
I'm sure that the housekeeping staff just loved us. We were on the 25th floor, so I also felt compelled to grab a couple of shots of the view. They didn't turn out as well as I had hoped, but you get the idea.
Did I mention that I'm afraid of heights? No? Well, I am. For the duration of the trip, I had to stay a couple feet back or I got that feeling that you get when you tip back in a chair but just at the last second you catch yourself. When I'm this high up, I get that feeling all the time.
Well, Saturday... day 4. Today was the day that the California girls were boarding a plane and heading back to the land of fake boobs and made for TV movies. Yeah, I'm jealous. Anyway, I got the call after I roused myself from my alcohol induced slumber, and agreed to meet the three of them over at Harrah's Carnival Court. I got a quick and painful shower, and headed down in the elevator when it dawned on me... the Preakness is today. I gotta get a bet in. That horse Barbaro has never lost, and there are two other strong favorites. My bet is a no-brainer, right? Yeah, that's what I thought too. I bet a $120 trifecta, and bet $50 on Barbaro to win. No brainer. Got that done... off to Harrah's.
I love Harrah's. The bartenders there are about the best in the world. Well, the best that I've ever seen at least. These guys are throwing bottles and doing tricks that make those two clowns in Cocktail look like the average schmuck you see behind three feet of mahogany in your favorite dive bar. If you haven't seen it, here's a couple shots... I mean pictures.
Yes, that is a flying bottle of tequila that he's about to catch... it's not a picture on the wall. Pretty cool.
The other reason why I love Harrah's is that they always have great bands. Today, they had an 80's cover band. A ton of great songs, and the band certainly looked the part. I got a couple shots of them too. Here you go.
Anyway, I'm going to try to hustle here. I've got about 15 minutes before I have to go try to act like an athlete.
Actually, instead of rushing this and writing mindless dribble, I'll finish it up tomorrow. I think I owe you, my loyal readers, that much.
Tomorrow I'll finish up the day at Harrah's & Margaritaville, the night at Body English in the Hard Rock, and a bunch more pics. Yes, I've saved the best for last, but for now... gotta run.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Vegas '06 baby... Vegas '06!!! Part One
Well kids, here it is... the post you've been waiting for all year, and the post that I've been waiting to bless your eager eyes with all year. Your favorite and mine; the annual Vegas post. For those of you that aren't loyal readers or haven't had the God damn common courtesy to stop over and at the very least bookmark me, the Vegas post is the one that I have the pleasure of writing every year at about this time that chronicles the adventure that my closest friends and I take to the Sin City... the happiest place on the entire freaking planet... the bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna set my soul on fire... my favorite and yours... fabulous Beckley, West Virginia. Wait, no... that's not right. I'm talking about Vegas baby... Vegas!
Hence, without further adieu, let's dive in head first, and get started. Strap in... this may be a long one.
Let's start out with the bad news. As we got to the airport in Buffalo, Russ got the call that Dave missed his flight out of Rochester, and that he wouldn't get into Vegas until around midnight that night (Wednesday). Not a big deal... things don't really get rolling until around that time anyway, right? Right. Fine. Either way, the rest of us successfully boarded the flight, and got to Vegas right around 4:00PM, which left us time to hit the buffett, play a little blackjack, shower, and get ready to hit the town on night one of our four night, five day excursion. While I'm on the subject of the flight... funny thing; that long ass ride out there is about the longest and loudest flight ever. Everyone's talking about where to go, what games they play, how they play them, and how to recover from a long night of drinking and well, you know. That flight back is just the opposite... very quiet, somber. So much so that you don't even have to turn the volume all the way up on your portable DVD player to hear what the hell is being said during the movie. Wonder why.
Anyway, I should say this before I go any further; I won't divulge who or how much anyone won or lost except myself. Couple reasons; one, if someone won big, you can ask them about it. Two, if someone lost big, I'm not going to be the one to make them re-live it. Losing sucks. Believe me when I tell you.
On to the good stuff. We started off not too far from our hotel at Harrah's outside bar called Carnival Court. It's one of my favorite places. It's outside and 90* at 10:00 at night. It's got some of the best bartenders I've ever seen, and the bands are always fantastic. From there, we had to meet our VIP host at the club, which was also right up the road. On Wednesday night in Vegas, believe it or not, there is pretty much only one good club to go to; Tangerine at Treasure Island. Not my favorite club in Vegas but, hey, it's Wednesday. To be honest, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot from that club. For some reason, they had the outside deck closed... I didn't get that. In Rochester, if there's no snow on the ground (and sometimes even if there is), if a bar has a deck, it's open. We're in Vegas, it's ninety something degrees out, and you can smoke indoors... open the freaking deck.
Well, having said that I don't remember a lot of what happened in that club somehow doesn't prevent me from knowing exactly what happened after we left. Only because you are my readers and you know I love you all, I'll share.
Phil and I headed back to the Flamingo with a couple female friends whom we had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. We get back to the room, fire up the iPod and speaker system, crack a couple of beers, and at this point, I look at Phil and say, "you wanna throw some cards?" His answer? "Fuck yeah." Out the door, around the corner, and to the elevators we go. As we descend to the casino floor in the elevator, it hits me. "Did we just leave two girls from the club in the room to go play cards?" Without missing a beat, Phil says, "yeah, we kinda did." My response? "Huh." And it wasn't "huh" in the interogative sense of the word as in "huh?" It was more of the "ain't that something" sense of the word. Amazing what that Vegas air can do to you.
Off to the tables we go. We sit down at a $25 table, and let the games begin. Well, it seemed like they just began when we each lost $250 in a span of about 8 minutes. I can't remember the exact amount of time, but I can tell you that the dealer's name was Larry and he absolutely kicked our asses. Phil looks at me and says, "get up, we're out." I can do nothing but whole heartedly agree.
For the next 10 minutes or so, we wandered aimlessly through the casino, trying to get a feeling somewhere. Remember that... it's important. I got bored of walking and stopped Phil. "Give me a twenty... got a feeling." Phil hands me a twenty and I shove it into a slot machine along with a twenty of my own. Three spins later, the thing hits for $174. We are now back in the game, give or take. It's funny what one good mindless win can do for you.
I cashed out, gave Phil his half, and back to the tables we went. Not to Larry's table however... screw him that rat bastard.
Regardless, we find a table where everyone knows what they're doing, and everyone is winning... up until the Prince of Pennsylvania sat down. This f'ing guy... that's all I can say. I call him the Prince of Pennsylvania because he took great pleasure in announcing to everyone at the table that he was from Altoona, Pennsylvania. This moron sits down, drunk off his ass, and starts to play. Well, I take that back. What my friends and I do at the blackjack table is playing cards. What this moron was doing was gambling. Gambling in the sense that he was throwing his money on the table, guessing at what to do, hoping for the best, and losing. Losing, and in the process, playing like a retard and costing every other person at the table a bunch of money. He's hitting16s against a dealer's 5 and hitting 12s against the dealer's 6. Killing us.
As we sit there pretty much giving our money away, this idiot is putting his head down on the table and catching a few z's during shuffles. The pit boss came over after he did this for the third or fourth time. I yell over, "can you call my friend here a cab?" He says, "sure, where's he going?" "Altoona, Pennsylvania." The dealer chuckled and walked away. Little did he know that I would have gladly slipped him a c-note, along with whatever the fare was to take this knucklehead to Altoona, Pennsylvania by cab. I probably could have made that much back just by having this asshole leave my table and continuing to play. Nevertheless, he eventually lost all his money, left, and we all made some money back. I headed up to the room around 6:00AM or so. I was up drinking for about 25 hours, so I figured it was time for a little nap.
And then there was day 2.
I awoke around the crack of noon, once again found my liver sitting next to me having a cup of coffee saying, "thanks a lot, asshole," told him to shut his yap, and headed to the pool. Sure enough I was able to find Russ and Noah poolside, and the first thing that Russ says to me is, "hey, last night I heard the door slam, walked out to the bar in the suite, and saw two very confused girls sitting there. You have anything to do with that?" "Uh, yeah... here's the story..." Anyway, after about an hour or so at the pool, I simply couldn't deal. It was way too hot and I could feel the booze just seeping out of my pores, so it was buffet time. I left them to soak up some rays and went to gorge myself on the fabulous Flamingo's mid afternoon offering, where my liver and I sat in solace, eating prime rib and pasta, and drinking about eleven diet Pepsis. I would have had a few more, but the waitress didn't have a catheter and/or any type of intra-veinous device handy. Bummer.
After that, it was nap time... a short one. I awoke to the sound of the door slamming, and the sight and sound of Dave materializing from his second missed flight from Rochester. "What the fuck happened to you?" I ask. Dave says, "I'm an idiot." I leave it at that. I have neither the presence of mind for any witty reparte', nor the focus to really comprehend his story of staying up all night and missing two consecutive cross-country flights.
Well, after a stream of about 9 different people coming in and out of the suite, I decide to head down to Margaritaville and meet a few friends that I haven't seen in a while. Maybe a couple margaritas in my hero's bar will straighten me out a little bit. I'm in luck. It does. After a couple of those bad boys and a few Buffett tunes on the sound system, I'm back in the game. I'm The Richie once again. Thank God. I missed him. He's a fun one.
Hence, without further adieu, let's dive in head first, and get started. Strap in... this may be a long one.
Let's start out with the bad news. As we got to the airport in Buffalo, Russ got the call that Dave missed his flight out of Rochester, and that he wouldn't get into Vegas until around midnight that night (Wednesday). Not a big deal... things don't really get rolling until around that time anyway, right? Right. Fine. Either way, the rest of us successfully boarded the flight, and got to Vegas right around 4:00PM, which left us time to hit the buffett, play a little blackjack, shower, and get ready to hit the town on night one of our four night, five day excursion. While I'm on the subject of the flight... funny thing; that long ass ride out there is about the longest and loudest flight ever. Everyone's talking about where to go, what games they play, how they play them, and how to recover from a long night of drinking and well, you know. That flight back is just the opposite... very quiet, somber. So much so that you don't even have to turn the volume all the way up on your portable DVD player to hear what the hell is being said during the movie. Wonder why.
Anyway, I should say this before I go any further; I won't divulge who or how much anyone won or lost except myself. Couple reasons; one, if someone won big, you can ask them about it. Two, if someone lost big, I'm not going to be the one to make them re-live it. Losing sucks. Believe me when I tell you.
On to the good stuff. We started off not too far from our hotel at Harrah's outside bar called Carnival Court. It's one of my favorite places. It's outside and 90* at 10:00 at night. It's got some of the best bartenders I've ever seen, and the bands are always fantastic. From there, we had to meet our VIP host at the club, which was also right up the road. On Wednesday night in Vegas, believe it or not, there is pretty much only one good club to go to; Tangerine at Treasure Island. Not my favorite club in Vegas but, hey, it's Wednesday. To be honest, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot from that club. For some reason, they had the outside deck closed... I didn't get that. In Rochester, if there's no snow on the ground (and sometimes even if there is), if a bar has a deck, it's open. We're in Vegas, it's ninety something degrees out, and you can smoke indoors... open the freaking deck.
Well, having said that I don't remember a lot of what happened in that club somehow doesn't prevent me from knowing exactly what happened after we left. Only because you are my readers and you know I love you all, I'll share.
Phil and I headed back to the Flamingo with a couple female friends whom we had the pleasure of making their acquaintance. We get back to the room, fire up the iPod and speaker system, crack a couple of beers, and at this point, I look at Phil and say, "you wanna throw some cards?" His answer? "Fuck yeah." Out the door, around the corner, and to the elevators we go. As we descend to the casino floor in the elevator, it hits me. "Did we just leave two girls from the club in the room to go play cards?" Without missing a beat, Phil says, "yeah, we kinda did." My response? "Huh." And it wasn't "huh" in the interogative sense of the word as in "huh?" It was more of the "ain't that something" sense of the word. Amazing what that Vegas air can do to you.
Off to the tables we go. We sit down at a $25 table, and let the games begin. Well, it seemed like they just began when we each lost $250 in a span of about 8 minutes. I can't remember the exact amount of time, but I can tell you that the dealer's name was Larry and he absolutely kicked our asses. Phil looks at me and says, "get up, we're out." I can do nothing but whole heartedly agree.
For the next 10 minutes or so, we wandered aimlessly through the casino, trying to get a feeling somewhere. Remember that... it's important. I got bored of walking and stopped Phil. "Give me a twenty... got a feeling." Phil hands me a twenty and I shove it into a slot machine along with a twenty of my own. Three spins later, the thing hits for $174. We are now back in the game, give or take. It's funny what one good mindless win can do for you.
I cashed out, gave Phil his half, and back to the tables we went. Not to Larry's table however... screw him that rat bastard.
Regardless, we find a table where everyone knows what they're doing, and everyone is winning... up until the Prince of Pennsylvania sat down. This f'ing guy... that's all I can say. I call him the Prince of Pennsylvania because he took great pleasure in announcing to everyone at the table that he was from Altoona, Pennsylvania. This moron sits down, drunk off his ass, and starts to play. Well, I take that back. What my friends and I do at the blackjack table is playing cards. What this moron was doing was gambling. Gambling in the sense that he was throwing his money on the table, guessing at what to do, hoping for the best, and losing. Losing, and in the process, playing like a retard and costing every other person at the table a bunch of money. He's hitting16s against a dealer's 5 and hitting 12s against the dealer's 6. Killing us.
As we sit there pretty much giving our money away, this idiot is putting his head down on the table and catching a few z's during shuffles. The pit boss came over after he did this for the third or fourth time. I yell over, "can you call my friend here a cab?" He says, "sure, where's he going?" "Altoona, Pennsylvania." The dealer chuckled and walked away. Little did he know that I would have gladly slipped him a c-note, along with whatever the fare was to take this knucklehead to Altoona, Pennsylvania by cab. I probably could have made that much back just by having this asshole leave my table and continuing to play. Nevertheless, he eventually lost all his money, left, and we all made some money back. I headed up to the room around 6:00AM or so. I was up drinking for about 25 hours, so I figured it was time for a little nap.
And then there was day 2.
I awoke around the crack of noon, once again found my liver sitting next to me having a cup of coffee saying, "thanks a lot, asshole," told him to shut his yap, and headed to the pool. Sure enough I was able to find Russ and Noah poolside, and the first thing that Russ says to me is, "hey, last night I heard the door slam, walked out to the bar in the suite, and saw two very confused girls sitting there. You have anything to do with that?" "Uh, yeah... here's the story..." Anyway, after about an hour or so at the pool, I simply couldn't deal. It was way too hot and I could feel the booze just seeping out of my pores, so it was buffet time. I left them to soak up some rays and went to gorge myself on the fabulous Flamingo's mid afternoon offering, where my liver and I sat in solace, eating prime rib and pasta, and drinking about eleven diet Pepsis. I would have had a few more, but the waitress didn't have a catheter and/or any type of intra-veinous device handy. Bummer.
After that, it was nap time... a short one. I awoke to the sound of the door slamming, and the sight and sound of Dave materializing from his second missed flight from Rochester. "What the fuck happened to you?" I ask. Dave says, "I'm an idiot." I leave it at that. I have neither the presence of mind for any witty reparte', nor the focus to really comprehend his story of staying up all night and missing two consecutive cross-country flights.
Well, after a stream of about 9 different people coming in and out of the suite, I decide to head down to Margaritaville and meet a few friends that I haven't seen in a while. Maybe a couple margaritas in my hero's bar will straighten me out a little bit. I'm in luck. It does. After a couple of those bad boys and a few Buffett tunes on the sound system, I'm back in the game. I'm The Richie once again. Thank God. I missed him. He's a fun one.
Yes, I've been there several times before, but I felt compelled to take a picture. It makes me feel good. So there.
Well, a bunch of laughs and a few margaritas later, it's nap time for real. I have to get a little bit of rest before another long Las Vegas night has it's way with me. I made my way back up to the room, and luckily, this time I can actually sleep. I woke up around 5, just in time to catch my second round of the buffet with the boys, get prettied up, and catch the limo to take us over to Tryst at the Wynn.
Tryst, ladies and gentlemen, is gorgeous. It's a regular club that sits on a man-made lake, with 100 foot cliffs and waterfalls in the background. If you look up, you can see the clear Nevada sky. I wonder how many people have cast their eyes skyward and prayed that they would have better luck at the tables the next day, right before throwing a quarter into the lake. I'm guessing it's a lot. The VIP section isn't as big as I would have liked. It's kind of small, but very nice nonetheless. Everything is white and clean... well, everything was white and clean. That is until the girl that was hanging out with Nick decided to puke at our table. To her credit, it was the most ladylike vomit episode I have seen in a VIP section of a really expensive Las Vegas night club. There was not a big splash, there wasn't a smell, and from what I remember, it was clear. The only un-ladylike thing was hanging off the side of the couch with my friend holding your hair away from your face. Other than that... all class. Anybody catch the sarcasm there?
Anyway, while "puke fest '06" was going on, I had a couple beautiful blondes from California dancing all over my area of the couch. Yes, I do have pictures on my phone. No, I'm not going to post them here. Nope... sorry. Oh, O.K. No, I can't. Besides, they're on my phone and the resolution sucks. Say please. Thank you. Here you go. Before you look at these, just so you know, you might have to angle your head and use your imagination just a little bit. Having said that, enjoy.
Again... these are from my phone, use your imagination and tilt your head. Yes, I could rotate them, but that wouldn't give you the idea of the angle of my phone when I took them. You're welcome, again.
Well, after we wrapped up things at Tryst, we all went back to the suite and nothing happened.
Day 3... this is where it got messy.
I awoke day three, this time around the crack of 11:00. Apparently I'm getting better as the jet lag wares off. Once again, my liver was sitting next to me, but this time he had substituted a Red Bull and vodka for the coffee. Guess he figured that "hair of the dog" thing might pan out a little better. Also, once again, I headed, sans shower, down to the pool to meet the boys. This time, everyone was there; Nick, Todd, Russ, Noah, Dave... and lo and behold, before my eyes were those same blonde California girls. Hmmm... I hadn't seen them in like 4 hours now... but that's a different post all together. Email me and I'll give you the scoop... or at least make up something really good.
We were lucky enough to score a couple of beds poolside. No, I don't mean those lounge chairs that you see at every backyard pool in the country... I mean beds. Literally, two queen size beds with canopies over them. And, much to my surprise, the beer was already flowing. I jumped in with both feet, cracked a beer, and joined in the festivities. We were right next to the basketball hoop, which afforded me to show off my amazing 25 foot jump shot. However, that wasn't really what I wanted to showcase. As I am 6'1" and white, I can't dunk. That day, it was a different story. I couldn't help myself. I threw down a couple of reverses and a couple alley-oops. For just a couple fleeting moments there, I was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in the 1986 playoffs against the Celtics. Yeah, it felt really, really good. Yes, I'm 34 years old.
Anyway, I eventually grew tired of basketball, but luckily there was a Nerf football floating around. This, my loyal readers, is difficult for me to write. I met a child there that couldn't have been more than 6 years old that asked if she could play catch with us. Let me say this before I continue this story. I hated this kid. It didn't start out that way, but the fun little game of catch that about six of us were playing quickly transformed into "watch the little fat girl splash, kick and spit on the tall, skinny 34 year old guy from Rochester, NY." I swear to you, if it wasn't for the sunburn, you could have seen a "666" on her forehead. This little brat would simply not leave me the hell alone. By this time, I've had somewhere in the neighborhood of a six-pack, I'm just getting over my hangover, and I'm slipping back into that alcoholic haze that anyone who has ever been to Vegas is all too farmiliar with. No matter where in that pool I went, this little brat followed, and felt compelled to just annoy the living shit out of me. She would lunge at me with those big, meaty, baby-fat laden arms and spray as much water as she could on me. She would get as close as she could and, hand to God, fill her mouth with pool water and spit it in my general direction. My only satisfying thought was that about a zillion other little 6 year old brats had peed in the pool and she got that mess in her mouth. Now that I think about it, I guess the joke is on me because even if she got it in her mouth, she expelled that mess on to me.
Well, having said that, I had endured enough. When she got close enough, I splashed back... once. Nothing violent, nothing mean, but I wanted to let this little miscreant know that I wasn't going to be her whipping boy any more. From about 5 feet away, I splashed her back, and at which point, she let out a blood curdling scream and held her hands over her eyes like I had just lit them on fire. Immediately, I was the one that felt like an asshole. Believe me, it wasn't a feeling that lasted very long. Let me tell you why.
My friends and I all gathered around this little shit with choruses of, "are you O.K?" and "what's wrong?" This little porker immediately dropped her hands, stopped crying like someone just muted the stereo, looked at me, and proceeded to splash, spit and kick like she was going to the gas chamber. My open beer that was in my hand is now half full of urine-laden pool water, I'm pissed at myself for feeling like an asshole, and I'm thoroughly annoyed that I actually felt sorry for this little bitch. Yes, I know she's 6. Anyway, as I climbed out of the pool, I had the last laugh. I peed right next to her. No, I'm kidding. I didn't. I did, however, yell, "you're adopted and your parents don't even love you." Litte pool rat... I hope you fall off your bike and your eyes wind up crossed. Yes, again... I know she's 6. Sue me.
Well, after the pool incident, another nap was definitely in order... seeing as it was now 4:00 and I'd been in the pool, drinking and getting way too much sun since 11:00. Quick trip to the buffet and off to the room.
Well, it's 11:30PM right now, and I've written a whole bunch, so I'm going to call it quits for tonight. Still need to catch up on a bunch of sleep. I will, however, finish this up in the next day or two. I know you can't wait.
Next... Vegas, night 3, day 4, night 4, and the departure. Plus, as an added bonus... a bunch of pics for your viewing pleasure.
Until next time...
R
Monday, May 22, 2006
Hello my loyal readers. Yes, I know it's been a couple weeks and you're probably tired of reading about the lady that died 15 feet below my head, but the good news is... I've been in Vegas since Wednesday. I know... sorry excuse.
I'll have something up over the next couple days complete with the pics and the stories that I know you all adore so much.
I'd write something now, but I didn't get home until 5AM this morning, and then got up for work at 7. Think I need a little nap right now.
Until next time...
R
I'll have something up over the next couple days complete with the pics and the stories that I know you all adore so much.
I'd write something now, but I didn't get home until 5AM this morning, and then got up for work at 7. Think I need a little nap right now.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
The Record Store, Al, and Homage to Mary
Well, kids... here's the latest. And you know what? As I write this, I'm going to also put in parentheses what song I'm listening to on my iPod... just so you can live vicariously through me and enhance your reading experience... or something like that.
(Photograph by Nickleback)
Yesterday, I exited the corner apartment (or the upstairs apartment, or whatever the hell you want to call it) to head over to the liquor store down the street by way of the record store down the street. It was a beautiful day on Park Avenue. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and beautiful women were jogging by my domicile about once every 6.784 seconds... not that I timed it or anything, and not like I sat on my porch for about three hours watching this beautiful scenery or anything like that. (Tipsy by J-Kwon) As I was walking out, the guy that lives below me was just coming in. We chatted for a minute or so, which was pretty much me asking him if my music was ever too loud and him telling me no. Regardless, as he walked in, and I began to walk away, he yelled over to me, "hey, have you seen Mary today?" Mary is the woman that lives in the other apartment in the house. "No... haven't seen her in a couple weeks." She's older and doesn't get around very well, so she pretty much never came out... this was not unusual. Every now and then she'd ask me to go up to Wilson Farms and get her cigarettes, but her friend that took her shopping usually took care of that. She's kind of the textbook "little old lady that lives downstairs." Really nice. "Oh... her friend called and said that she hadn't heard from her all day. Just wondering."
Anyway, I thought nothing of it, and headed over to the record store to look for the new Buckcherry CD. I got into them about a week ago and I'm f'ing hooked. Yes, I know that I can get it all off of Limewire, but there's something satisfying about walking around a record store. There's something that makes you feel good about it... especially a used record store. I'm not talking like FYE or Media Play... I'm talking like Record Archive or The World Famous House of Guitars here in Rochester. Look around... you'll find one. Go in and walk around... it'll make you feel good. Why? I don't know. It just does. Ever just lie down and look at the ceiling and think, if even for a minute, that everything's OK... that at that particular point in time, everything is taken care of and everything is where it's supposed to be? That feeling when all your bills, mortgage, rent, cell phone bill, porn DVD club membership, beer of the month club, and Hustler membership are all paid and there's still some money left over for strippers... that's the feeling. But I digress.
(Long Way Down by The Goo Goo Dolls)
Well, I didn't wind up actually buying music at the record store that I so adore. I wandered back to the corner apartment (again, or whatever you want to call it), hopped in the car, and headed out shopping. (Without You by MxPx) I need to get some new clothes for the upcoming Vegas trip. Two weeks from today, baby... oh yeah. I hit a couple stores, and the only thing that I wound up buying were a couple packages of floating candles, and about 9 bottles of wine from a different liquor store than the aforementioned one on my beloved Park Avenue. Yes, I'm a decor whore. No, I'm not gay. Yes, I am drinking a martini right now. (Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash) Again, no, I'm not gay.
I headed up to the corner apartment (whatever) because in about half an hour my beloved Yankees were playing my much hated Boston Red Sox. Did I mention that I hate them? If not, I do. Well, just as I got the last bottle into the wine rack (Gasolina by Daddy Yankee), I saw a bunch of flashing lights reflecting off my walls. I went to the window to see if one of those asshole kids with a $5,000 stereo system finally got pulled over for violation of some noise ordinance, when I noticed a couple of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars parked right outside of... you guessed it... the corner apartment (shut up). Immediately I thought that there must be a problem after the earlier conversation with the guy from downstairs. Needless to say, I headed downstairs to see what was going on.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, there was Doug (the guy from downstairs) talking to my landlord, and about a zillion firemen going in and out of my entranceway. (My United States of Whatever by Liam Lynch) I assumed the worst. I figured she fell and broke a hip or something horrible like that. I was at the doorway and said to Doug, "is she ok?" He said, "no, she's dead." The look on his face was something I can't quite describe. It was kind of a surprised and can-you-fucking-believe-this kind of look. (Intergalactic by The Beastie Boys) That kind of look that you see on somebody's face after they double down on three consecutive hands of blackjack and the dealer is sitting on 15 and pulls a 6. That kind of "are you fucking kidding me" look. My response to his statement was pretty much in that vein... "she's fuckin' dead?!?!?!?" I know, I know... that's probably not the most appropriate thing to say, given the fact that I wasn't sure who was around, and given that it's not really terribly respectful of the recently deceased, and given that I had no idea what had happened aside from the fact that there was a dead person in my house, but forgive me... it was a gut reaction.
(I Write Sins Not Tragedies by Panic! At The Disco)
So now, here I am. It's the third inning of Yankees/Red Sox. I have an open beer in my hand. There's somewhere between 4 and 187 cops on my porch. There's 2 fire trucks. There's 2 ambulances. There's my landlord, and there's me... shocked.
Now, before I go on, let me say this; I am not trying to under-state this person's death at all. I'm simply saying that it's going to affect me. (Coast of Carolina by Jimmy Buffett) I'm probably one of the people that this event is going to have a lesser effect upon, however, it did happen about 15 feet below the bed that I sleep in. It's terrible and it's a major bummer... she was only 62 from what I could gather. (Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind) What really sucks is that she had 2 sons that live in California and Italy. My landlord had the displeasure of making that phone call. That's gotta be a tough one to be on the ringing end of. My most sincere and heartfelt condolences go out to them. If it ever comes my way, I don't know what I'd do. I am dreading that day.
(Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous by Good Charlotte)
Ya know, I've been asked this question before, and my answer has been standard for a while now. The question is, "when do you think you're going to retire?" You can ask anyone that's ever posed this question to me. My answer is invariably, "as soon as my parents die." No, my loyal readers, I don't want my parents to die. There were a couple times around ages 12-18 when I would have volunteered a different answer, but no, I don't want that. (Time Heals by The Gear Daddies) I hope my parents die very old, in their sleep... kind of like my grandfather... not screaming like the people that were passengers in his car when it happened.
Well, after a very brief interview with a couple of Rochester's finest... giving my name, age and phone number, I headed up to Wilson Farms for a pack of smokes. I know... ironic, right? (Jane Says by Jane's Addiction) I gave my mom the courtesy of a call and told her about today's events. She asked me if I was creeped out and wanted to stay at her place, given that some woman had just died right below my bedroom. Uh, no... it would take a hell of a lot more for me to be creeped out enough to go sleep on her couch. Don't get me wrong... I love my mother and her husband is a nice guy, but I'm not about to go camp at their place. Besides, the woman that died was a really nice lady, and I don't think that she'd haunt me or my house enough to make me lose sleep. Also, I have enough alcohol here to let me sleep through an invasion of gay, tambourine playing, shotgun wielding, Nazi hypochondriacs with Tourette's syndrome. I think I'll be fine. (I Don't Wanna Be by Gavin DeGraw)
After sitting out in front of my place with the landlord and Doug shooting the breeze, lo and behold, who shows up but Josh. That's right, the little weirdo potter guy that used to live across the hall in the former corner apartment (enough, already). He shows up and the medical examiner's truck is in my driveway. He doesn't see me right away, and the look on his face was priceless. It was something between seeing Niagara Falls for the first time and getting your first bill from your wireless provider after you signed up for the $29.95 plan and talked for 1,972 minutes. You know what I'm talking about. You've done it, and so have I. (Numb by Linkin Park) When he finally saw me, the first words out of his mouth were, and I quote, "Jesus, dude... I thought one of your ex's finally snapped and put a bullet in your head." Yeah... thanks for that vote of confidence. Although, I will say that I have had a girl raise a butcher knife above her head in a very threatening manner while screaming, "I love you!!!" Yeah, not sure if that image and that dialogue quite mesh. We don't date anymore.
(Border Town by The Gathering Field)
Nevertheless, after confirming with the officers that they didn't need anything more from me, Josh and I headed upstairs to the corner apartment (f'ing knock it off) to catch the end of the Yanks game. Sadly, they lost to those Boston punks. Every now and again it will happen. Bummer.
Luckily, my beer of the month selection had just come in, so the game didn't seem like as big a deal as it was twenty minutes before my fourth beer. (Buddy Holly by Weezer) I was still kind of at a loss for words because, well, someone f'ing died in my house. As I walked out into my kitchen for another round for Josh and me, I looked out the window and they were just wheeling her lifeless body out of her corner apartment. Suddenly, the game, the beer, and Josh weren't really that significant. Yes, they were things going on in my life at that moment, but it was like time froze for just a second. As cliche as it sounds, it makes you think about your own mortality and how your part in this world will come to a close.
(A Praise Chorus by Jimmy Eat World)
As much as we think that we'll end up in our beds, surrounded by grandkids and great grandkids, with flowers and family pictures on the wall, nobody really knows. I'm fairly certain when Mary thought about this, if ever, that she would be alone in her apartment, with her landlord calling her kids 3,000 miles away and telling them that their mother just passed away. (Again by Lenny Kravitz) Then again, maybe she did. I guess the best thing that I, you, and we can hope for is that she did, and it was peaceful, and that she's in a better place, and she's looking down on her kids saying, "don't worry, it's cool, I'm fine and I love you" and looking down on her last dwelling saying, "hey Rich, thanks for going to the store and getting cigarettes for me, and have a kick-ass party during Park Ave. Fest... you're an alright guy."
(Geek In The Pink by Jason Mraz)
I guess that I've said enough to pay homage to Mary. I'm going to miss her. She was a real nice lady. Again, to her kids (if they ever read this... however doubtful, but it's the thought that counts), I am truly sorry for your loss. I can't possibly imagine. I remember when my two best friend's parent's passed away and I could see it in their eyes the pain that they were feeling. If they miss them half as much as I do, then it's gotta be tough... but I wrote about Al a long time ago.
(Get Back by Buckcherry)
Funny I just mentioned Al. Again, to this very day, I still talk about him and tell "Al stories." That's what I want. For a long, long, long time after I'm gone, I want people to tell "Rich stories," and remember a good time or a goofy, stupid thing that I did and smile. However, more than likely, one of the goofy, stupid things that I do will result in my death and that's how the story will live on. Let's hope not. By the way, if you don't know who Al is, you're one, not a loyal reader, or two, you should go back into the archives and find out. I still miss him. If you didn't know him (and most people that read this didn't), you missed out. Actually, another thing that I can hope for Mary is that she meets Al in the great beyond. He'll take care of her and tell her dirty jokes until she smiles. I would defy anyone in the afterlife to not laugh with, at, or alongside Al. I feel better now.
(Ocean Avenue by Yellowcard)
(Fat Lip by Sum 41)
Writer's block.
(You Don't Mess Around With Jim by Jim Croce)
(All Star by Smash Mouth)
Well, seeing as I still have writer's block and it's been two songs now, I'm going to sign off. It's late and I got stuff to do tomorrow... like softball. I haven't swung a bat since the close of the season last year. Hopefully I can pull off a performance better than Johnny Damon did last night... 0 for 4 at his first time in Fenway as a Yankee. Ugh. I'm almost grateful that the game got rained out tonight. However, the rain out gave me free time to watch my Sabres win in Philly tonight to advance to the second round of the playoffs. There's that silver lining thing again.
(Friday Afternoon by The Floating Men)
(She Hates Me by Puddle of Mudd)
Can you tell I'm trying to think of how to wrap this up?
(Basket Case by Green Day)
(Drift Away by Uncle Kracker)
(Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects)
(Alright Guy by Todd Snider)
(The Geeks Get The Girls by American Hi-Fi)
Well, I'll just sign off by saying that it's late, my martini is empty, and I have shit to do tomorrow. I think a new record store opened up in Irondequoit.
Until next time...
R
(Photograph by Nickleback)
Yesterday, I exited the corner apartment (or the upstairs apartment, or whatever the hell you want to call it) to head over to the liquor store down the street by way of the record store down the street. It was a beautiful day on Park Avenue. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and beautiful women were jogging by my domicile about once every 6.784 seconds... not that I timed it or anything, and not like I sat on my porch for about three hours watching this beautiful scenery or anything like that. (Tipsy by J-Kwon) As I was walking out, the guy that lives below me was just coming in. We chatted for a minute or so, which was pretty much me asking him if my music was ever too loud and him telling me no. Regardless, as he walked in, and I began to walk away, he yelled over to me, "hey, have you seen Mary today?" Mary is the woman that lives in the other apartment in the house. "No... haven't seen her in a couple weeks." She's older and doesn't get around very well, so she pretty much never came out... this was not unusual. Every now and then she'd ask me to go up to Wilson Farms and get her cigarettes, but her friend that took her shopping usually took care of that. She's kind of the textbook "little old lady that lives downstairs." Really nice. "Oh... her friend called and said that she hadn't heard from her all day. Just wondering."
Anyway, I thought nothing of it, and headed over to the record store to look for the new Buckcherry CD. I got into them about a week ago and I'm f'ing hooked. Yes, I know that I can get it all off of Limewire, but there's something satisfying about walking around a record store. There's something that makes you feel good about it... especially a used record store. I'm not talking like FYE or Media Play... I'm talking like Record Archive or The World Famous House of Guitars here in Rochester. Look around... you'll find one. Go in and walk around... it'll make you feel good. Why? I don't know. It just does. Ever just lie down and look at the ceiling and think, if even for a minute, that everything's OK... that at that particular point in time, everything is taken care of and everything is where it's supposed to be? That feeling when all your bills, mortgage, rent, cell phone bill, porn DVD club membership, beer of the month club, and Hustler membership are all paid and there's still some money left over for strippers... that's the feeling. But I digress.
(Long Way Down by The Goo Goo Dolls)
Well, I didn't wind up actually buying music at the record store that I so adore. I wandered back to the corner apartment (again, or whatever you want to call it), hopped in the car, and headed out shopping. (Without You by MxPx) I need to get some new clothes for the upcoming Vegas trip. Two weeks from today, baby... oh yeah. I hit a couple stores, and the only thing that I wound up buying were a couple packages of floating candles, and about 9 bottles of wine from a different liquor store than the aforementioned one on my beloved Park Avenue. Yes, I'm a decor whore. No, I'm not gay. Yes, I am drinking a martini right now. (Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash) Again, no, I'm not gay.
I headed up to the corner apartment (whatever) because in about half an hour my beloved Yankees were playing my much hated Boston Red Sox. Did I mention that I hate them? If not, I do. Well, just as I got the last bottle into the wine rack (Gasolina by Daddy Yankee), I saw a bunch of flashing lights reflecting off my walls. I went to the window to see if one of those asshole kids with a $5,000 stereo system finally got pulled over for violation of some noise ordinance, when I noticed a couple of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars parked right outside of... you guessed it... the corner apartment (shut up). Immediately I thought that there must be a problem after the earlier conversation with the guy from downstairs. Needless to say, I headed downstairs to see what was going on.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, there was Doug (the guy from downstairs) talking to my landlord, and about a zillion firemen going in and out of my entranceway. (My United States of Whatever by Liam Lynch) I assumed the worst. I figured she fell and broke a hip or something horrible like that. I was at the doorway and said to Doug, "is she ok?" He said, "no, she's dead." The look on his face was something I can't quite describe. It was kind of a surprised and can-you-fucking-believe-this kind of look. (Intergalactic by The Beastie Boys) That kind of look that you see on somebody's face after they double down on three consecutive hands of blackjack and the dealer is sitting on 15 and pulls a 6. That kind of "are you fucking kidding me" look. My response to his statement was pretty much in that vein... "she's fuckin' dead?!?!?!?" I know, I know... that's probably not the most appropriate thing to say, given the fact that I wasn't sure who was around, and given that it's not really terribly respectful of the recently deceased, and given that I had no idea what had happened aside from the fact that there was a dead person in my house, but forgive me... it was a gut reaction.
(I Write Sins Not Tragedies by Panic! At The Disco)
So now, here I am. It's the third inning of Yankees/Red Sox. I have an open beer in my hand. There's somewhere between 4 and 187 cops on my porch. There's 2 fire trucks. There's 2 ambulances. There's my landlord, and there's me... shocked.
Now, before I go on, let me say this; I am not trying to under-state this person's death at all. I'm simply saying that it's going to affect me. (Coast of Carolina by Jimmy Buffett) I'm probably one of the people that this event is going to have a lesser effect upon, however, it did happen about 15 feet below the bed that I sleep in. It's terrible and it's a major bummer... she was only 62 from what I could gather. (Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind) What really sucks is that she had 2 sons that live in California and Italy. My landlord had the displeasure of making that phone call. That's gotta be a tough one to be on the ringing end of. My most sincere and heartfelt condolences go out to them. If it ever comes my way, I don't know what I'd do. I am dreading that day.
(Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous by Good Charlotte)
Ya know, I've been asked this question before, and my answer has been standard for a while now. The question is, "when do you think you're going to retire?" You can ask anyone that's ever posed this question to me. My answer is invariably, "as soon as my parents die." No, my loyal readers, I don't want my parents to die. There were a couple times around ages 12-18 when I would have volunteered a different answer, but no, I don't want that. (Time Heals by The Gear Daddies) I hope my parents die very old, in their sleep... kind of like my grandfather... not screaming like the people that were passengers in his car when it happened.
Well, after a very brief interview with a couple of Rochester's finest... giving my name, age and phone number, I headed up to Wilson Farms for a pack of smokes. I know... ironic, right? (Jane Says by Jane's Addiction) I gave my mom the courtesy of a call and told her about today's events. She asked me if I was creeped out and wanted to stay at her place, given that some woman had just died right below my bedroom. Uh, no... it would take a hell of a lot more for me to be creeped out enough to go sleep on her couch. Don't get me wrong... I love my mother and her husband is a nice guy, but I'm not about to go camp at their place. Besides, the woman that died was a really nice lady, and I don't think that she'd haunt me or my house enough to make me lose sleep. Also, I have enough alcohol here to let me sleep through an invasion of gay, tambourine playing, shotgun wielding, Nazi hypochondriacs with Tourette's syndrome. I think I'll be fine. (I Don't Wanna Be by Gavin DeGraw)
After sitting out in front of my place with the landlord and Doug shooting the breeze, lo and behold, who shows up but Josh. That's right, the little weirdo potter guy that used to live across the hall in the former corner apartment (enough, already). He shows up and the medical examiner's truck is in my driveway. He doesn't see me right away, and the look on his face was priceless. It was something between seeing Niagara Falls for the first time and getting your first bill from your wireless provider after you signed up for the $29.95 plan and talked for 1,972 minutes. You know what I'm talking about. You've done it, and so have I. (Numb by Linkin Park) When he finally saw me, the first words out of his mouth were, and I quote, "Jesus, dude... I thought one of your ex's finally snapped and put a bullet in your head." Yeah... thanks for that vote of confidence. Although, I will say that I have had a girl raise a butcher knife above her head in a very threatening manner while screaming, "I love you!!!" Yeah, not sure if that image and that dialogue quite mesh. We don't date anymore.
(Border Town by The Gathering Field)
Nevertheless, after confirming with the officers that they didn't need anything more from me, Josh and I headed upstairs to the corner apartment (f'ing knock it off) to catch the end of the Yanks game. Sadly, they lost to those Boston punks. Every now and again it will happen. Bummer.
Luckily, my beer of the month selection had just come in, so the game didn't seem like as big a deal as it was twenty minutes before my fourth beer. (Buddy Holly by Weezer) I was still kind of at a loss for words because, well, someone f'ing died in my house. As I walked out into my kitchen for another round for Josh and me, I looked out the window and they were just wheeling her lifeless body out of her corner apartment. Suddenly, the game, the beer, and Josh weren't really that significant. Yes, they were things going on in my life at that moment, but it was like time froze for just a second. As cliche as it sounds, it makes you think about your own mortality and how your part in this world will come to a close.
(A Praise Chorus by Jimmy Eat World)
As much as we think that we'll end up in our beds, surrounded by grandkids and great grandkids, with flowers and family pictures on the wall, nobody really knows. I'm fairly certain when Mary thought about this, if ever, that she would be alone in her apartment, with her landlord calling her kids 3,000 miles away and telling them that their mother just passed away. (Again by Lenny Kravitz) Then again, maybe she did. I guess the best thing that I, you, and we can hope for is that she did, and it was peaceful, and that she's in a better place, and she's looking down on her kids saying, "don't worry, it's cool, I'm fine and I love you" and looking down on her last dwelling saying, "hey Rich, thanks for going to the store and getting cigarettes for me, and have a kick-ass party during Park Ave. Fest... you're an alright guy."
(Geek In The Pink by Jason Mraz)
I guess that I've said enough to pay homage to Mary. I'm going to miss her. She was a real nice lady. Again, to her kids (if they ever read this... however doubtful, but it's the thought that counts), I am truly sorry for your loss. I can't possibly imagine. I remember when my two best friend's parent's passed away and I could see it in their eyes the pain that they were feeling. If they miss them half as much as I do, then it's gotta be tough... but I wrote about Al a long time ago.
(Get Back by Buckcherry)
Funny I just mentioned Al. Again, to this very day, I still talk about him and tell "Al stories." That's what I want. For a long, long, long time after I'm gone, I want people to tell "Rich stories," and remember a good time or a goofy, stupid thing that I did and smile. However, more than likely, one of the goofy, stupid things that I do will result in my death and that's how the story will live on. Let's hope not. By the way, if you don't know who Al is, you're one, not a loyal reader, or two, you should go back into the archives and find out. I still miss him. If you didn't know him (and most people that read this didn't), you missed out. Actually, another thing that I can hope for Mary is that she meets Al in the great beyond. He'll take care of her and tell her dirty jokes until she smiles. I would defy anyone in the afterlife to not laugh with, at, or alongside Al. I feel better now.
(Ocean Avenue by Yellowcard)
(Fat Lip by Sum 41)
Writer's block.
(You Don't Mess Around With Jim by Jim Croce)
(All Star by Smash Mouth)
Well, seeing as I still have writer's block and it's been two songs now, I'm going to sign off. It's late and I got stuff to do tomorrow... like softball. I haven't swung a bat since the close of the season last year. Hopefully I can pull off a performance better than Johnny Damon did last night... 0 for 4 at his first time in Fenway as a Yankee. Ugh. I'm almost grateful that the game got rained out tonight. However, the rain out gave me free time to watch my Sabres win in Philly tonight to advance to the second round of the playoffs. There's that silver lining thing again.
(Friday Afternoon by The Floating Men)
(She Hates Me by Puddle of Mudd)
Can you tell I'm trying to think of how to wrap this up?
(Basket Case by Green Day)
(Drift Away by Uncle Kracker)
(Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects)
(Alright Guy by Todd Snider)
(The Geeks Get The Girls by American Hi-Fi)
Well, I'll just sign off by saying that it's late, my martini is empty, and I have shit to do tomorrow. I think a new record store opened up in Irondequoit.
Until next time...
R
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