So today is "World No Tobacco" day... a little gift from "Health Professionals Against Tobacco." Thanks guys... no, really, thanks a ton. Wow, what would I do without a whole day dedicated to no tobacco? Hmm... guess I'd have to up my smoking to 2 packs a day.
I think the biggest problem with smoking that I have is that guy. You know the guy I'm talking about; that guy in every single stinkin' 7-11, standing there with a loaded gun, saying, "buy those God damn cancer sticks and have that pack done by the end of the day or I'm coming looking for you." That's the guy that wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. He scares me worse than the Boogey Man, Freddy, Jason, and the Menendez brothers all rolled into one. Man, if I wasn't forced to smoke by that guy, I would certainly stop this very minute... but because he's out there, somewhere, polishing that cold steel and carrying around that one bullet like Barney Fife in his left shirt pocket with my name on it, I have no choice but to light up this lovely tobacco product, grown right in the heart of Virginia. Mmmmmmmmm... that's better.
For those of you that don't get cynicism or sarcasm, that guy does not exist. There's no firearm-wielding disciplinary smoking Nazi that forces me to pay $5/pack for cigarettes. No one's making me smoke. No one's banging on my door at 3AM yelling through my peephole that I'd better light up or they're going to have to identify me by dental records. No one's holding my guitar hostage. No one's got my Mizuno softball mitt in some deep dark dungeon and sending it back to me finger by finger. No one's stolen my Lance Armstrong bracelet and is sending me emails that say they're going to cut it in half with a rusty pair of scissors if I don't light one up right this very minute because they've hidden a remote control camera in my stuffed gorilla head cover and they'll know if I don't do it. I was convinced for a while that my ex was doing all of the above, but it turned out just to be Columbia House. Thanks for the CDs, by the way... 12 CDs for a penny??? How can I lose?
What am I getting at here? In case you're sitting at home reading this with a helmet on, the point that I'm making here is this; smoking is a choice. No matter how much those Truth.com ads on TV say that big tobacco spends on marketing per year, the bottom line is that it's still a choice. Yes, people, I do, in fact, smoke. I like to smoke. I enjoy the practice of smoking, and I do so pretty much whenever the hell I want. The key phrase of that sentence is "whenever the hell I want." In other words, if I don't want to, I don't have to.
Friends, I do acknowledge that smoking is harmful and addictive. I get it. I'm not going to tell you that cigarettes have Vitamin C and Calcium in them. They don't. But here's the thing; I know this. I know that it's not good for me. You don't have to tell me this, or hold up signs or spend your marketing money on television ads that tell me that smoking is a health hazard. I'm not stupid. I get it.
What I don't get are these TV ads. The one that's particularly moving is the one that shows some poor woman in a wheelchair with an oxygen tube running below her nose, then cuts to the picture of some kid, and has the tagline; cigarettes killed their mother. While it's sad and tragic, and my heart goes out to those poor kids that do/did lose a parent to smoking, that ad does not, in any sense of the word, make sense. Was there a giant horde or giant cigarettes that suddenly sprouted arms and legs and showed up her door one night wielding guns, or did she make the conscious decision to smoke for however long, contract a disease because of smoking and then die? I think it's the latter. I think a more appropriate tagline for that little media blitz should be, "Smoking killed their mother."
Here's my question; let's say that I decide to head out to my local watering hole tonight. Let's say that my favorite beer is on sale tonight at the low, low price of 6 for a dollar. Let's say that I have $2 in my pocket, and that I drink the amount that my cash reserve allows. Hmm... a little quick math... 12 of my favorite beers consumed. Let's now say that somewhere around beer 10.5 that some girl starts talking to me, and has a thing for guys with a receding hairline, a penchant for Jimmy Buffett's music, and blue eyes. Let's further say that I finish my remaining 1.5 beers, convince her that she should really see my Pez dispenser collection, and she should hop in the car with me. Furthermore, let's go forward and say that because I've had an inordinate amount of beers and now I'm behind the wheel and in no condition to drive, that on the way home, I slam into a busload of penguins that are on their way back from a free minnow convention, and a couple of them hit the seat in front of them and choke on vendor samples of platinum minnows that were made for Paris Hilton and they die. Yes, people, I know it's getting a little ugly, but I'm making a point here. If any penguins are actually reading this, I don't mean you any harm or malcontent. Anyway, let's say that 10 months later, the aforementioned girl from the bar calls me up and says, "congratulations, it's a boy." Meanwhile, I've had my license revoked, and I've been in court for the last 10 months with penguin support groups. I'm now bankrupt and have a kid... all because I got hammered and made a few bad decisions.
My question is; is it fair to say that beer ruined my life? Did beer make me do all this? I knew the risks, I made the choices... how far off is this? I know it's kind of a long way to go for this analogy, but seriously, is this any more ridiculous than suing McDonald's for making their coffee too hot and burning my legs when I spilled it, or suing that same company for my own obesity? Would we start to see commercials with my ugly mug plastered all over it with the tagline, "beer ruined this guy's life"? Again, I think the appropriate slogan would be, "drinking ruined this guy's life."
Please, please, please understand that I know it's a pretty big leap in logic, but really how far off is that analogy? Yes, I know there's not a lot of busloads full of penguins out there at 3AM in the Park Avenue area of Rochester, NY. Come to think of it, I've only seen like 3 and I've lived here for 10 years. Also, please, please, please understand that my heart does go out to any child who's lost a loved one to any smoking-related illness, and I am not making light of the situation. To be honest, I can't think of many things sadder than growing up minus a parent. It's got to be difficult, and if this has affected you, I am truly sorry.
The only point I'm making here is that it is, in fact, a choice. There is no "that guy." I don't think that we really need a "World No Tobacco" day. If you want to quit, quit. There are plenty of smoking cessation tools out there, and a bunch of them are free. Yes, I know it's tough to do. My old man says, "quitting is easy, I've done it a hundred times." If you want to quit, quit for whatever reason you feel you need to, be it your wife wants you to, your kids don't want to see you get sick, or you're afraid of penguins (they're attracted to cigarette smoke).
On that note, I'm going to get going... can't seem to find my Mizuno softball mitt.
Until next time, as always...
R
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
The Wall Street Journal and Mindi with and "i"
So here's the deal. In the midst of recovering from a four day weekend, I did have to extract myself from my posh luxury two bedroom suite to make the journey to the local grocery Mecca that we Rochesterians call; Wegmans. I don't know how those bastards do it, but I went in with the intention once again of picking up my standard case of Diet Vanilla Pepsi, case of Dasani, and a couple frozen pizzas... or something to keep me sustained in my vicious literary endeavors, but somehow I walked out once again spending $70.03. Whoever they've hired to do their merchandising is worth every penny. Regardless... on with the rant of the day.
For the last seven or eight days that I've been in and out of my meager domicile, I've noticed a disturbing gathering of copies of the Wall Street Journal. They're stacking up in my entranceway, and no one is bothering to pick these stupid things up. As they don't belong to me, I have elected, in my infinite wisdom, to join my fellow apartment-dwelling compatriots in the dutiful act of doing absolutely nothing about them. Now, believe it or not, I do have a take on people that actually have the Wall Street Journal (henceforth to be referred to as "WSJ") delivered to their doorstep... and here it is.
There are 2 types of people that have the WSJ delivered to their doorstep; (1) stock brokers or people that work in the financial sector, and (2) pretentious assholes. My guess is that the individual that is letting these monuments to professional financial advice stack up in my entranceway is, in fact, the latter. This is the guy that likes the idea of being someone that is in the habit of reading the WSJ every day and taking whatever the hell it says as gospel, but pretty much uses it to line the bottom of his kitty litter box. Yes, I do believe that it's a guy with a cat. Guys, especially single guys, should not own a cat... but that's a whole other post and I won't get into it now.
What this little episode reminds me of is the girl that lived across the street from me from age 8-18. Her name was Mindi... yes, with an "i." Mindi was the girl that so desperately wanted to be popular and respected, but just couldn't quite muster whatever it is that popular people had... either could I, but I accepted that a long, long time ago. Anyway, on with the point I'm trying to make. When we were in high school, Mindi went to the mall and bought non-prescription glasses in an effort to make her look smarter and give her some kind of indefinable quality that would make people think she actually had a brain. I think she was going for that kind of Molly Ringwald/Ally Sheedy thing... that girl that isn't really in, but you should really get to know her because there's something deeper, something you need to delve into, something you just stay up and think about at night because you know that it's something that makes you want to be better. Yeah... uh, no... that didn't really work out for her.
Anyhoo, (my grandmother says that), I think the point that I'm getting at is; why bother? Equating buying the WSJ to buying non-prescription glasses may be some kind of leap in logic, but I think it's pretty right on. I must say, I've been guilty of it... we've all probably been guilty of it. Maybe not to the same extremes that my neighbor or Mindi with an "i" have, but we've all done stuff like that to make people think something different about us. Now I'm not advocating trying not to fit in, but are the people you're going to meet while wearing those glasses or pretending to read the WSJ while sipping a double chocolate half caf double mocha espresso grande at Spin Cafe really the people that you want to devote your time to? I personally don't think so, but if that's what brings you happiness and makes your life complete; more power to you.
So that's all I've got for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I'll have some more better (my grandmother again) inspiration for what I would classify as a suitable rant. For now, as I crawl out from under my hangover from this long weekend and get ready to greet the world tomorrow, I'm just content to get something down in print. Otherwise, until that happens, I'm out... I think Pretty in Pink is on TBS.
Until next time, as always...
R
For the last seven or eight days that I've been in and out of my meager domicile, I've noticed a disturbing gathering of copies of the Wall Street Journal. They're stacking up in my entranceway, and no one is bothering to pick these stupid things up. As they don't belong to me, I have elected, in my infinite wisdom, to join my fellow apartment-dwelling compatriots in the dutiful act of doing absolutely nothing about them. Now, believe it or not, I do have a take on people that actually have the Wall Street Journal (henceforth to be referred to as "WSJ") delivered to their doorstep... and here it is.
There are 2 types of people that have the WSJ delivered to their doorstep; (1) stock brokers or people that work in the financial sector, and (2) pretentious assholes. My guess is that the individual that is letting these monuments to professional financial advice stack up in my entranceway is, in fact, the latter. This is the guy that likes the idea of being someone that is in the habit of reading the WSJ every day and taking whatever the hell it says as gospel, but pretty much uses it to line the bottom of his kitty litter box. Yes, I do believe that it's a guy with a cat. Guys, especially single guys, should not own a cat... but that's a whole other post and I won't get into it now.
What this little episode reminds me of is the girl that lived across the street from me from age 8-18. Her name was Mindi... yes, with an "i." Mindi was the girl that so desperately wanted to be popular and respected, but just couldn't quite muster whatever it is that popular people had... either could I, but I accepted that a long, long time ago. Anyway, on with the point I'm trying to make. When we were in high school, Mindi went to the mall and bought non-prescription glasses in an effort to make her look smarter and give her some kind of indefinable quality that would make people think she actually had a brain. I think she was going for that kind of Molly Ringwald/Ally Sheedy thing... that girl that isn't really in, but you should really get to know her because there's something deeper, something you need to delve into, something you just stay up and think about at night because you know that it's something that makes you want to be better. Yeah... uh, no... that didn't really work out for her.
Anyhoo, (my grandmother says that), I think the point that I'm getting at is; why bother? Equating buying the WSJ to buying non-prescription glasses may be some kind of leap in logic, but I think it's pretty right on. I must say, I've been guilty of it... we've all probably been guilty of it. Maybe not to the same extremes that my neighbor or Mindi with an "i" have, but we've all done stuff like that to make people think something different about us. Now I'm not advocating trying not to fit in, but are the people you're going to meet while wearing those glasses or pretending to read the WSJ while sipping a double chocolate half caf double mocha espresso grande at Spin Cafe really the people that you want to devote your time to? I personally don't think so, but if that's what brings you happiness and makes your life complete; more power to you.
So that's all I've got for tonight. Maybe tomorrow I'll have some more better (my grandmother again) inspiration for what I would classify as a suitable rant. For now, as I crawl out from under my hangover from this long weekend and get ready to greet the world tomorrow, I'm just content to get something down in print. Otherwise, until that happens, I'm out... I think Pretty in Pink is on TBS.
Until next time, as always...
R
Saturday, May 21, 2005
For the first time ever... Q & A
Those of you that are loyal readers know that I never do this... but I have had such a barrage of emails that I feel I must follow up. For the first time ever, I'm going to do a little Q & A. Once again, I apologize in advance if I offend anyone.
Off we go.
Q: Hey jerk, I am a cop, and I'm out there putting my life on the line every day to protect assholes like you. You should be thankful that there are people like me!
A: You're putting your life on the line to protect assholes? What... did you flunk out of proctology school and decide to become one of Rochester's finest? Wow... I think it may be time to re-assess your career path. And lasty, you're right... I am thankful that there are people like you. Without people like you, i.e. cops, skinheads, neo Nazis, rodeo clowns, the Boston Red Sox, Red Sox fans, demolition derby judges, guys that wear a baseball cap turned sideways, and the people that hang out at the Pennzoil station across from city hall in Jamestown, NY on Friday & Saturday nights, I would have absolutely no one to make fun of and at which to direct my pithy nuances. Now go home and trim your mustache.
Q: I'm a cop, and you better pray that I never have the pleasure of pulling your punk ass over some night.
A: I've gotten a few of these threatening emails... telling me that they're out to get me and that they're going to make my life a living hell. I'd like to address this once and for all, and end this. The morons that sent me the "I'm going to get you" emails are simply proving my point for me... and that point is that Rochester cops have nothing better to do. This is exactly the reason that they're on Park Avenue at 4:46PM writing tickets. Shouldn't you be out nailing drug dealers? Isn't there someone else out there that is actually breaking the law? Isn't there someone out there other than a person with no criminal record parking a minivan that you should be out there attempting to apprehend? I'm pretty sure that there are far greater threats to society at large than me. Finally, to answer your moronic, jack-booted thug email... I hope you pull me over some night. Again, I have no criminal record, I have no outstanding parking tickets or warrants, I don't drive drunk, and my father is one of the most feared attorneys in New York State. Pull me over.
Q: My brother is a cop, and I pray every night that he's safe while he's taking care of you, me, and all of us.
A: Good take... I respect that. I pray that he's safe, and I pray that he is not one of the countless assholes that is, in fact, out there being a militant asshole. One other thing that I would pray for... pray that he gets out of that line of work and lands a job where he's not dodging bullets for $34K/year. That's all I've got on this one.
Q: Who the fuck do you think you are??? There are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people. You're just an opinionated ass.
A: I think I'm the guy that owns this domain, therefore, it's my job and my God-given right to be an opinionated ass. You see, when you don't live in a Nazi regime, you have the freedom to write, print or say virtually whatever you want. This is America, welcome to it. And to answer your assertion that there are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people; until I meet one and he doesn't try to intimidate or overpower me by flashing his badge, either professionally or socially, literally or figuratively, I stand by my statement.
I could go on for days with this Q & A, but I'll spare you the boring literary marathon, simply because it would be just that; a marathon. Quite frankly, I'm 33 years old and I just don't have the stamina anymore... besides, there are so many emails that are just so unbelievably retarded that I fail to muster the energy or inclination to actually dignify them with a response. If I didn't get to yours, I apologize.
So, that's it. I've done my best. That might be it for today, but who knows... I might run outside and see a ticket for the tire pressure being too low on the minivan. Until then, rest in the solace that is... the corner apartment.
Until next time...
R
Off we go.
Q: Hey jerk, I am a cop, and I'm out there putting my life on the line every day to protect assholes like you. You should be thankful that there are people like me!
A: You're putting your life on the line to protect assholes? What... did you flunk out of proctology school and decide to become one of Rochester's finest? Wow... I think it may be time to re-assess your career path. And lasty, you're right... I am thankful that there are people like you. Without people like you, i.e. cops, skinheads, neo Nazis, rodeo clowns, the Boston Red Sox, Red Sox fans, demolition derby judges, guys that wear a baseball cap turned sideways, and the people that hang out at the Pennzoil station across from city hall in Jamestown, NY on Friday & Saturday nights, I would have absolutely no one to make fun of and at which to direct my pithy nuances. Now go home and trim your mustache.
Q: I'm a cop, and you better pray that I never have the pleasure of pulling your punk ass over some night.
A: I've gotten a few of these threatening emails... telling me that they're out to get me and that they're going to make my life a living hell. I'd like to address this once and for all, and end this. The morons that sent me the "I'm going to get you" emails are simply proving my point for me... and that point is that Rochester cops have nothing better to do. This is exactly the reason that they're on Park Avenue at 4:46PM writing tickets. Shouldn't you be out nailing drug dealers? Isn't there someone else out there that is actually breaking the law? Isn't there someone out there other than a person with no criminal record parking a minivan that you should be out there attempting to apprehend? I'm pretty sure that there are far greater threats to society at large than me. Finally, to answer your moronic, jack-booted thug email... I hope you pull me over some night. Again, I have no criminal record, I have no outstanding parking tickets or warrants, I don't drive drunk, and my father is one of the most feared attorneys in New York State. Pull me over.
Q: My brother is a cop, and I pray every night that he's safe while he's taking care of you, me, and all of us.
A: Good take... I respect that. I pray that he's safe, and I pray that he is not one of the countless assholes that is, in fact, out there being a militant asshole. One other thing that I would pray for... pray that he gets out of that line of work and lands a job where he's not dodging bullets for $34K/year. That's all I've got on this one.
Q: Who the fuck do you think you are??? There are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people. You're just an opinionated ass.
A: I think I'm the guy that owns this domain, therefore, it's my job and my God-given right to be an opinionated ass. You see, when you don't live in a Nazi regime, you have the freedom to write, print or say virtually whatever you want. This is America, welcome to it. And to answer your assertion that there are plenty of cops that are out there that are great people; until I meet one and he doesn't try to intimidate or overpower me by flashing his badge, either professionally or socially, literally or figuratively, I stand by my statement.
I could go on for days with this Q & A, but I'll spare you the boring literary marathon, simply because it would be just that; a marathon. Quite frankly, I'm 33 years old and I just don't have the stamina anymore... besides, there are so many emails that are just so unbelievably retarded that I fail to muster the energy or inclination to actually dignify them with a response. If I didn't get to yours, I apologize.
So, that's it. I've done my best. That might be it for today, but who knows... I might run outside and see a ticket for the tire pressure being too low on the minivan. Until then, rest in the solace that is... the corner apartment.
Until next time...
R
Thursday, May 19, 2005
To Protect and to Serve... more like Hassle and Annoy
Kids, before I get started, let me lay some ground work.
Those of you that are loyal readers are aware that I don't delve into the profanities of the English language in my writings too often. However, I must warn you that this rant, monologue or soliloquy or whatever the F you want to call it is going to be peppered with expletives. Having said that, off we go.
When I'm not a world class vocalist (as many of you who bought the album know), I do have a real job. I love my real job. I work with a wonderful group, and I get to meet a lot of interesting people that I would typically not run into. Today, I worked with my boss and got done circa 3:45PM. After a couple more stops, the Rychkid is done for the day, and heads to his luxury two bedroom apartment in the heart of Park Avenue, Rochester, NY. This puts us in the timeframe of 4:30ish, Eastern Standard Time. As my lovely dwelling complex does not have off-street parking, it is mandatory to move your vehicle from one side of the street to the other. Those of you that feel my pain know it as alternate parking... one of the few nightmares of living in the artsy-fartsy cultural area of Park Avenue. Needless to say, parking is at a premium. Having said that; typically when I end my day somewhere around 5, I do honor the mandatory alternate parking, and park on the appropriate side for that evening. Again, this is at 4:30PM. Pretty much everyone in this area that doesn't have the blessing of off-street parking does the same thing: when you get home at 5/5:30, you park on the correct side. This has never been a problem... until today, May 18, 2005.
Ok... so I park my minivan. No, that's not a misprint. I drive a minivan. OK? Let's move on. I park my minivan and head into my luxury two bedroom suite, complete with Ramen noodles, sweet pickles, stale popcorn, ketchup and empty cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi that currently reside in my meager kitchen. I grab a water, a bag of Tostitos (the kind with the "hint of lime") and head to the couch. I catch the tail end of Maury, who's got a great paternity test show going on... should've TIVO'd that one.
Now I know that I have a softball game at 8:30, under the lights, and I'm still exhausted from the Vegas excursion. Taking all this into consideration, I realize that it is in my best interest to attempt a nap.
So now I've set the stage; parked the minivan (yes, again, I said minivan), got a nutritious snack, and parked my ass on the couch. I do succeed in my endeavor to take a nap, and wake up at 7:30 to the sound of my phone ringing. It's Chopper... apparently I have some of his clothes in my luggage from the Vegas trip, and he has the $100 he owes me. Perfect... I'm awake and rested in time for the game, and I'm going to get some money from Chop. Outstanding, and all is right with the world.
Now the annoyance and hassle begins. I get changed for softball, screw a Marlboro Light into my lips, and head downstairs. When I walked out the front door, I could not believe my eyes. I had a ticket on my minivan. Once again, yes, I said minivan. I look at the time that is written on it, and it's 4:46PM.
Those of you who are going to be offended by expletives should stop reading here. Those of you who don't give a fuck, read on.
This next statement may be a generality, an over-statement, and I may even be painting with a really wide brush here, but I must say it. If you are reading this, and you are a Rochester cop, you are an asshole. If you are reading this and you are not a Rochester cop, you should be made aware that cops in Rochester, NY are assholes. This statement is not going to go unfounded, and the goal for the rest of this post is to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this statement is, in fact, true.
In the Park Ave. area of Rochester, parking is at a premium. The asshole that wrote this ticket, as I'm sure it's not his first time through here, nor is it his first day of being an asshole, knows this. Let me pose this question to any and all of my loyal readers. Who, other than an asshole, knowing what I have just said, would, in fact, penalize me for it? Your answer? No one. Logic says; this person is an asshole.
Now, I do have an education from one of the finest correspondence schools in New York State. Logic also says that this does not necessarily mean that all Rochester cops are assholes. Logic would say;
This person is a cop.
This person is an asshole.
-------------------------
All cops are not necessarily assholes.
Ladies and gentlemen, until I meet one that is not, I have no other choice but to assume this conclusion that I have drawn on my own through years of clinical research and experience. And that conclusion is that all Rochester cops are assholes. I will pose this question, and open it for comments, and I will also honor and respect your response... unless of course you are a Rochester cop, in which case you are probably an asshole and your opinion shouldn't count anyway. My question is this:
Have you ever met someone that you thought was an asshole, and then found out later that he was a cop? And then when you found out he was a cop, did you say to yourself or anyone else, "that figures."? Better yet, have you ever met a cop, Rochester or otherwise, that was not an asshole? I haven't, and I will be amazed, going forward, if I do. Maybe that's a little too general, and I apologize. Strike that.
Friends and neighbors, I want you to step back in time with me for a moment. Indulge me if you will. It won't take long, I promise.
Go back with me to your high school days. Back to the days of mullets, rat tails, parachute pants and Camaros. A glorious time. A time of chicks with big hair and leg warmers. A time of Poison, Ratt, Styx and Bon Jovi. A time when I had hair that was spiked up and looked like that dude from A Flock of Seagulls, and I had more of it. A simpler time. A more peaceful time. A time of Ron Reagan's Star Wars Program, and the country was still riding that crest of a wave of when the 1980 USA Hockey Team beat the Soviets and took home the gold on a frozen pond in a little barn in Lake Placid, NY. By the way, they actually beat Finland for the gold... rent "Miracle" if you haven't seen it. The country was riding that wave. If you look up into the mountains outside of Las Vegas, you can almost make out where the wave finally broke, and eased back to low water mark.
Now that I have you in that frame of mind, I want you to think about that guy. You know the one I'm talking about. That guy that wasn't quite in the "in" crowd. The guy that would show up to parties with some girl from another school you'd never heard of, and hang out in the corner and talk to her about how much he maxed on the bench that day. The guy that would wear really tight t-shirts and tapered jeans with work boots. The guy that carries a 225 bowling average. The guy that would talk about government conspiracy theories and swear that every teacher was flunking him because he could do more curls in gym class. The guy that would hold a high ranking government office had the Nazis won the war. You can usually identify this guy by his mode of dress, or by his buzz cut hair style. Remember that guy? Got that mental picture? That's the guy I'm talking about.
This guy went on to become one of two things, and they're both pretty much in the same vein. They're either a cop or a bouncer in a titty bar. These are the guys that go home every night, watch "Roadhouse," and jerk off to it. They have an autographed picture of Patrick Swayze somewhere in their home, and they talk about how much they wish that the coach would have put them in during the final minutes of the fourth quarter... then they would've won State.
That's my take on cops. Feel free to comment on this, and quite honestly, I'll be amazed if I get any negative feedback on this.
Well, friends... have I proven my point? I don't know, but it's late and the Rychkid has to be in Buffalo at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
Whether I proved anything or nothing here tonight, I stand by my statement. If you're not sure what that statement is, go into your basement, get a tack hammer and smack yourself in the head. Repeat as needed.
I'm out... gotta get some sleep and figure out my defense for this parking ticket. Think I'll plead insanity.
Until next time...
R
Those of you that are loyal readers are aware that I don't delve into the profanities of the English language in my writings too often. However, I must warn you that this rant, monologue or soliloquy or whatever the F you want to call it is going to be peppered with expletives. Having said that, off we go.
When I'm not a world class vocalist (as many of you who bought the album know), I do have a real job. I love my real job. I work with a wonderful group, and I get to meet a lot of interesting people that I would typically not run into. Today, I worked with my boss and got done circa 3:45PM. After a couple more stops, the Rychkid is done for the day, and heads to his luxury two bedroom apartment in the heart of Park Avenue, Rochester, NY. This puts us in the timeframe of 4:30ish, Eastern Standard Time. As my lovely dwelling complex does not have off-street parking, it is mandatory to move your vehicle from one side of the street to the other. Those of you that feel my pain know it as alternate parking... one of the few nightmares of living in the artsy-fartsy cultural area of Park Avenue. Needless to say, parking is at a premium. Having said that; typically when I end my day somewhere around 5, I do honor the mandatory alternate parking, and park on the appropriate side for that evening. Again, this is at 4:30PM. Pretty much everyone in this area that doesn't have the blessing of off-street parking does the same thing: when you get home at 5/5:30, you park on the correct side. This has never been a problem... until today, May 18, 2005.
Ok... so I park my minivan. No, that's not a misprint. I drive a minivan. OK? Let's move on. I park my minivan and head into my luxury two bedroom suite, complete with Ramen noodles, sweet pickles, stale popcorn, ketchup and empty cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi that currently reside in my meager kitchen. I grab a water, a bag of Tostitos (the kind with the "hint of lime") and head to the couch. I catch the tail end of Maury, who's got a great paternity test show going on... should've TIVO'd that one.
Now I know that I have a softball game at 8:30, under the lights, and I'm still exhausted from the Vegas excursion. Taking all this into consideration, I realize that it is in my best interest to attempt a nap.
So now I've set the stage; parked the minivan (yes, again, I said minivan), got a nutritious snack, and parked my ass on the couch. I do succeed in my endeavor to take a nap, and wake up at 7:30 to the sound of my phone ringing. It's Chopper... apparently I have some of his clothes in my luggage from the Vegas trip, and he has the $100 he owes me. Perfect... I'm awake and rested in time for the game, and I'm going to get some money from Chop. Outstanding, and all is right with the world.
Now the annoyance and hassle begins. I get changed for softball, screw a Marlboro Light into my lips, and head downstairs. When I walked out the front door, I could not believe my eyes. I had a ticket on my minivan. Once again, yes, I said minivan. I look at the time that is written on it, and it's 4:46PM.
Those of you who are going to be offended by expletives should stop reading here. Those of you who don't give a fuck, read on.
This next statement may be a generality, an over-statement, and I may even be painting with a really wide brush here, but I must say it. If you are reading this, and you are a Rochester cop, you are an asshole. If you are reading this and you are not a Rochester cop, you should be made aware that cops in Rochester, NY are assholes. This statement is not going to go unfounded, and the goal for the rest of this post is to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this statement is, in fact, true.
In the Park Ave. area of Rochester, parking is at a premium. The asshole that wrote this ticket, as I'm sure it's not his first time through here, nor is it his first day of being an asshole, knows this. Let me pose this question to any and all of my loyal readers. Who, other than an asshole, knowing what I have just said, would, in fact, penalize me for it? Your answer? No one. Logic says; this person is an asshole.
Now, I do have an education from one of the finest correspondence schools in New York State. Logic also says that this does not necessarily mean that all Rochester cops are assholes. Logic would say;
This person is a cop.
This person is an asshole.
-------------------------
All cops are not necessarily assholes.
Ladies and gentlemen, until I meet one that is not, I have no other choice but to assume this conclusion that I have drawn on my own through years of clinical research and experience. And that conclusion is that all Rochester cops are assholes. I will pose this question, and open it for comments, and I will also honor and respect your response... unless of course you are a Rochester cop, in which case you are probably an asshole and your opinion shouldn't count anyway. My question is this:
Have you ever met someone that you thought was an asshole, and then found out later that he was a cop? And then when you found out he was a cop, did you say to yourself or anyone else, "that figures."? Better yet, have you ever met a cop, Rochester or otherwise, that was not an asshole? I haven't, and I will be amazed, going forward, if I do. Maybe that's a little too general, and I apologize. Strike that.
Friends and neighbors, I want you to step back in time with me for a moment. Indulge me if you will. It won't take long, I promise.
Go back with me to your high school days. Back to the days of mullets, rat tails, parachute pants and Camaros. A glorious time. A time of chicks with big hair and leg warmers. A time of Poison, Ratt, Styx and Bon Jovi. A time when I had hair that was spiked up and looked like that dude from A Flock of Seagulls, and I had more of it. A simpler time. A more peaceful time. A time of Ron Reagan's Star Wars Program, and the country was still riding that crest of a wave of when the 1980 USA Hockey Team beat the Soviets and took home the gold on a frozen pond in a little barn in Lake Placid, NY. By the way, they actually beat Finland for the gold... rent "Miracle" if you haven't seen it. The country was riding that wave. If you look up into the mountains outside of Las Vegas, you can almost make out where the wave finally broke, and eased back to low water mark.
Now that I have you in that frame of mind, I want you to think about that guy. You know the one I'm talking about. That guy that wasn't quite in the "in" crowd. The guy that would show up to parties with some girl from another school you'd never heard of, and hang out in the corner and talk to her about how much he maxed on the bench that day. The guy that would wear really tight t-shirts and tapered jeans with work boots. The guy that carries a 225 bowling average. The guy that would talk about government conspiracy theories and swear that every teacher was flunking him because he could do more curls in gym class. The guy that would hold a high ranking government office had the Nazis won the war. You can usually identify this guy by his mode of dress, or by his buzz cut hair style. Remember that guy? Got that mental picture? That's the guy I'm talking about.
This guy went on to become one of two things, and they're both pretty much in the same vein. They're either a cop or a bouncer in a titty bar. These are the guys that go home every night, watch "Roadhouse," and jerk off to it. They have an autographed picture of Patrick Swayze somewhere in their home, and they talk about how much they wish that the coach would have put them in during the final minutes of the fourth quarter... then they would've won State.
That's my take on cops. Feel free to comment on this, and quite honestly, I'll be amazed if I get any negative feedback on this.
Well, friends... have I proven my point? I don't know, but it's late and the Rychkid has to be in Buffalo at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
Whether I proved anything or nothing here tonight, I stand by my statement. If you're not sure what that statement is, go into your basement, get a tack hammer and smack yourself in the head. Repeat as needed.
I'm out... gotta get some sleep and figure out my defense for this parking ticket. Think I'll plead insanity.
Until next time...
R
Monday, May 16, 2005
Vegas, baby... Vegas!!!
Yes, my loyal readers, I know it's been like 3 months since my last post, but things have been just a little hectic here in sunny Rochester, NY. Just to re-cap... old friend turned girlfriend, and now since my last post... just friend again; long story, and I'll get into that later. Richmond trip, Chicago trip, Vegas trip; still more to write about. Old boss, new boss; everything's cool. Best friend has a new girlfriend... actually, not sure if I'm supposed to refer to her as such, but for all practical purposes, let's just leave it as that. Sister finally got a real job; congrats. Bought some really cool shirts, and actually bought a 3-pack of "wife beaters..." something I normally wouldn't even consider... but it was appropriate for the Vegas trip.
So that's the update... now to the juice that is... my blog. So there.
Off we go.
Last night, I got back to Rochester from Vegas somewhere around 2:30AM... rude awakening. When I got on the plane, 95* and sunny. Off the plane, dark, overcast, and 50*. Not that I expected anything different, but it just bums me out. To top it off, I jump on the NYS Thruway because we flew into Buffalo, and good old Uncle Pataki decided to raise all the tolls. I heart New York.
Regardless, back to the Vegas trip. I love that f'ing town. In case that's not clear enough... I f'ing love that f'ing town. It is the be-all end-all of everything I love. I won't get into all the things that I love about it... there's too much. Suffice it to say that I just love it. The awesome thing about this particular trip was that one of the guys that I go with organized a package where we had limo service every night, VIP entrance and seating to all the clubs every night, and bottle service every night. Outstanding. While 2,000 idiots are standing in line with one hand on their wallet and the other on their crank, just hoping that the line moves a quarter of an inch so that they can breathe a little fresh air and overcome the sleazeball in the silk shirt in front of him, we were getting walked into the VIP entrance with absolutely no line and no wait. Thanks, Doc. Well done.
We hit a total of 5 clubs in 4 nights... pretty impressive. Tangerine at Treasure Island was the first club we hit... that was Wednesday... very cool. It's at Treasure Island, and the outside part of the bar was right on the little lake on which TI does their big f'ing pirate show with ships and pirates and girls in bikinis and all that good stuff. Pretty cool. So we're there until like 2AM, and who walks in? Guess. No, seriously, stop reading and guess. Done guessing? OK, I'll tell you. Just kidding, guess one more time. OK, fine... Britney Spears and Mr. Britney Spears... Kevin Something or other. Unfortunately I couldn't get close enough for Britney to get a good look at me, which is probably for the best... the phone calls have just stopped since the last time when I saw her at Ghost Bar. Man, can that girl dial a phone. I'm still pissed at my friend that gave her my number in the first place. Overall rating for Tangerine: 7.2 out of a possible 10. The inside part of the bar was a little lacking in size, and it is a HUGE pain in the ass to get a drink... otherwise, good crowd and great view.
Thursday night; Vivid in The Venetian. Vivid, as in Vivid Entertainment. Yes, as in Vivid Adult Entertainment. That's the company that owns the club. A disappointment. Pretty cool layout on the inside, considering there is no outside, but that's not a big deal. The disappointing thing about Vivid is that it was pretty much dead. I would guess maybe 50 people there. I didn't really care because I was with some of my best friends... just about some of my favorite people in the world and I thoroughly enjoy hanging out with them, but 50 people in a club in Las Vegas on a Thursday night is pretty lame. Nevertheless, VIP entrance and bottle service, and that's always a plus, and we had a bunch of people back to the suite that night for a little get together, and that was pretty cool. Oh, did I mention that we had a few rooms and a couple of suites comped at the Flamingo? Yeah, we did. Rock star treatment.
Friday night; this was THE night. Friday was the night by which I will remember this trip. We started out at The Foundation Room in Mandalay Bay, or should I say, on TOP of Mandalay Bay. You have to take an elevator to get up there, and it's invite-only. We were invited. So now, 65 floors later, I'm in the Foundation Room. Great music, amazing view... there's an outside patio that you can go out on, and it's right next to the big lighted Mandalay Bay sign at the very top of the hotel. I was watching planes and helicopters come into the airport below us. Now, those of you that know me, know that I am terrified of heights. Going out on to that patio was a bit of a challenge for me. Yes, it is an unbelievable view, but I got that feeling in my gut that's yelling at me to go inside. While we were out there, my friends are all standing at the railing looking out over the amazing Las Vegas skyline, and I was cowering over by the wall of the building, digging my fingernails into the concrete. Needless to say, I spent the majority of our tenure at the Foundation Room at our VIP table. Still had a blast.
From the Foundation Room, we made our way to Ra in the Luxor. Ra, in this writer's opinion, is the best club in Vegas. The place is absolutely huge, the VIP tables are right in the middle of the action, and the music is great. The place was just slamming from the time we walked in to the time we left. Bottle service pricing was not outrageous, comparatively speaking, and there's enough room where you're not constantly bumping into people. 9.5 out of 10.
Saturday night, the last night in Sin City; Body English at the Hard Rock. This was a close second to Ra, even though the VIP room at Body English was fantastic. If you do hit Body English on your next Vegas outing, I strongly suggest going with a VIP package. The dance floor is constantly packed, as is the outside bar. The VIP package gives you a private room, private bar, and a bouncer that remembers your name and won't let anyone else in unless you bring them in with you... which is nice. The club is actually below the Hard Rock... I would guess a couple hundred feet below. The only drawback here is that there's no cellular reception, so I guess it's nice if you don't want the wife or psycho ex calling or being able to find you in any way, shape or form. I would have to throw this place a 9.3 out of a possible 10. Outstanding, and the staff is great.
I know this is not my typical post... usually I'll wax intellectual or philosophical, but to be honest, 4 nights of drinking until about 5AM has really drained my literary capabilities... for that I apologize. I also apologize for not posting in 3 months, and I promise to try not to let that happen again.
Until next time...
R
P.S. Britney, give me a call... let's try to work it out.
So that's the update... now to the juice that is... my blog. So there.
Off we go.
Last night, I got back to Rochester from Vegas somewhere around 2:30AM... rude awakening. When I got on the plane, 95* and sunny. Off the plane, dark, overcast, and 50*. Not that I expected anything different, but it just bums me out. To top it off, I jump on the NYS Thruway because we flew into Buffalo, and good old Uncle Pataki decided to raise all the tolls. I heart New York.
Regardless, back to the Vegas trip. I love that f'ing town. In case that's not clear enough... I f'ing love that f'ing town. It is the be-all end-all of everything I love. I won't get into all the things that I love about it... there's too much. Suffice it to say that I just love it. The awesome thing about this particular trip was that one of the guys that I go with organized a package where we had limo service every night, VIP entrance and seating to all the clubs every night, and bottle service every night. Outstanding. While 2,000 idiots are standing in line with one hand on their wallet and the other on their crank, just hoping that the line moves a quarter of an inch so that they can breathe a little fresh air and overcome the sleazeball in the silk shirt in front of him, we were getting walked into the VIP entrance with absolutely no line and no wait. Thanks, Doc. Well done.
We hit a total of 5 clubs in 4 nights... pretty impressive. Tangerine at Treasure Island was the first club we hit... that was Wednesday... very cool. It's at Treasure Island, and the outside part of the bar was right on the little lake on which TI does their big f'ing pirate show with ships and pirates and girls in bikinis and all that good stuff. Pretty cool. So we're there until like 2AM, and who walks in? Guess. No, seriously, stop reading and guess. Done guessing? OK, I'll tell you. Just kidding, guess one more time. OK, fine... Britney Spears and Mr. Britney Spears... Kevin Something or other. Unfortunately I couldn't get close enough for Britney to get a good look at me, which is probably for the best... the phone calls have just stopped since the last time when I saw her at Ghost Bar. Man, can that girl dial a phone. I'm still pissed at my friend that gave her my number in the first place. Overall rating for Tangerine: 7.2 out of a possible 10. The inside part of the bar was a little lacking in size, and it is a HUGE pain in the ass to get a drink... otherwise, good crowd and great view.
Thursday night; Vivid in The Venetian. Vivid, as in Vivid Entertainment. Yes, as in Vivid Adult Entertainment. That's the company that owns the club. A disappointment. Pretty cool layout on the inside, considering there is no outside, but that's not a big deal. The disappointing thing about Vivid is that it was pretty much dead. I would guess maybe 50 people there. I didn't really care because I was with some of my best friends... just about some of my favorite people in the world and I thoroughly enjoy hanging out with them, but 50 people in a club in Las Vegas on a Thursday night is pretty lame. Nevertheless, VIP entrance and bottle service, and that's always a plus, and we had a bunch of people back to the suite that night for a little get together, and that was pretty cool. Oh, did I mention that we had a few rooms and a couple of suites comped at the Flamingo? Yeah, we did. Rock star treatment.
Friday night; this was THE night. Friday was the night by which I will remember this trip. We started out at The Foundation Room in Mandalay Bay, or should I say, on TOP of Mandalay Bay. You have to take an elevator to get up there, and it's invite-only. We were invited. So now, 65 floors later, I'm in the Foundation Room. Great music, amazing view... there's an outside patio that you can go out on, and it's right next to the big lighted Mandalay Bay sign at the very top of the hotel. I was watching planes and helicopters come into the airport below us. Now, those of you that know me, know that I am terrified of heights. Going out on to that patio was a bit of a challenge for me. Yes, it is an unbelievable view, but I got that feeling in my gut that's yelling at me to go inside. While we were out there, my friends are all standing at the railing looking out over the amazing Las Vegas skyline, and I was cowering over by the wall of the building, digging my fingernails into the concrete. Needless to say, I spent the majority of our tenure at the Foundation Room at our VIP table. Still had a blast.
From the Foundation Room, we made our way to Ra in the Luxor. Ra, in this writer's opinion, is the best club in Vegas. The place is absolutely huge, the VIP tables are right in the middle of the action, and the music is great. The place was just slamming from the time we walked in to the time we left. Bottle service pricing was not outrageous, comparatively speaking, and there's enough room where you're not constantly bumping into people. 9.5 out of 10.
Saturday night, the last night in Sin City; Body English at the Hard Rock. This was a close second to Ra, even though the VIP room at Body English was fantastic. If you do hit Body English on your next Vegas outing, I strongly suggest going with a VIP package. The dance floor is constantly packed, as is the outside bar. The VIP package gives you a private room, private bar, and a bouncer that remembers your name and won't let anyone else in unless you bring them in with you... which is nice. The club is actually below the Hard Rock... I would guess a couple hundred feet below. The only drawback here is that there's no cellular reception, so I guess it's nice if you don't want the wife or psycho ex calling or being able to find you in any way, shape or form. I would have to throw this place a 9.3 out of a possible 10. Outstanding, and the staff is great.
I know this is not my typical post... usually I'll wax intellectual or philosophical, but to be honest, 4 nights of drinking until about 5AM has really drained my literary capabilities... for that I apologize. I also apologize for not posting in 3 months, and I promise to try not to let that happen again.
Until next time...
R
P.S. Britney, give me a call... let's try to work it out.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Me & Hunter & the magic of a phone line
It's not a misprint... yes it is 3AM on a Sunday night/Monday morning, but I don't have to work tomorrow so to be perfectly honest, I don't really care. First and foremost, however, I must apologize to my loyal readers for not posting in a couple of weeks, and you must be tired of reading the same bitchy post about the Philadelphia Eagles and how they walked around with not much time left on the clock and it's a matter of pride and all that happy yada yada yada... but for the last two weeks, I've been kinda busy... so without further apologetic absurdity, I'm sorry and shut up.
There is good news, however, and I hope that when you read this, you revel in my enlightenment, good revelry or bad... it doesn't matter to me. To be certain, I hope it is the former, but a wise man once told me that you can't control anyone else's feelings, so worry about your own. Actually, I think it was my Uncle Joe that told me (at a very young age, mind you), "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." So, all joking aside, here's the topic of the rant today. Well, actually, that's a lie. I don't really think that there is a topic, but rather some news, and quite honestly, I don't know a fabulous literary way to phrase this, other than... I've met someone.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, the confirmed and committed jaded, cynical, sarcastic, annoyed, bitter single guy have met someone wonderful... and it is just indescribable. I'll let that sink in for a minute... on your end and on mine.
Okay... sunk in yet? Apparently it has, because you're still reading. I met someone that makes me feel the way I think you're supposed to feel when you meet someone that you hope makes you feel the way you think you're supposed to feel. If that makes sense, read on. I know I said that it's indescribable a little earlier, but I'll do my best. When I'm around her, I have this feeling that you get when... well, it's kind of a combination of two feelings... it's like when you lean back in a chair, and just before you fall over you catch yourself, and that feeling when you curl up on the couch after a long day and you get the throw pillows just so, where they're just supporting your head in just the right way, and you turn on the TV and there's a Neil Simon movie on. By the way... yes I have throw pillows on my couch, and no, I'm not gay... not that there's anything wrong with that. Regardless... it's that kind of thing... where I'm just myself, and completely comfortable, and I feel safe and warm and cared for and happy that there's this other person around that can elicit these things in me that I thought I locked away somewhere a long, long time ago.
Now that I've gotten the sappy, sensitive, girly stuff out of the way... here's where the story takes a twist. I have seen this person twice in the last 12 years. Again, I know it is 3AM, and again, that's not a misprint... twice in the last 12 years. Actually, three times, but the second time was only for like an hour in an airport when I had a really long layover and the airport was near her house. It's a really long story, and if I write it all out, you're going to be so intrigued that you'll read this post for the rest of the day, you won't get any work done, your boss will fire you, and then I've got that on my conscience. I can't live with that. Now, if you're a girl reading this, and I wrote the whole story, you'd be so romanced by the whole thing, that you'd just break down and cry, because the story is ten times better than any chick flick you've ever rented in your life, and the bonus part is that every word would be true. It's actually pretty unbelievable... but the other side of that coin is that you'd be so overcome with romanticism that you'd cry all day, and your boss would can you like a ham because he couldn't deal with some weepy, sentimental, romanticist broad in his office... so, obviously, it's better for all those involved, either realistically or literarily, that we just move on and have everyone take my word that it's a great story.
First things first... let me get all the administrative bullshit out of the way. Yes, I met her 12 years ago, and in that twelve year interim I've had a few girlfriends. This begs the question... and here is the answer; no, I never cheated on any of you with this person that I just met, or re-met, or whatever the hell you want to call it. There, that's out of the way... please continue to read.
Maybe before I continue this, I should get myself a cocktail... yes, I think I will... please hold.
Aah yes, Bacardi "O" and Sunny D... I figured it's almost time for breakfast, so might as well start the day off right. Shame that I'm out of eggs, sausage and potatos... who am I kidding... none of that stuff has ever been in my domicile.
Anyway... back to the story at hand, although I'm not telling the story. Now... here's the problem... yes, I know it sounds like it's all peaches and cream and everything is perfect right now, but honestly, I've never felt so happy and sad at the same time. Why, you may ask, would I possibly be sad? I have the best job in the world, and someone I think that there could be a really fantastic futre with. Lemme tell ya. She lives 10 hours away. Let me have a sip of my lovely breakfast cocktail whilst I ponder where to go with this post from here.
Couple things... I know I have a rep for falling too hard too fast and if you're one of my loyal readers, you've most likely read the Vegas post and the moving away and leaving someone special behind post, and those are both very true. It's just that... it's a feeling that I can't deny, and I hope and pray that she's out there in the windy city, in her overpriced one-bedroom apartment, staring at the roses that I sent to her office on Valentine's Day, feeling the same thing... and that right now, at 3:41AM, she's snuggled up with the stuffed moose that I bought her at the hockey game I took her to, and she's warm and cozy, and dreaming about taking me to a White Sox/Yankees game.
Ready for the really bizarre part? Yes, she's beautiful, and no, I don't care... granted it's a nice perk, but honestly, she could have six chins and a mole the size of Wisconsin in the middle of her forehead, and I would not care. Again, I would NOT care. Reason being that when we talk, even on the phone, I have this "perma-grin" that the little potter next door can't understand. I get off the phone with her, and I'm in the best mood... I feel like I could play basketball again, and not have to stop for oxygen... but I'm working on the smoking thing. I know that doesn't sound very "me," but that's how it is. Period. This part of the post is not up for discussion.
Well, it's late, and I'm going to wrap this up... not because I'm tired of writing about this, but because I've rambled on for a while and I hope I haven't bored you. Before I go, a couple more administrative things that I would ask you to do. One, pray that my sister gets a job, and that she's paid what she's worth... she's really very talented and a hard worker... a little bitchy at times, but you'll grow to enjoy that as I have. Two, pray that Travelocity sends me a farewatcher that is really, really low, so that I can book a few of them.
One more quick thing; one of my heroes, Hunter S. Thompson, the incredible author, upon whose writings I have taken so much pleasure, decided to put a bullet through his head tonight. There will never be another author that will ride the highs of Gonzo journalism such that Dr. Thompson did. I do not know why, and to be perfectly honest, I don't want to know why he did it. I'd rather just read his books with the passion that I have for them, and remember him as the individual that made me rediscover my love for the literary art. He was truly a genius, and I will miss him dearly. There's not another author on the planet that could string together such verse and such demonstrative verbage to make you think that you were right there with him, and to truly capture the feeling and sensation of the moment.
God rest your soul, Hunter S. Thompson, and I hope you find the peace in death that you could not find in life. To a true hero, at least mine... God speed, my friend.
Until next time... as always...
R
There is good news, however, and I hope that when you read this, you revel in my enlightenment, good revelry or bad... it doesn't matter to me. To be certain, I hope it is the former, but a wise man once told me that you can't control anyone else's feelings, so worry about your own. Actually, I think it was my Uncle Joe that told me (at a very young age, mind you), "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." So, all joking aside, here's the topic of the rant today. Well, actually, that's a lie. I don't really think that there is a topic, but rather some news, and quite honestly, I don't know a fabulous literary way to phrase this, other than... I've met someone.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, the confirmed and committed jaded, cynical, sarcastic, annoyed, bitter single guy have met someone wonderful... and it is just indescribable. I'll let that sink in for a minute... on your end and on mine.
Okay... sunk in yet? Apparently it has, because you're still reading. I met someone that makes me feel the way I think you're supposed to feel when you meet someone that you hope makes you feel the way you think you're supposed to feel. If that makes sense, read on. I know I said that it's indescribable a little earlier, but I'll do my best. When I'm around her, I have this feeling that you get when... well, it's kind of a combination of two feelings... it's like when you lean back in a chair, and just before you fall over you catch yourself, and that feeling when you curl up on the couch after a long day and you get the throw pillows just so, where they're just supporting your head in just the right way, and you turn on the TV and there's a Neil Simon movie on. By the way... yes I have throw pillows on my couch, and no, I'm not gay... not that there's anything wrong with that. Regardless... it's that kind of thing... where I'm just myself, and completely comfortable, and I feel safe and warm and cared for and happy that there's this other person around that can elicit these things in me that I thought I locked away somewhere a long, long time ago.
Now that I've gotten the sappy, sensitive, girly stuff out of the way... here's where the story takes a twist. I have seen this person twice in the last 12 years. Again, I know it is 3AM, and again, that's not a misprint... twice in the last 12 years. Actually, three times, but the second time was only for like an hour in an airport when I had a really long layover and the airport was near her house. It's a really long story, and if I write it all out, you're going to be so intrigued that you'll read this post for the rest of the day, you won't get any work done, your boss will fire you, and then I've got that on my conscience. I can't live with that. Now, if you're a girl reading this, and I wrote the whole story, you'd be so romanced by the whole thing, that you'd just break down and cry, because the story is ten times better than any chick flick you've ever rented in your life, and the bonus part is that every word would be true. It's actually pretty unbelievable... but the other side of that coin is that you'd be so overcome with romanticism that you'd cry all day, and your boss would can you like a ham because he couldn't deal with some weepy, sentimental, romanticist broad in his office... so, obviously, it's better for all those involved, either realistically or literarily, that we just move on and have everyone take my word that it's a great story.
First things first... let me get all the administrative bullshit out of the way. Yes, I met her 12 years ago, and in that twelve year interim I've had a few girlfriends. This begs the question... and here is the answer; no, I never cheated on any of you with this person that I just met, or re-met, or whatever the hell you want to call it. There, that's out of the way... please continue to read.
Maybe before I continue this, I should get myself a cocktail... yes, I think I will... please hold.
Aah yes, Bacardi "O" and Sunny D... I figured it's almost time for breakfast, so might as well start the day off right. Shame that I'm out of eggs, sausage and potatos... who am I kidding... none of that stuff has ever been in my domicile.
Anyway... back to the story at hand, although I'm not telling the story. Now... here's the problem... yes, I know it sounds like it's all peaches and cream and everything is perfect right now, but honestly, I've never felt so happy and sad at the same time. Why, you may ask, would I possibly be sad? I have the best job in the world, and someone I think that there could be a really fantastic futre with. Lemme tell ya. She lives 10 hours away. Let me have a sip of my lovely breakfast cocktail whilst I ponder where to go with this post from here.
Couple things... I know I have a rep for falling too hard too fast and if you're one of my loyal readers, you've most likely read the Vegas post and the moving away and leaving someone special behind post, and those are both very true. It's just that... it's a feeling that I can't deny, and I hope and pray that she's out there in the windy city, in her overpriced one-bedroom apartment, staring at the roses that I sent to her office on Valentine's Day, feeling the same thing... and that right now, at 3:41AM, she's snuggled up with the stuffed moose that I bought her at the hockey game I took her to, and she's warm and cozy, and dreaming about taking me to a White Sox/Yankees game.
Ready for the really bizarre part? Yes, she's beautiful, and no, I don't care... granted it's a nice perk, but honestly, she could have six chins and a mole the size of Wisconsin in the middle of her forehead, and I would not care. Again, I would NOT care. Reason being that when we talk, even on the phone, I have this "perma-grin" that the little potter next door can't understand. I get off the phone with her, and I'm in the best mood... I feel like I could play basketball again, and not have to stop for oxygen... but I'm working on the smoking thing. I know that doesn't sound very "me," but that's how it is. Period. This part of the post is not up for discussion.
Well, it's late, and I'm going to wrap this up... not because I'm tired of writing about this, but because I've rambled on for a while and I hope I haven't bored you. Before I go, a couple more administrative things that I would ask you to do. One, pray that my sister gets a job, and that she's paid what she's worth... she's really very talented and a hard worker... a little bitchy at times, but you'll grow to enjoy that as I have. Two, pray that Travelocity sends me a farewatcher that is really, really low, so that I can book a few of them.
One more quick thing; one of my heroes, Hunter S. Thompson, the incredible author, upon whose writings I have taken so much pleasure, decided to put a bullet through his head tonight. There will never be another author that will ride the highs of Gonzo journalism such that Dr. Thompson did. I do not know why, and to be perfectly honest, I don't want to know why he did it. I'd rather just read his books with the passion that I have for them, and remember him as the individual that made me rediscover my love for the literary art. He was truly a genius, and I will miss him dearly. There's not another author on the planet that could string together such verse and such demonstrative verbage to make you think that you were right there with him, and to truly capture the feeling and sensation of the moment.
God rest your soul, Hunter S. Thompson, and I hope you find the peace in death that you could not find in life. To a true hero, at least mine... God speed, my friend.
Until next time... as always...
R
Monday, February 07, 2005
The Super Bowl Rant
OK... so now the 2004-2005 NFL season is over, and the New England Patriots are the world champions again. Let me preface this rant with saying that I take nothing away from the Pats. They're a good team, they're well coached, and they play extremely well AS A TEAM. Now... on with the rant.
With a little over 4:00 to go in the 4th quarter, the Eagles are down by 10. Now, with a decent amount of time left on the clock, the game is not out of reach. 10 points is a realistic defecit to overcome... it's not unheard of, and with the talent that Philly has on the field, they've got a fairly decent shot. Here's what's KILLING me. With the clock still running, the overpaid, arrogant, pampered Philly players are all WALKING back to the huddle like they have all the time in the world. People, this is the Super Bowl, and the clock is ticking. I don't know if it's that these a-holes have too much bling-bling wrapped around their necks and that's what's got them too tuckered out to run back to the huddle, or the keys to their Escalades are jabbing them in their pockets and they can't run, but for the love of God, this is the Super Bowl. This is what the whole season, and for some players, their whole lives has come down to.
Ladies and gentlemen, I will never play in a Super Bowl. I accepted that fact a long time ago, right about the time my father made me play saxophone for the 8th year in a row. But that's OK... I'm OK with it. I will, however, drop a little knowledge on you. I make a pretty good living doing what I do. Any one of these punks makes about 10 times what I do in any given year. Now, if all we did was change positions, and I was a wide out for the Philadelphia Eagles, and I was playing in the first Super Bowl that my franchise had been in through the last 24 years, and I was making what I am now, and some jackass from the Eagles was out doing my job every day, making what he's making now, I would be running back to that huddle. Would you consider that a run-on sentence? I don't know and I don't care. The point here is that I would have been running. So there.
Anyway, a couple more minutes go by, and Donovan McNabb finds Freddie Mitchell in the endzone. Mitchell makes a phenomenal catch, and now Philly is down by 3. The problem here, friends and neighbors, is that because these lazy ass punks walked around and wasted so much time hiding sharpies in their socks and cell phones in goalposts, that there's now 1:37 left on the clock in Super Bowl XXXIX. Get it? If you don't, that's one minute and thirty-seven seconds to get the ball back, march down the field, and get a minimum of three points against a New England team that's won this thing 2 of the last 3 years. I'm not sure if these retards couldn't do the math of the score defecit or couldn't tell time (I think that's why they have digital scoreboards in the NFL now), but for the life of me, I don't get the whole walking thing.
Regardless, because they wasted so much f'ing time, now they have to onside kick, hope to get the ball back, and go down and score. They don't wind up recovering the onside kick, but the Pats go 3 & out, and Philly gets the ball back with just under a minute to go. They do pretty much nothing, and McNabb winds up throwing a pic to end this debacle. I hate to say this because I was pulling for the Eagles to pull it out and dethrone New England, but it serves them right. I have to believe that I'm not the only person that noticed this. Joe Buck was saying pretty much the same thing during the broadcast, and I still can't figure out why the coaching staff wasn't jumping all over these a-holes. If these lazy shits would have moved their lazy asses, they wouldn't have had to onside kick, and would have had a bunch more time to actually put together a drive. I'm just beside myself over this.
Here's the thing... it's not really so much the money thing, but more a matter of pride. For crying out loud, you get to wake up every day and play football for a living. If I could somehow piece together a deal like that, you would never, ever, ever, ever hear me bitch about anything again. It's not at all that I don't like my job, because I do. I love it. It's great. But, come on now, people, if you could go out every day and play a game for a living, you would take it. All I'm asking is that these ball players take a little pride, and I don't mean the kind of obnoxious pride that you see in Randy Moss's endzone celebration when he pretended to moon the crowd, but the kind of pride that makes you feel good about what you do. The kind of pride that lets you put your head on your pillow at night, knowing that you did a good job, and knowing that you did what was expected of you and more. Yes, I know it's football, but come on. A wise man once said that anything worth doing is worth doing well. Wandering around while the play clock is ticking away precious seconds and lazily ambling back to the huddle doesn't exactly exemplify pride in my book.
As I'm writing this, Andy Reid is on the post-game show talking about how he's proud of the effort. For those of you that aren't football fans, Andy Reid is the head coach of Philly. Andy, tell me, when your now loser team was walking around while time was ticking away, how proud were you of that effort? I'm guessing that when you watch the tape of the last five minutes of that loss, you're going to be about as proud of that effort as my father was when I became a bartender after he spent over $100,000 on my education. OK, Andy... whatever lets you sleep at night.
Quick sidebar here... hats off to Terrell Owens. For the longest time, I thought he was about the biggest showboating punk in the NFL (I think that honor now belongs to Randy Moss), but tonight he came out, had a great game, and played on an ankle that he broke just six weeks ago. He didn't run his mouth, didn't come out and talk smack like a punk, and just did what he does best. Props, T.O..
Honestly, I could go on for hours on this. It pisses me off so f'ing bad that the bile in my stomach climbs up the back of my throat and I choke on it and have to drink eleven cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi to make it subside. Well, maybe not eleven.
To wrap this up, again, I take nothing away from New England. I do, however, hope that they all contract the ebola virus, get food poisoning so bad that they can't leave the bathroom and all get horrific cases of crabs. Either that or their plane goes down somewhere in West Virginia, everyone survives, and the entire team is relentlessly ass raped by some backwoods family of rednecks until they all turn gay and decide that they'd rather play soccer. Again, back to my preface that they're a good team, and they simply out-classed the Eagles, so don't take my wishes the wrong way.
On that note, I'm going to sign off. Gotta get some sleep so that I can get up and do my job tomorrow... without mooning the crowd.
Until next time...
R
With a little over 4:00 to go in the 4th quarter, the Eagles are down by 10. Now, with a decent amount of time left on the clock, the game is not out of reach. 10 points is a realistic defecit to overcome... it's not unheard of, and with the talent that Philly has on the field, they've got a fairly decent shot. Here's what's KILLING me. With the clock still running, the overpaid, arrogant, pampered Philly players are all WALKING back to the huddle like they have all the time in the world. People, this is the Super Bowl, and the clock is ticking. I don't know if it's that these a-holes have too much bling-bling wrapped around their necks and that's what's got them too tuckered out to run back to the huddle, or the keys to their Escalades are jabbing them in their pockets and they can't run, but for the love of God, this is the Super Bowl. This is what the whole season, and for some players, their whole lives has come down to.
Ladies and gentlemen, I will never play in a Super Bowl. I accepted that fact a long time ago, right about the time my father made me play saxophone for the 8th year in a row. But that's OK... I'm OK with it. I will, however, drop a little knowledge on you. I make a pretty good living doing what I do. Any one of these punks makes about 10 times what I do in any given year. Now, if all we did was change positions, and I was a wide out for the Philadelphia Eagles, and I was playing in the first Super Bowl that my franchise had been in through the last 24 years, and I was making what I am now, and some jackass from the Eagles was out doing my job every day, making what he's making now, I would be running back to that huddle. Would you consider that a run-on sentence? I don't know and I don't care. The point here is that I would have been running. So there.
Anyway, a couple more minutes go by, and Donovan McNabb finds Freddie Mitchell in the endzone. Mitchell makes a phenomenal catch, and now Philly is down by 3. The problem here, friends and neighbors, is that because these lazy ass punks walked around and wasted so much time hiding sharpies in their socks and cell phones in goalposts, that there's now 1:37 left on the clock in Super Bowl XXXIX. Get it? If you don't, that's one minute and thirty-seven seconds to get the ball back, march down the field, and get a minimum of three points against a New England team that's won this thing 2 of the last 3 years. I'm not sure if these retards couldn't do the math of the score defecit or couldn't tell time (I think that's why they have digital scoreboards in the NFL now), but for the life of me, I don't get the whole walking thing.
Regardless, because they wasted so much f'ing time, now they have to onside kick, hope to get the ball back, and go down and score. They don't wind up recovering the onside kick, but the Pats go 3 & out, and Philly gets the ball back with just under a minute to go. They do pretty much nothing, and McNabb winds up throwing a pic to end this debacle. I hate to say this because I was pulling for the Eagles to pull it out and dethrone New England, but it serves them right. I have to believe that I'm not the only person that noticed this. Joe Buck was saying pretty much the same thing during the broadcast, and I still can't figure out why the coaching staff wasn't jumping all over these a-holes. If these lazy shits would have moved their lazy asses, they wouldn't have had to onside kick, and would have had a bunch more time to actually put together a drive. I'm just beside myself over this.
Here's the thing... it's not really so much the money thing, but more a matter of pride. For crying out loud, you get to wake up every day and play football for a living. If I could somehow piece together a deal like that, you would never, ever, ever, ever hear me bitch about anything again. It's not at all that I don't like my job, because I do. I love it. It's great. But, come on now, people, if you could go out every day and play a game for a living, you would take it. All I'm asking is that these ball players take a little pride, and I don't mean the kind of obnoxious pride that you see in Randy Moss's endzone celebration when he pretended to moon the crowd, but the kind of pride that makes you feel good about what you do. The kind of pride that lets you put your head on your pillow at night, knowing that you did a good job, and knowing that you did what was expected of you and more. Yes, I know it's football, but come on. A wise man once said that anything worth doing is worth doing well. Wandering around while the play clock is ticking away precious seconds and lazily ambling back to the huddle doesn't exactly exemplify pride in my book.
As I'm writing this, Andy Reid is on the post-game show talking about how he's proud of the effort. For those of you that aren't football fans, Andy Reid is the head coach of Philly. Andy, tell me, when your now loser team was walking around while time was ticking away, how proud were you of that effort? I'm guessing that when you watch the tape of the last five minutes of that loss, you're going to be about as proud of that effort as my father was when I became a bartender after he spent over $100,000 on my education. OK, Andy... whatever lets you sleep at night.
Quick sidebar here... hats off to Terrell Owens. For the longest time, I thought he was about the biggest showboating punk in the NFL (I think that honor now belongs to Randy Moss), but tonight he came out, had a great game, and played on an ankle that he broke just six weeks ago. He didn't run his mouth, didn't come out and talk smack like a punk, and just did what he does best. Props, T.O..
Honestly, I could go on for hours on this. It pisses me off so f'ing bad that the bile in my stomach climbs up the back of my throat and I choke on it and have to drink eleven cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi to make it subside. Well, maybe not eleven.
To wrap this up, again, I take nothing away from New England. I do, however, hope that they all contract the ebola virus, get food poisoning so bad that they can't leave the bathroom and all get horrific cases of crabs. Either that or their plane goes down somewhere in West Virginia, everyone survives, and the entire team is relentlessly ass raped by some backwoods family of rednecks until they all turn gay and decide that they'd rather play soccer. Again, back to my preface that they're a good team, and they simply out-classed the Eagles, so don't take my wishes the wrong way.
On that note, I'm going to sign off. Gotta get some sleep so that I can get up and do my job tomorrow... without mooning the crowd.
Until next time...
R
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Where are my pants?
Well now... since I've gotten so many emails from my adoring readers complaining that I haven't written anything a couple of days... here you go.
I forgot how much sitting home all f'ing day sucks. I mean, if it were summer, I could walk down to the Park Ave Deli, sit outside with a sub and a beer with the rest of the unemployed, pseudo intellectual, goatee growin', really small glasses wearin', tie your hair in a ponytail rubber bandin', backpack slingin', smoothie drinkin', non-showerin, people that I can't stand. But I can't. It's not summer. The Park Ave Deli is closed... some dude bought it and is opening it up later this year. But to address my original point, sitting home all day sucks. I actually got up at a decent hour this morning... I think it was around 8:15AM... don't get too excited... it wasn't my idea, but rather the idea of Tom. Who's Tom you ask? Tom is the telemarketer that called me on my cell phone this morning at 8:15 AM and woke my lazy ass up. Since when can they call you on your cell phone??? What was that all about? Needless to say, I thanked Tom for his wakeup call, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep but to no avail. Dammit... now I have a whole day to kill.
I guess it's good that I was up that early... I promised a friend that I would do my laundry today. I've been saying since Monday that I was going to do it the next day, but there was a wandering band of street punks huddled outside my door just waiting for some tall, skinny geek to come out of the corner apartment with a laundry basket and detergent so that they could jump him, knock him out, take his Lance Armstrong bracelet, pillage the aforementioned corner apartment, and make off with his life savings of $84.73. So, you can see the pickle that I was in. Obviously safety is my concern here. The good news is that I looked out the peephole and the street punks weren't there today. My guess is that they got Josh first and that satisfied their bloodlust... at least for today.
What really sucks is that I have 3 cigarettes left... which ultimately means that sometime today I'm going to have to bundle myself up like an eskimo with poor circulation, go outside, use a metal detector to find my car, brush more of that white crap off, and drive to Wilson Farms for smokes. Maybe I can make the remaining smokes last until like 5:00, so that I can move my car and get cigs in one fell swoop. That would be a feat. It would be an especially triumphant feat, considering that I'm now down to 2... my ex just called. That's a whole other post, and I'll get to that.
My new boss called yesterday... she's going to pick me up at 8:00 on Monday morning so that we can head out to Buffalo to pick up my company car. She seems pretty cool, and it's also pretty cool that they're just tossing me the keys to a brand new vehicle that I'm supposed to use for pretty much anything, including personal use. The only thing that I'm worried about with the new job is that there's someone in the new office that's all gung-ho about the company, the product, her kids, or whatever. There was one of those in my old office. I could not stand this woman. Every f'ing day it was this broad babbling on about how great she was and what an awesome company it was to work for and yada yada yada. This person... oh man. I can't even find the words. I just want to break into her house while she's sleeping and crack an ant farm over her head so that the ants lay eggs in her scalp and she has to shave her head, and when she walks down the street all the kids in her neighborhood point and laugh and call her anty anty scalpy scalpy. That'd teach her to have a positive attitude.
I think I have a new thing that's pissing me off, and it's MTV's "Real World." I hate this show with a f'ing passion. What they do is take 6 of the biggest moronic crybabies that they can find, stick them all in a posh downtown apartment, provide all their food, utilities, decor and whatever, and just film them for a few weeks. Ladies and gentlemen, that is about the farthest thing from the real world that you could find, on TV or anywhere. Ya wanna see the real world? Come live with me for a month. Come with me into my wonderful world of work, taxes, French bread pizzas from Wegmans, diet vanilla Pepsi, $20 hair cuts, $6/pack cigarettes and psycho ex's. That's the real world my friends, I just don't have a video crew... yet.
Sorry to take that sidebar, but I had to get that off my chest.
Good news... I found my Todd Snider album. If you've never heard him, I highly recommend picking up an album. He's got this kind of comical, story telling style. Good stuff. The following are the lyrics to one of his songs that's "hidden" on the Songs from the Daily Planet album. It's at the end of the album, about a minute after the last song ends. It's not a separate track, more of a trailer on the end. Pretty funny.
Hey, hey, my, my, Rock 'n roll will never die. Just hang your hair down in your eyes, you'll make a million dollars.
Well I was in this band going nowhere fast. We sent out demos but everybody passed. So one day we finally took the plunge... moved out to Seattle to play some grunge... Washington state, that is. Space Needle, Eddie Vedder, Mudhoney. Now to fit in fast we wear flannel shirts, we turn our amps up until it hurts. We got bad attitudes and what's more, when we play we stare straight down at the floor. Wowee. Pretty scary. How pensive. How totally alternative.
Now to fit in on the Seattle scene, you gotta do something they ain't never seen. So thinking up a gimmick one day, we decided we'd be the only band that wouldn't play a note, under any circumstances. Silence... music's original alternative. Hell, that's alternative to alternative... roots grunge!
Well we spread the word through the underground that we were the hottest new thing in town. The record guy came out to see us one day, and just like always we didn't play. It knocked him out. He said he loved our work. He said he loved our work but he wasn't sure if he could sell a record with nothing on it. I said, "tell 'em we're from Seattle." He advanced us two and a half million dollars.
Well they made us do a video but that wasn't tough because we just filmed ourselves smashing stuff. It was kinda wierd because there was no music, but MTV said they'd love to use it. The kids went wild, the kids went nuts, Rolling Stone gave us a 5 star review, said we played with guts. We were scorin' chicks, takin' drugs, then we got asked to play MTV unplugged. You shoulda seen it. We went right out there and refused to do acoustical versions of the electrical songs that we had refused to record in the first place. Then we smashed our shit.
Well we blew 'em away at the Grammys show by refusing to play and refusing to go. And then just when we thought fame would last forever, along come this band that wasn't even together. Now that's alternative. Hell, that's alternative to alternative. I feel stupid... and contagious.
Well our band got dropped and that ain't funny 'cause we're all hooked on drugs but we're out of money. So the other day I called up the band, I said "boys I've taken all I can, shave off your goatees, pack the van... we're going back to Athens."
More good news, the 3rd and 4th loads of laundry are now officially in the dryer. I'm thinking I could probably dig up a few more quarters and finish off virtually everything... nah, small steps. I also promised this friend that I would clean my bathroom, but I'll save that for another day when I'm particularly ambitious... not today... I don't have enough cigarettes.
I think I'm done for now... got some serious folding to do.
Until next time...
R
I forgot how much sitting home all f'ing day sucks. I mean, if it were summer, I could walk down to the Park Ave Deli, sit outside with a sub and a beer with the rest of the unemployed, pseudo intellectual, goatee growin', really small glasses wearin', tie your hair in a ponytail rubber bandin', backpack slingin', smoothie drinkin', non-showerin, people that I can't stand. But I can't. It's not summer. The Park Ave Deli is closed... some dude bought it and is opening it up later this year. But to address my original point, sitting home all day sucks. I actually got up at a decent hour this morning... I think it was around 8:15AM... don't get too excited... it wasn't my idea, but rather the idea of Tom. Who's Tom you ask? Tom is the telemarketer that called me on my cell phone this morning at 8:15 AM and woke my lazy ass up. Since when can they call you on your cell phone??? What was that all about? Needless to say, I thanked Tom for his wakeup call, rolled over and tried to get back to sleep but to no avail. Dammit... now I have a whole day to kill.
I guess it's good that I was up that early... I promised a friend that I would do my laundry today. I've been saying since Monday that I was going to do it the next day, but there was a wandering band of street punks huddled outside my door just waiting for some tall, skinny geek to come out of the corner apartment with a laundry basket and detergent so that they could jump him, knock him out, take his Lance Armstrong bracelet, pillage the aforementioned corner apartment, and make off with his life savings of $84.73. So, you can see the pickle that I was in. Obviously safety is my concern here. The good news is that I looked out the peephole and the street punks weren't there today. My guess is that they got Josh first and that satisfied their bloodlust... at least for today.
What really sucks is that I have 3 cigarettes left... which ultimately means that sometime today I'm going to have to bundle myself up like an eskimo with poor circulation, go outside, use a metal detector to find my car, brush more of that white crap off, and drive to Wilson Farms for smokes. Maybe I can make the remaining smokes last until like 5:00, so that I can move my car and get cigs in one fell swoop. That would be a feat. It would be an especially triumphant feat, considering that I'm now down to 2... my ex just called. That's a whole other post, and I'll get to that.
My new boss called yesterday... she's going to pick me up at 8:00 on Monday morning so that we can head out to Buffalo to pick up my company car. She seems pretty cool, and it's also pretty cool that they're just tossing me the keys to a brand new vehicle that I'm supposed to use for pretty much anything, including personal use. The only thing that I'm worried about with the new job is that there's someone in the new office that's all gung-ho about the company, the product, her kids, or whatever. There was one of those in my old office. I could not stand this woman. Every f'ing day it was this broad babbling on about how great she was and what an awesome company it was to work for and yada yada yada. This person... oh man. I can't even find the words. I just want to break into her house while she's sleeping and crack an ant farm over her head so that the ants lay eggs in her scalp and she has to shave her head, and when she walks down the street all the kids in her neighborhood point and laugh and call her anty anty scalpy scalpy. That'd teach her to have a positive attitude.
I think I have a new thing that's pissing me off, and it's MTV's "Real World." I hate this show with a f'ing passion. What they do is take 6 of the biggest moronic crybabies that they can find, stick them all in a posh downtown apartment, provide all their food, utilities, decor and whatever, and just film them for a few weeks. Ladies and gentlemen, that is about the farthest thing from the real world that you could find, on TV or anywhere. Ya wanna see the real world? Come live with me for a month. Come with me into my wonderful world of work, taxes, French bread pizzas from Wegmans, diet vanilla Pepsi, $20 hair cuts, $6/pack cigarettes and psycho ex's. That's the real world my friends, I just don't have a video crew... yet.
Sorry to take that sidebar, but I had to get that off my chest.
Good news... I found my Todd Snider album. If you've never heard him, I highly recommend picking up an album. He's got this kind of comical, story telling style. Good stuff. The following are the lyrics to one of his songs that's "hidden" on the Songs from the Daily Planet album. It's at the end of the album, about a minute after the last song ends. It's not a separate track, more of a trailer on the end. Pretty funny.
Hey, hey, my, my, Rock 'n roll will never die. Just hang your hair down in your eyes, you'll make a million dollars.
Well I was in this band going nowhere fast. We sent out demos but everybody passed. So one day we finally took the plunge... moved out to Seattle to play some grunge... Washington state, that is. Space Needle, Eddie Vedder, Mudhoney. Now to fit in fast we wear flannel shirts, we turn our amps up until it hurts. We got bad attitudes and what's more, when we play we stare straight down at the floor. Wowee. Pretty scary. How pensive. How totally alternative.
Now to fit in on the Seattle scene, you gotta do something they ain't never seen. So thinking up a gimmick one day, we decided we'd be the only band that wouldn't play a note, under any circumstances. Silence... music's original alternative. Hell, that's alternative to alternative... roots grunge!
Well we spread the word through the underground that we were the hottest new thing in town. The record guy came out to see us one day, and just like always we didn't play. It knocked him out. He said he loved our work. He said he loved our work but he wasn't sure if he could sell a record with nothing on it. I said, "tell 'em we're from Seattle." He advanced us two and a half million dollars.
Well they made us do a video but that wasn't tough because we just filmed ourselves smashing stuff. It was kinda wierd because there was no music, but MTV said they'd love to use it. The kids went wild, the kids went nuts, Rolling Stone gave us a 5 star review, said we played with guts. We were scorin' chicks, takin' drugs, then we got asked to play MTV unplugged. You shoulda seen it. We went right out there and refused to do acoustical versions of the electrical songs that we had refused to record in the first place. Then we smashed our shit.
Well we blew 'em away at the Grammys show by refusing to play and refusing to go. And then just when we thought fame would last forever, along come this band that wasn't even together. Now that's alternative. Hell, that's alternative to alternative. I feel stupid... and contagious.
Well our band got dropped and that ain't funny 'cause we're all hooked on drugs but we're out of money. So the other day I called up the band, I said "boys I've taken all I can, shave off your goatees, pack the van... we're going back to Athens."
More good news, the 3rd and 4th loads of laundry are now officially in the dryer. I'm thinking I could probably dig up a few more quarters and finish off virtually everything... nah, small steps. I also promised this friend that I would clean my bathroom, but I'll save that for another day when I'm particularly ambitious... not today... I don't have enough cigarettes.
I think I'm done for now... got some serious folding to do.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Respect the potter... Al would've.
I will say one thing up front here... this is going to be a short post. There's a couple reasons for that... one, a friend told me that I should wait for tomorrow to write because I'm tired, it's late, and I've had a couple cocktails, and two, it's pretty late and I don't really have a lot to say. I didn't do much of anything today, so I don't really have a good take on anything.
Regardless, here goes. Josh, my next door neighbor came over tonight after doing his second job. That's right, his second job lets out at 9:30PM on a Monday night. So, around 9:45, there's a knock on my door... I know before getting off the couch exactly who it is. I don't think that I've written about Josh since I started this thing, and I feel pretty bad about it... so maybe it's time that I give him his just due, or due diligence, or whatever you want to call it.
Across the hall from me, dwells a soul that is truly a free spirit... one of the nicest people I have ever met, and one of the most honest and "real" people I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. His name is Josh. I call him "Kramer." If you have ever seen an episode of Seinfeld, you will know exactly what I'm talking about. He's textbook Kramer... the guy that knocks on your door out of nowhere, comes in with a good take on whatever you're dealing with, has a couple beers, and calls it a night. Every time he comes over here, we'll just sit and talk about virtually nothing. However, that "nothing" conversation always blossoms into so much more. There's conversations about women, about relationships, about his job and mine, and pretty much anything under the sun that you would want to talk to someone across the hall that drinks your beer and smokes your cigarettes about. Was that considered a run-on sentence?
So we have a couple of beers, and a couple of Josh's friends call him on his cell... pretty much for the same reason that I enjoy talking to him so much... he's got a good take on everything, and there's no bullshit... just a flat out good kid, whose innocence and honesty are so sobering that you'd think that you just spent 10 years in AA (not to knock AA at all... I have a friend that's going on his 2nd year of sobriety and I couldn't be more proud of him). Please don't think for a second that I feel that innocence and/or honesty are bad traits by any stretch of the imagination, but rather honorable traits that I wish more people I dealt with had. I love having the priveledge of having him live across the hall... I think that he. more or less, grounds me.... that he brings me back to reality and gives me a taste of what it's like to be in his shoes. Don't get me wrong... I don't want to say that he's some poverty-stricken loser... he does what he loves, and does whatever it takes because he loves what he does. I have an enormous respect for that.
Not to get off the "what a good guy Josh is" tip, but here's the story. We were watching TV, which pretty much consists of him drinking my beer and me flipping channels, when we came upon some show where there were a bunch of people carrying a casket... pall bearers. Immediately it sparked a response in me. A few years ago, I was a pall bearer for one of my best friend's dad. To be as candid as I can, I didn't like it. Honestly, I felt too close... like I was carrying someone that I cared about so much that I can't put it into words, to someplace where I knew I would never see them again. I felt like the grim reaper. I felt like I was putting that person somewhere that would be so final, so conclusive, and such an end to such an animated life that my doing this was only hurting one of the few people outside of my family that I do, in fact, consider part of my family. I hope that if he reads this, that he knows how important he is to me, and that I do love him like a brother. I pray that my carrying his father to his final resting place brought some solace and comfort to him, and that he knows how much I cared for and respected his father. I also hope that if he somehow happens to stumble upon this post that he knows that he has the most beautiful daughter that I have ever seen, and that I can see so much of his mother and father in that little girl. He recently had another one, and I'm sure she's gorgeous, but I haven't had the pleasure of her acquaintance just yet.
To get back to my original point, I had mentioned that I said to Josh that I didn't like being a pall bearer. He was very quick to retort with, "why not?" I told him the whole story that I talked about earlier, and he had what I thought was a great response. He said that there's no greater honor than laying someone down for the last time... someone that you loved. He followed that up with something like, "if it were you, would you rather have someone that you barely knew carry your lifeless body?" That kind of made me think... and I think he's pretty right on with what he said. If it were me, yes, I think I'd like to have my best friends carry me to where my body would forever reside. Prior to this conversation, I didn't give it a second thought... I didn't really care. What that little pottery teacher from across the hall said both made me feel good about the whole carrying one of my best friend's father thing, and about my own mortality.
I think about my friend's father a lot. Not just so much about the funny stories that I've told about a zillion times, but about how much he cared about and loved his son that was 3,000 miles away at school... about the times when we went to dinner or played golf and he wouldn't hear of any of us paying for anything just because he knew that we were important to his son. There was nothing that he wouldn't do for any of us "kids," just because we were friends with his son. Back when I lived in Jamestown, every now and again, me and the rest of our little clique would go and visit my friend's father from time to time. Regardless of what time of night or day it was (usually night), he was always thrilled to see us. I have to believe that it brought back the memories of when we shared times with him and his son, and the joy he took in watching his son grow into what he eventually became. To take a quck sidebar here, his son, one of my best friends, is now a Vice President of one of the biggest banks in the world, has a lovely wife, and two wonderful daughters. I know that his father is looking down on them right now, wearing his driving cap, light blue short-sleeved striped golf shirt and khaki pants, screwing a Merit cigarette into his lips, yelling at that great bartender in the sky for a shot of Old Grand Dad, and he's smiling.
I've got a ton more that I could write about my friend's father... let's call him "Al," but that's another post. For now, that's all I'm going to put in print about "Al" and my friend. I could literally go on for hours on "Al" stories, but I'm going to call it quits for tonight. Besides, I'm wearing out the backspace key on my keyboard.
The only thing that I'll leave you with is that the next time you're out with some friends, and one of those friends happens to be someone like me that just happens to buy a shot or two, and you're looking for something to toast to (pretty standard fare in sunny Jamestown), I ask you to raise your glass and say, "this one's for Al." I know he'd appreciate it, and I know that he'd buy you one back.
Until next time, friends and neighbors... as always...
R
Regardless, here goes. Josh, my next door neighbor came over tonight after doing his second job. That's right, his second job lets out at 9:30PM on a Monday night. So, around 9:45, there's a knock on my door... I know before getting off the couch exactly who it is. I don't think that I've written about Josh since I started this thing, and I feel pretty bad about it... so maybe it's time that I give him his just due, or due diligence, or whatever you want to call it.
Across the hall from me, dwells a soul that is truly a free spirit... one of the nicest people I have ever met, and one of the most honest and "real" people I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. His name is Josh. I call him "Kramer." If you have ever seen an episode of Seinfeld, you will know exactly what I'm talking about. He's textbook Kramer... the guy that knocks on your door out of nowhere, comes in with a good take on whatever you're dealing with, has a couple beers, and calls it a night. Every time he comes over here, we'll just sit and talk about virtually nothing. However, that "nothing" conversation always blossoms into so much more. There's conversations about women, about relationships, about his job and mine, and pretty much anything under the sun that you would want to talk to someone across the hall that drinks your beer and smokes your cigarettes about. Was that considered a run-on sentence?
So we have a couple of beers, and a couple of Josh's friends call him on his cell... pretty much for the same reason that I enjoy talking to him so much... he's got a good take on everything, and there's no bullshit... just a flat out good kid, whose innocence and honesty are so sobering that you'd think that you just spent 10 years in AA (not to knock AA at all... I have a friend that's going on his 2nd year of sobriety and I couldn't be more proud of him). Please don't think for a second that I feel that innocence and/or honesty are bad traits by any stretch of the imagination, but rather honorable traits that I wish more people I dealt with had. I love having the priveledge of having him live across the hall... I think that he. more or less, grounds me.... that he brings me back to reality and gives me a taste of what it's like to be in his shoes. Don't get me wrong... I don't want to say that he's some poverty-stricken loser... he does what he loves, and does whatever it takes because he loves what he does. I have an enormous respect for that.
Not to get off the "what a good guy Josh is" tip, but here's the story. We were watching TV, which pretty much consists of him drinking my beer and me flipping channels, when we came upon some show where there were a bunch of people carrying a casket... pall bearers. Immediately it sparked a response in me. A few years ago, I was a pall bearer for one of my best friend's dad. To be as candid as I can, I didn't like it. Honestly, I felt too close... like I was carrying someone that I cared about so much that I can't put it into words, to someplace where I knew I would never see them again. I felt like the grim reaper. I felt like I was putting that person somewhere that would be so final, so conclusive, and such an end to such an animated life that my doing this was only hurting one of the few people outside of my family that I do, in fact, consider part of my family. I hope that if he reads this, that he knows how important he is to me, and that I do love him like a brother. I pray that my carrying his father to his final resting place brought some solace and comfort to him, and that he knows how much I cared for and respected his father. I also hope that if he somehow happens to stumble upon this post that he knows that he has the most beautiful daughter that I have ever seen, and that I can see so much of his mother and father in that little girl. He recently had another one, and I'm sure she's gorgeous, but I haven't had the pleasure of her acquaintance just yet.
To get back to my original point, I had mentioned that I said to Josh that I didn't like being a pall bearer. He was very quick to retort with, "why not?" I told him the whole story that I talked about earlier, and he had what I thought was a great response. He said that there's no greater honor than laying someone down for the last time... someone that you loved. He followed that up with something like, "if it were you, would you rather have someone that you barely knew carry your lifeless body?" That kind of made me think... and I think he's pretty right on with what he said. If it were me, yes, I think I'd like to have my best friends carry me to where my body would forever reside. Prior to this conversation, I didn't give it a second thought... I didn't really care. What that little pottery teacher from across the hall said both made me feel good about the whole carrying one of my best friend's father thing, and about my own mortality.
I think about my friend's father a lot. Not just so much about the funny stories that I've told about a zillion times, but about how much he cared about and loved his son that was 3,000 miles away at school... about the times when we went to dinner or played golf and he wouldn't hear of any of us paying for anything just because he knew that we were important to his son. There was nothing that he wouldn't do for any of us "kids," just because we were friends with his son. Back when I lived in Jamestown, every now and again, me and the rest of our little clique would go and visit my friend's father from time to time. Regardless of what time of night or day it was (usually night), he was always thrilled to see us. I have to believe that it brought back the memories of when we shared times with him and his son, and the joy he took in watching his son grow into what he eventually became. To take a quck sidebar here, his son, one of my best friends, is now a Vice President of one of the biggest banks in the world, has a lovely wife, and two wonderful daughters. I know that his father is looking down on them right now, wearing his driving cap, light blue short-sleeved striped golf shirt and khaki pants, screwing a Merit cigarette into his lips, yelling at that great bartender in the sky for a shot of Old Grand Dad, and he's smiling.
I've got a ton more that I could write about my friend's father... let's call him "Al," but that's another post. For now, that's all I'm going to put in print about "Al" and my friend. I could literally go on for hours on "Al" stories, but I'm going to call it quits for tonight. Besides, I'm wearing out the backspace key on my keyboard.
The only thing that I'll leave you with is that the next time you're out with some friends, and one of those friends happens to be someone like me that just happens to buy a shot or two, and you're looking for something to toast to (pretty standard fare in sunny Jamestown), I ask you to raise your glass and say, "this one's for Al." I know he'd appreciate it, and I know that he'd buy you one back.
Until next time, friends and neighbors... as always...
R
Monday, January 24, 2005
I blame tuna fish!
My first day of my week of being gainfully unemployed... hmmm... what to do, what to do. So far today, I've gotten my mail, eaten some pasta, taken a shower, and sent a text message... not necessarily in that order. I think I might eventually get really motivated and make it to the couch for a few hours of Playstation. I know, it's tough not to stop reading now... the raw, unfiltered excitement of my life grabs your attention like a runaway train full of puppies and lollipops, but I'll try to bring it down a bit.
I re-read my last post just a few minutes ago, and someone had posted a comment. It said that "wisdom is revealed through actions, not words." I think I like that.... a little too Confucious-esque for my tastes, but I do like the point that this person's making. Not in the jaded, cynical, sarcastic way that I would typically respond to something; if you know me, you know that I would typically rip any post that remotely disagreed with whatever rant of midless babble that I throw up on this thing... but I thought that was well put. I'm going to write that again. "Wisdom is revealed through actions, not words." I think that's very well said... kind of like when you learn something through lecture (I'm thinking a classroom setting here), I don't think you really retain it until you can put it to practical use. I think that's why I always did well in math... the teacher would tell me/us/the class how to do something, demonstrate it, and then have us work out some problems on our own. Now granted, I hated pretty much every math teacher that I ever had, but I actually did learn a few things. My sterling GPA should reflect that. Ever notice that it's really hard to express sarcasm in print, by the way?
Seriously, though... enough of the complimentary monologue praising someone else's comment, I'm going to babble a little more on my own thoughts.
There is one thing that's bumming me out today... I have virtually nothing to do. I guess that's the price you pay for having friends that are actually employed. Yes, I know that I've been unemployed for exactly a day, but I'm going stir crazy here. Voluntary unemployment... never thought I'd see the day. When I got laid off from a former job, it was kind of a blessing... beginning of summer, the company isn't doing well... yada, yada, yada, but quite honestly, I felt like such a loser. To have a company tell you that your services are no longer required makes you feel like such a chump. The worst part of it wasn't that I was no longer working... it was more that when I would meet someone and they would ask me what I do, my standard response was, "nothing." I would then have to say, "I just got laid off... my position was eliminated."
Why is it that everyone, myself included, feels the need to justify and qualify anything that's not going well? Why can't we just say something like, "I'm not working," instead of, "well, I'm not working because my position was eliminated because the company is poorly run and because my boss was a moron"? I think it's much more satisfying if you take accountability for putting yourself in that situation. I'm not real big on excuses because I think that you really have to assume responsibilty for whatever actions or decisions you take/make. This is the reason I have a hard time with that, "everything happens for a reason" philosophy. If everything happens for a reason, that gives me the idea that I'm not in control... that no matter what I do, whatever happens was therefore, supposed to happen. Now, this may seem fairly elementary, that you should be accountable, but think about it. How many times has some moron at work done something that screwed over a bunch of people, delayed a deal, added time to a project, forgot to set the timer on the fries, and then proceeded to spray a virtual deluge of excuses on why he didn't do whatever it was that he was supposed to do. This pisses me off.
I touched on this before, but in my old office (the job I just left), there are people in there that blame everything, everyone and anything for why they're not successful in their chosen profession. "Oh, the economy's bad and no one has any money." "I can't even say 'hi' without them saying that they're not interested in whatever I'm selling." "This is a horrible time of year to try to sell anything." What-f'ing-ever, people. I don't mean to sound like some sort of sales nazi, but, for crying out loud, you've been doing this for 3 months now, coming in every day claiming that you have 12 appointments for the week, and not selling a single f'ing thing. Take some responsibility. Maybe you could have done some things differently. Maybe you should shave off that fledgling pseuso-rock-star-half-goatee thing off your chin. Or maybe, just maybe, you should just accept that this thing isn't for you. There's no shame in that... we all make bad decisions. I, for one, am guilty of that sin many times over.
The point that I'm making here is to just be accountable. Don't blame your mother for you not being able to commit to a relationship. Don't blame your neighbor for you staying up until 4AM drinking tequila and then having a five alarm hangover the next day and being worthless at work (I would never, ever do anything like that). And, lastly, don't blame a stupid fundraising company for you breaking your hand because they sent you 1,750 lbs. of sample material that you tried to move out of your two bedroom apartment and then puched one of the boxes that you thought was empty (again, I would never, ever in a million years do something like that). That's just silly.
So that's the rant for today. I apologize if it's a little "holier than thou," but again, this is my blog, and I'll have a God complex if I want it... at least just for today. So there.
Gotta run, that game of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas isn't going to save itself.
Until whenever...
R
I re-read my last post just a few minutes ago, and someone had posted a comment. It said that "wisdom is revealed through actions, not words." I think I like that.... a little too Confucious-esque for my tastes, but I do like the point that this person's making. Not in the jaded, cynical, sarcastic way that I would typically respond to something; if you know me, you know that I would typically rip any post that remotely disagreed with whatever rant of midless babble that I throw up on this thing... but I thought that was well put. I'm going to write that again. "Wisdom is revealed through actions, not words." I think that's very well said... kind of like when you learn something through lecture (I'm thinking a classroom setting here), I don't think you really retain it until you can put it to practical use. I think that's why I always did well in math... the teacher would tell me/us/the class how to do something, demonstrate it, and then have us work out some problems on our own. Now granted, I hated pretty much every math teacher that I ever had, but I actually did learn a few things. My sterling GPA should reflect that. Ever notice that it's really hard to express sarcasm in print, by the way?
Seriously, though... enough of the complimentary monologue praising someone else's comment, I'm going to babble a little more on my own thoughts.
There is one thing that's bumming me out today... I have virtually nothing to do. I guess that's the price you pay for having friends that are actually employed. Yes, I know that I've been unemployed for exactly a day, but I'm going stir crazy here. Voluntary unemployment... never thought I'd see the day. When I got laid off from a former job, it was kind of a blessing... beginning of summer, the company isn't doing well... yada, yada, yada, but quite honestly, I felt like such a loser. To have a company tell you that your services are no longer required makes you feel like such a chump. The worst part of it wasn't that I was no longer working... it was more that when I would meet someone and they would ask me what I do, my standard response was, "nothing." I would then have to say, "I just got laid off... my position was eliminated."
Why is it that everyone, myself included, feels the need to justify and qualify anything that's not going well? Why can't we just say something like, "I'm not working," instead of, "well, I'm not working because my position was eliminated because the company is poorly run and because my boss was a moron"? I think it's much more satisfying if you take accountability for putting yourself in that situation. I'm not real big on excuses because I think that you really have to assume responsibilty for whatever actions or decisions you take/make. This is the reason I have a hard time with that, "everything happens for a reason" philosophy. If everything happens for a reason, that gives me the idea that I'm not in control... that no matter what I do, whatever happens was therefore, supposed to happen. Now, this may seem fairly elementary, that you should be accountable, but think about it. How many times has some moron at work done something that screwed over a bunch of people, delayed a deal, added time to a project, forgot to set the timer on the fries, and then proceeded to spray a virtual deluge of excuses on why he didn't do whatever it was that he was supposed to do. This pisses me off.
I touched on this before, but in my old office (the job I just left), there are people in there that blame everything, everyone and anything for why they're not successful in their chosen profession. "Oh, the economy's bad and no one has any money." "I can't even say 'hi' without them saying that they're not interested in whatever I'm selling." "This is a horrible time of year to try to sell anything." What-f'ing-ever, people. I don't mean to sound like some sort of sales nazi, but, for crying out loud, you've been doing this for 3 months now, coming in every day claiming that you have 12 appointments for the week, and not selling a single f'ing thing. Take some responsibility. Maybe you could have done some things differently. Maybe you should shave off that fledgling pseuso-rock-star-half-goatee thing off your chin. Or maybe, just maybe, you should just accept that this thing isn't for you. There's no shame in that... we all make bad decisions. I, for one, am guilty of that sin many times over.
The point that I'm making here is to just be accountable. Don't blame your mother for you not being able to commit to a relationship. Don't blame your neighbor for you staying up until 4AM drinking tequila and then having a five alarm hangover the next day and being worthless at work (I would never, ever do anything like that). And, lastly, don't blame a stupid fundraising company for you breaking your hand because they sent you 1,750 lbs. of sample material that you tried to move out of your two bedroom apartment and then puched one of the boxes that you thought was empty (again, I would never, ever in a million years do something like that). That's just silly.
So that's the rant for today. I apologize if it's a little "holier than thou," but again, this is my blog, and I'll have a God complex if I want it... at least just for today. So there.
Gotta run, that game of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas isn't going to save itself.
Until whenever...
R
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Maybe you could do me a favor...
So here we are, back again... sunny frickin' Rochester, NY, and there's roughly 984 feet of snow on the ground. Notice that I said "roughly," so that's really just an estimate. Know what I hate most about the f'ing snow? Lemme tell ya. I f'ing hate having to trudge out there at 5:00 every day, except Sunday of course, to brush all that white crap off my car, just about break my f'ing hand (again) getting the lock open, using a f'ing crowbar to get the door open because of the ice, climbing in, turning the key that's now turned to some sort of ice-shiv in my hand, starting the f'ing thing, turning on the defrogers, front and rear, getting back out of the block of ice that is now my vehicle, using a f'ing hammer and chisel so that I can see out the damn window, brushing more of that slop off the hood and onto me (yeah, that's smart), and moving the whole f'ing mess to the other side of the street. If the cops in this town weren't all pretty much the Hitler Youth Movement of 2000 and beyond, I wouldn't even bother... but they are, so I do. That, my friends, is the biggest pain in the ass on the planet. "Yeah, no, I don't have off street parking, but it won't be a big deal... besides, the rent is really attractive." Yeah, ya know why the rent is so attractive? Because what you're saving in rent, you have to make up in snowshoes... I now own 26 pairs, in every color of the rainbow, mind you.
But whaddyagonnado? You gotta do it, or you pay the price. Go through all that crap so that you can live to park another day. Yes, I've had my share of parking tickets, and yes, I've had my car towed... which sucks out loud. I hate those people... just go trolling around town, looking for someone who's an inch too close to a fire hydrant, then towing them 20 miles away and charging them $100 the next day to get their own car back... if that isn't extortion, I don't know what is. Biggest hose job on the planet, but that's a whole other posting that I'm sure I'll revisit.
I guess that's kind of my mantra... do it or pay the price. I won't say that it's my mantra by choice, it's really more of something that's been thrust upon me. Well, on second thought, not just me (I'm not that special), but I think that's pretty much how it works for everyone; in business and in life. Think about it... if you're at work and you don't send out a contract to a customer, punch the clock on time, add up your tips, zero out your register, or whatever it is you do when you do whatever it is you do, there is a price to be paid. Same thing in life... if you don't make that phone call you said you'd make, pick up your buddy at the airport when you said you would, or go break into a friend's house to make sure that the water was still running so that the pipes didn't freeze and burst... there is a price to be paid. Decidedly, a different price than in the professional world, but a price just the same. The thing is... we all do it. We all make those decisions every day. Is it the fear of the price that we'll pay? Is that why we do the things we do, or is there another reason? Don't expect me to post the answer here... I don't know it. It's really more of a rhetorical thing.
I think that when you boil it all down, it's just how you're put together. I don't really think that when you actually initiate an action, you're not considering the consequences of if you don't do it. They say that for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction, but who really thinks about that? I had a friend that asked me to pick him up at the airport not too long ago... I said "sure." I didn't think about, "well, what if I say sure and then don't," or, "what's the consequence if I just tell him to go screw," I just did it... no big deal.
I sincerely think that I've been blessed with a group of friends that, for the most part, do the same thing... just react and do what's right. I once heard that after you do someone a favor, that you're in a very powerful position... that when someone thanks you for doing something, you should exercise that power for the future... that you should say, "you're welcome, and I know that if I needed a favor, you'd do the same for me." I don't think I like that... I think that puts a real damper on the fabric of society. Essentially what that says to me is that you only do favors because you can get something out of it. Maybe using the phrase, "fabric of society" is a little melodramatic. Maybe something like, "superfluous interaction of homosapiens" is better. Nah... considering that I'm not really sure what "superfluous" means, and I could be taking that way out of context. Regardless... sorry to sidebar, by the way... I think it's just about who we are. I know that was a long way to go for that, but again, it's my f'ing blog and I'll ramble if I want to. So there.
So that's it for tonight... gotta run... there's a snowbrush that's expecting me.
Ciao.
But whaddyagonnado? You gotta do it, or you pay the price. Go through all that crap so that you can live to park another day. Yes, I've had my share of parking tickets, and yes, I've had my car towed... which sucks out loud. I hate those people... just go trolling around town, looking for someone who's an inch too close to a fire hydrant, then towing them 20 miles away and charging them $100 the next day to get their own car back... if that isn't extortion, I don't know what is. Biggest hose job on the planet, but that's a whole other posting that I'm sure I'll revisit.
I guess that's kind of my mantra... do it or pay the price. I won't say that it's my mantra by choice, it's really more of something that's been thrust upon me. Well, on second thought, not just me (I'm not that special), but I think that's pretty much how it works for everyone; in business and in life. Think about it... if you're at work and you don't send out a contract to a customer, punch the clock on time, add up your tips, zero out your register, or whatever it is you do when you do whatever it is you do, there is a price to be paid. Same thing in life... if you don't make that phone call you said you'd make, pick up your buddy at the airport when you said you would, or go break into a friend's house to make sure that the water was still running so that the pipes didn't freeze and burst... there is a price to be paid. Decidedly, a different price than in the professional world, but a price just the same. The thing is... we all do it. We all make those decisions every day. Is it the fear of the price that we'll pay? Is that why we do the things we do, or is there another reason? Don't expect me to post the answer here... I don't know it. It's really more of a rhetorical thing.
I think that when you boil it all down, it's just how you're put together. I don't really think that when you actually initiate an action, you're not considering the consequences of if you don't do it. They say that for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction, but who really thinks about that? I had a friend that asked me to pick him up at the airport not too long ago... I said "sure." I didn't think about, "well, what if I say sure and then don't," or, "what's the consequence if I just tell him to go screw," I just did it... no big deal.
I sincerely think that I've been blessed with a group of friends that, for the most part, do the same thing... just react and do what's right. I once heard that after you do someone a favor, that you're in a very powerful position... that when someone thanks you for doing something, you should exercise that power for the future... that you should say, "you're welcome, and I know that if I needed a favor, you'd do the same for me." I don't think I like that... I think that puts a real damper on the fabric of society. Essentially what that says to me is that you only do favors because you can get something out of it. Maybe using the phrase, "fabric of society" is a little melodramatic. Maybe something like, "superfluous interaction of homosapiens" is better. Nah... considering that I'm not really sure what "superfluous" means, and I could be taking that way out of context. Regardless... sorry to sidebar, by the way... I think it's just about who we are. I know that was a long way to go for that, but again, it's my f'ing blog and I'll ramble if I want to. So there.
So that's it for tonight... gotta run... there's a snowbrush that's expecting me.
Ciao.
Friday, January 21, 2005
The gut shot
What can I say... it's done, it's over... I quit my job. Much to my surprise, it wasn't as painful as I thought it would be. I really thought that my boss would give me some long pitch about how I hadn't given the job 100% or a fair shot or whatever. He was actually very cool about it. Not that I thought that he would be a dick, but I think that he had the attitude that I had made up my mind, and that there was really no point in arguing. He did ask a few questions; why, what, when... yada, yada, yada... but I think he knew that my mind was made up. He was obviously disappointed, and said that he was very surprised because I was performing very well and had every confidence in me. To be honest, that was nice to hear, and I thanked him for his candor and compliments.
Why is it, that no matter what decision I make, even if I know it's the right one or it's for my own good or whatever, that I always wind up second guessing myself. It seems like I always have a hard time with that. Is it human nature? Maybe, maybe not. Buyer's remorse? I think that's more the case. I hate to leave something that I knew was good, that I had no malice for, in order to pursue something that I'm pretty sure is going to be better. Maybe it's the gambler in me, or maybe it's that "hunter/gatherer" menatality that has been instilled into my psyche since the beginning of time, in which case I can blame leaving good jobs and good relationships on some caveman that died a zillion years ago. I'm going with that.
I've always believed that your choices are half chance. The reason I believe this is that if someone, anyone had all the answers and always made the right choice, there would be virtually no conflict in the world. All you'd have to do is call some "answer guy," and say, "hey, answer dude, do I get rid of this broad and go out to find something else, something better, something more compatible, or do I stay right where I am because this is the best fit for me?" Well, if the answer guy were one of my friends, the standard answer would be, "get yourself a bottle of tequila, a hooker, and a prescription for penicillin, then stick it out with the first broad." I'd like answer guy to have a more definitive answer than that. I guess that's what makes life, love, and human interaction so interesting; that you never really know the outcome of anything until it happens. That's why I love sports. I know that's a great segue analogy, comparing leaving a job to leaving a woman (or man or whatever the case may be) and ultimately to sports... yeah, that's what I do. But I'm not getting into the whole sports thing now... promise.
Anyway, back to my point, and I do have one. Essentially what I'm getting at is that if you're presented with an opportunity, I think you have to go with your gut. Unfortunately, there is no answer guy... not yet, anyway... but rest assured, somebody somewhere is working on it. When I moved to Rochester from Jamestown, it was an extremely difficult decision. I was leaving the town I grew up in for 24 years, a great group of friends, my family, and I was also leaving someone very special behind. The thing was, that if I didn't leave, I never would have known what I would have been missing, and right now I'd probably be writing about that whole "ignorance is bliss" thing. Ya know what? It turned out for the best; I'm still close with my friends, I'm actually closer with my family than I have ever been, and the someone special that I left behind is doing great. I'm sure she agrees that we're much better off friends than the path that we were headed down. I know at the time that I broke her heart, and for that I felt, and still feel horrible when I think about it, but I went with my gut and I think it turned out for the best. Where was that damn answer guy then? Maybe I'm the answer guy. Nah... I couldn't be the answer guy... I'd have better hair if I was the answer guy.
So that's the rant for today... going with the gut. That's all I got. Until next time... this is random answer guy... ciao.
By the way... heading to Johnny's Irish Pub (www.johnnyssmokefree.com) tonight (just about the best bar in Rochester). John Akers is playing and always draws a great crowd... very talented acoustic and piano player with a great voice. Check him out sometime if you've never seen him. Now there's an answer I can be definitive about.
R
Why is it, that no matter what decision I make, even if I know it's the right one or it's for my own good or whatever, that I always wind up second guessing myself. It seems like I always have a hard time with that. Is it human nature? Maybe, maybe not. Buyer's remorse? I think that's more the case. I hate to leave something that I knew was good, that I had no malice for, in order to pursue something that I'm pretty sure is going to be better. Maybe it's the gambler in me, or maybe it's that "hunter/gatherer" menatality that has been instilled into my psyche since the beginning of time, in which case I can blame leaving good jobs and good relationships on some caveman that died a zillion years ago. I'm going with that.
I've always believed that your choices are half chance. The reason I believe this is that if someone, anyone had all the answers and always made the right choice, there would be virtually no conflict in the world. All you'd have to do is call some "answer guy," and say, "hey, answer dude, do I get rid of this broad and go out to find something else, something better, something more compatible, or do I stay right where I am because this is the best fit for me?" Well, if the answer guy were one of my friends, the standard answer would be, "get yourself a bottle of tequila, a hooker, and a prescription for penicillin, then stick it out with the first broad." I'd like answer guy to have a more definitive answer than that. I guess that's what makes life, love, and human interaction so interesting; that you never really know the outcome of anything until it happens. That's why I love sports. I know that's a great segue analogy, comparing leaving a job to leaving a woman (or man or whatever the case may be) and ultimately to sports... yeah, that's what I do. But I'm not getting into the whole sports thing now... promise.
Anyway, back to my point, and I do have one. Essentially what I'm getting at is that if you're presented with an opportunity, I think you have to go with your gut. Unfortunately, there is no answer guy... not yet, anyway... but rest assured, somebody somewhere is working on it. When I moved to Rochester from Jamestown, it was an extremely difficult decision. I was leaving the town I grew up in for 24 years, a great group of friends, my family, and I was also leaving someone very special behind. The thing was, that if I didn't leave, I never would have known what I would have been missing, and right now I'd probably be writing about that whole "ignorance is bliss" thing. Ya know what? It turned out for the best; I'm still close with my friends, I'm actually closer with my family than I have ever been, and the someone special that I left behind is doing great. I'm sure she agrees that we're much better off friends than the path that we were headed down. I know at the time that I broke her heart, and for that I felt, and still feel horrible when I think about it, but I went with my gut and I think it turned out for the best. Where was that damn answer guy then? Maybe I'm the answer guy. Nah... I couldn't be the answer guy... I'd have better hair if I was the answer guy.
So that's the rant for today... going with the gut. That's all I got. Until next time... this is random answer guy... ciao.
By the way... heading to Johnny's Irish Pub (www.johnnyssmokefree.com) tonight (just about the best bar in Rochester). John Akers is playing and always draws a great crowd... very talented acoustic and piano player with a great voice. Check him out sometime if you've never seen him. Now there's an answer I can be definitive about.
R
Breaking up with the boss
So here it is... 10:39 PM, Eastern Standard Time... the night before my last few hours at my current company. In a way, it's kind of a bummer. I've only been there two months, they've treated me pretty well, and spent a good chunk of change on me for training, but I guess that's the risk you run when you hire someone; that they won't be an inconsiderate tool that's going to milk you for a couple month's salary and ditch when they have a better offer.
What's going to suck is when I go in there and hand my boss my letter of resignation, he's going to use every weapon in his arsenal to get me to stay. I get it... he's invested a lot of time and money in me & my development, and he's looking for a return on his investment. I get it, makes sense, and I'd do the same thing if I were in his shoes. The thing of it is that I'm not unhappy there; it's really just dollars and cents (or sense, I'm not sure how that cliche is supposed to sound... I guess the latter is more profound, but I really don't care). The money thing, the benefits thing, the company car thing... all good things... better than I have now.
Does it sound like I'm trying to justify leaving? Does it sound vaguely like I'm trying to validate my decision to move on? Well, maybe that's because I am. I honestly feel bad, and like I've been lying to them for the last week... because, let's be honest here, I've been getting paid for doing pretty much nothing for the last 5 days. I hate feeling like I'm screwing these guys, probably because I am. Then again, the other side of the coin is that when I got laid off from a job that I really liked back in March of '04, it wasn't a personal thing, and my former boss told me that he felt like he was screwing me (figuratively, not literally... otherwise I'd be retired by now with a nice sexual harassment settlement), but the company had to lose some "redundant overhead." Said company has since laid off another 124 people that were "redundant overhead," and also lost a huge customer that was contributing $8.5M/year to their bottom line. But, yeah... it was a good idea to get rid of me. Ever notice that it's really hard to express sarcasm in print? I did, just then.
Anyway... back to my point. Never mind, I don't think I have one. I guess you could equate this to a breakup... both parties are just cruising along, it's going well, and then one decides to jet because they have a better offer. It's not a personal thing (well, I guess it really is, but I'm going for substance here). It's more that you have to look out for yourself. I know that the "grass is always greener," but when it's painfully obvious that you'll be happier someplace else, regardless of how good things are going, then you have to move on. Case in point... one of my best friend's parents got divorced about 10 years ago. Did they have a good marriage? I thought so, but what did I know... I never really talked to either one of them about their marital bliss. Did they seem happy? Sure, as happy as someone who's legally bound and contractually obligated to another individual could be. Are they both better off now? Absolutely. Was my friend upset? Sure he was, for about 5 minutes. The reason I say that is because this is what he told me; "Rich man, they'll both be happier, and that's all I really care about. This isn't about me." Truer words were never spoken, and I think that's the attitude that I have to have tomorrow. Honestly, we'll both be better off... both me and my boss. If I stay, I'll always wonder what would have happened with that other, higher paying, company car having, better benefits giving, cooler job. Also, my boss is going to be better off because... well... never mind, I guess he won't really be better off... he's getting screwed. Oh, wait... no, I got it... he'll be better off because I would be unhappy and it would reflect in my work, subsequently and ultimately costing the company money. There... how's that for justification? See? It's a good move for both of us.
It was tough to type up that letter of resignation, because I really do wish both him and the company the best... they're new to ultra-conservative Rochester, so for a new business to come in, they're going to need a little luck. I do think that they'll succeed, but unfortunately they won't have me to thank for it. Bummer.
So there... I justified and validated as best I could. I don't really feel any better about it, though. It's for the best. It's a good move. It's the right thing to do, both personally and professionally. I feel happy. I feel healthy. I feel terrific. There, I said it. Now it feels better... well, kinda.
Wow... so the next time I post, I'll technically be unemployed. There's a certain dignity to that... just the fact that it's by choice, and I called my own shot. There... that's all I needed.
Now I really do feel better... or maybe it's the tequila talking again.
Until unemployment... that's it for now. In the immortal words of Jimmy Buffett (my hero), "drink it up, this one's for you... it's been a lovely cruise."
What's going to suck is when I go in there and hand my boss my letter of resignation, he's going to use every weapon in his arsenal to get me to stay. I get it... he's invested a lot of time and money in me & my development, and he's looking for a return on his investment. I get it, makes sense, and I'd do the same thing if I were in his shoes. The thing of it is that I'm not unhappy there; it's really just dollars and cents (or sense, I'm not sure how that cliche is supposed to sound... I guess the latter is more profound, but I really don't care). The money thing, the benefits thing, the company car thing... all good things... better than I have now.
Does it sound like I'm trying to justify leaving? Does it sound vaguely like I'm trying to validate my decision to move on? Well, maybe that's because I am. I honestly feel bad, and like I've been lying to them for the last week... because, let's be honest here, I've been getting paid for doing pretty much nothing for the last 5 days. I hate feeling like I'm screwing these guys, probably because I am. Then again, the other side of the coin is that when I got laid off from a job that I really liked back in March of '04, it wasn't a personal thing, and my former boss told me that he felt like he was screwing me (figuratively, not literally... otherwise I'd be retired by now with a nice sexual harassment settlement), but the company had to lose some "redundant overhead." Said company has since laid off another 124 people that were "redundant overhead," and also lost a huge customer that was contributing $8.5M/year to their bottom line. But, yeah... it was a good idea to get rid of me. Ever notice that it's really hard to express sarcasm in print? I did, just then.
Anyway... back to my point. Never mind, I don't think I have one. I guess you could equate this to a breakup... both parties are just cruising along, it's going well, and then one decides to jet because they have a better offer. It's not a personal thing (well, I guess it really is, but I'm going for substance here). It's more that you have to look out for yourself. I know that the "grass is always greener," but when it's painfully obvious that you'll be happier someplace else, regardless of how good things are going, then you have to move on. Case in point... one of my best friend's parents got divorced about 10 years ago. Did they have a good marriage? I thought so, but what did I know... I never really talked to either one of them about their marital bliss. Did they seem happy? Sure, as happy as someone who's legally bound and contractually obligated to another individual could be. Are they both better off now? Absolutely. Was my friend upset? Sure he was, for about 5 minutes. The reason I say that is because this is what he told me; "Rich man, they'll both be happier, and that's all I really care about. This isn't about me." Truer words were never spoken, and I think that's the attitude that I have to have tomorrow. Honestly, we'll both be better off... both me and my boss. If I stay, I'll always wonder what would have happened with that other, higher paying, company car having, better benefits giving, cooler job. Also, my boss is going to be better off because... well... never mind, I guess he won't really be better off... he's getting screwed. Oh, wait... no, I got it... he'll be better off because I would be unhappy and it would reflect in my work, subsequently and ultimately costing the company money. There... how's that for justification? See? It's a good move for both of us.
It was tough to type up that letter of resignation, because I really do wish both him and the company the best... they're new to ultra-conservative Rochester, so for a new business to come in, they're going to need a little luck. I do think that they'll succeed, but unfortunately they won't have me to thank for it. Bummer.
So there... I justified and validated as best I could. I don't really feel any better about it, though. It's for the best. It's a good move. It's the right thing to do, both personally and professionally. I feel happy. I feel healthy. I feel terrific. There, I said it. Now it feels better... well, kinda.
Wow... so the next time I post, I'll technically be unemployed. There's a certain dignity to that... just the fact that it's by choice, and I called my own shot. There... that's all I needed.
Now I really do feel better... or maybe it's the tequila talking again.
Until unemployment... that's it for now. In the immortal words of Jimmy Buffett (my hero), "drink it up, this one's for you... it's been a lovely cruise."
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The last night in Sin City
Hmm... well, I looked at an earlier post that I wrote, and it got me thinking about the last Vegas trip, and that it's only 111 days until I visit that amazing city once again. The last trip was the best trip ever, for a number of reasons. Unfortunately, the best one didn't happen until my last night there, and I wound up missing my 6:30 AM flight because of it... nevertheless, I'd do it all over again.
On the last night of the last trip, me & my comrades decided to go have dinner at Harrah's... pretty awesome; it's all outside, with a stage and dance floor, blackjack tables, and stands outside where I got a really cool cowboy hat. ;) Regardless... after dinner and about 984 margaritas, a couple of us decided that it would be a great idea to hit the dance floor. I can't dance. Period.
So anyway, after the margaritas convinced me that I am Prince, Michael Jackson, MC Hammer and Kid 'n' Play all rolled into one, to the dance floor I staggered. So there we are... 3 guys from New York that have had way too much to drink, standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching. I don't know what made us/me believe that we would immediately be acosted by hundreds of bikini models that were just aching to see us... but that didn't immediately happen. Oh yeah, I remember what it was that made me believe that... might have been the tequila. Regardless, there we are, pretty much just looking around and looking desperate (well, not that desperate), and I saw her. Her who, you may ask. Lemme tell ya.
Her was a beautiful blonde sitting at a table next to the dance floor whose eyes met mine like Kyra Sedgwick's met Campbell Scott's in Singles (great movie, by the way). I stared at her from about 10 feet away for what seemed like a solid half hour, although that could have been the tequila thing again. The cool thing was that she stared right back. Now I'm sure it was only a second or two, but in my mind, on that night, at that bar, in that city, wearing that hat, it was a solid half hour. At this point, I did something that I would never, ever (well, maybe once in a while) do. I think it was the perfect blend of an 80* Vegas night, a cowboy hat that was making me feel pretty bad-ass, and just the right amount of tequila that made me do what I did. I walked over, I think I asked her to dance, grabbed her hand, and led her to the dance floor. We stayed out there, dancing pretty close for a couple of songs, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. Now, again, I must revisit this; I can't dance. Period. But at that moment in time, I WAS a backup dancer for Britney.
OK, back to the story. So we're dancing away, and some song comes on that we didn't want to hear, so back to her table we go. My friends have now deserted me, so I'm flying solo... no wingman, no tower, no nothin'. Anyway, I sit down, and she's got two friends with her... for the life of me, I can't remember either of their names. I don't think I did two seconds after I heard them, but it didn't really matter at the time. I buy the table a round of shots, and I still cannot take my eyes off of this girl. We were talking back and forth like we had known each other for years. Totally comfortable, and fueled by tequila, back to the dance floor we went. Only this time, not for two songs, but for two hours, stopping only to rehydrate with more tequila. Did I have a lot to drink? Yeah, but I can still remember what that place smelled like, what kind of shoes she was wearing, and I can describe the horseshoe necklace that she was wearing, just like Carrie from Sex in the City. Stunning.
So there we are, me in my cowboy hat, and she in her necklace, dancing the night away in Las Vegas, when suddenly, the unexpected happens. What happened you may ask? I'll tell you what happened. Some drunk idiot (not me this time) decided to start some neanderthal-style shoving match with some other chicklet-lobed morlock. What resulted from that little altercation was me getting tossed over a table and slamming my head into the wall right next to the stage. Luckily, my dance partner was unharmed. When I did collect myself and get to my feet, I was all set to start throwing... I'm from NY and we're supposed to be assertive, ya know. All of a sudden, something came over me and I just stood there with my dance partner. OK... tradgedy averted, and back to the dance floor we go. To this day, I can still hear Beyonce's "Naughty Girl" resonating off the wall of the hotel that's standing next to us. Anyway, shortly thereafter, we decide it's time to go... but we can't figure out where. The logical thing at the time was to walk down the strip and go in someplace... it's Vegas for Chrissakes! At that point, friends and neighbors, we walked into an absolute dive. I have no idea what the name of it was... something like... geez, I have no idea, but I do remember that it was dark, smoky, and that some dude arbitrarily decided to start showing us pics of his kids... again, made sense at the time.
Because in my mind I'm now a Backstreet Boy as far as dancing goes, we order a couple drinks and hit the dance floor... oh my dear lord. This girl can actually dance... but again, I'm in N'Sync now, so I can too. Anyway, a few hundred Budweisers later, we head back to the hotel... it's getting close to 4AM, and I'm on a plane headed back to NY in about two hours. The smart move would have been to head back up to my room, pack my stuff, and head to the airport, but in the state of mind I was in, that wasn't the logical move... again, it might have been the tequila talking.
We walk into the hotel, sit down at the bar, I feed the video poker machine a couple twentys and order a couple drinks. The entire time we're playing, we're talking a little, and probably the dumbest idea ever pops into my mind... "wanna get married?" She laughs. "Come on, it's Vegas!" She laughs again, and reluctantly declines my offer. Probably for the best, considering I'm leaving in about an hour. By the way, she won $20 on video poker. Now, bear in mind, I haven't even kissed this girl, and I'm asking her to marry me. Call it the tequila talking or whatever, but I would have married her that night.
We're now done with poker, and decide that I should probably head out. I'm still pissed that I didn't meet her until my last night there. Regardless, we head upstairs, grab my stuff, and down to the lobby I go. She accompanied me down in the elevator, and I'm still wearing my cowboy hat... absolutely NO time to change before I left. As we stepped off the elevator into the lobby and the sunlight, I couldn't help thinking that there was a reason we went to Harrah's that night.
We said our goodbyes, hugged, and she kissed me... just outstanding. She had the softest lips ever, and I can't help but wonder what if. What if we never went to Harrah's? What if I didn't drink enough tequila to give me the guts to go up to a random girl? What if I didn't get tossed over a table and whack my head on the wall of the stage? What if she said she'd marry me?
It turns out that I did wind up missing my flight, and got to spend 6 hours on standby in the lovely Las Vegas airport... then a flight to Chicago, with a 6 hour layover, and then sitting on the runway in Chicago for 3 hours, and finally home to sunny Ra-Cha-Cha at 1:30AM... just a little tired, and unfortunately, the tequila has lost it's effect. Would I do it all over again... whack my head, act like I can dance, miss my flight, and spend an entire day on planes and sleeping in airports with a hangover that would make Dean Martin vomit? In a New York minute.
I can't remember many nights that can stand up to that one. It was virtually perfect. I hope she knows that, and how important she was to me. I just hope that someday when she's surfing the web, somehow she finds this and it makes her smile, if only half as much as it made me smile writing it.
On the last night of the last trip, me & my comrades decided to go have dinner at Harrah's... pretty awesome; it's all outside, with a stage and dance floor, blackjack tables, and stands outside where I got a really cool cowboy hat. ;) Regardless... after dinner and about 984 margaritas, a couple of us decided that it would be a great idea to hit the dance floor. I can't dance. Period.
So anyway, after the margaritas convinced me that I am Prince, Michael Jackson, MC Hammer and Kid 'n' Play all rolled into one, to the dance floor I staggered. So there we are... 3 guys from New York that have had way too much to drink, standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching. I don't know what made us/me believe that we would immediately be acosted by hundreds of bikini models that were just aching to see us... but that didn't immediately happen. Oh yeah, I remember what it was that made me believe that... might have been the tequila. Regardless, there we are, pretty much just looking around and looking desperate (well, not that desperate), and I saw her. Her who, you may ask. Lemme tell ya.
Her was a beautiful blonde sitting at a table next to the dance floor whose eyes met mine like Kyra Sedgwick's met Campbell Scott's in Singles (great movie, by the way). I stared at her from about 10 feet away for what seemed like a solid half hour, although that could have been the tequila thing again. The cool thing was that she stared right back. Now I'm sure it was only a second or two, but in my mind, on that night, at that bar, in that city, wearing that hat, it was a solid half hour. At this point, I did something that I would never, ever (well, maybe once in a while) do. I think it was the perfect blend of an 80* Vegas night, a cowboy hat that was making me feel pretty bad-ass, and just the right amount of tequila that made me do what I did. I walked over, I think I asked her to dance, grabbed her hand, and led her to the dance floor. We stayed out there, dancing pretty close for a couple of songs, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. Now, again, I must revisit this; I can't dance. Period. But at that moment in time, I WAS a backup dancer for Britney.
OK, back to the story. So we're dancing away, and some song comes on that we didn't want to hear, so back to her table we go. My friends have now deserted me, so I'm flying solo... no wingman, no tower, no nothin'. Anyway, I sit down, and she's got two friends with her... for the life of me, I can't remember either of their names. I don't think I did two seconds after I heard them, but it didn't really matter at the time. I buy the table a round of shots, and I still cannot take my eyes off of this girl. We were talking back and forth like we had known each other for years. Totally comfortable, and fueled by tequila, back to the dance floor we went. Only this time, not for two songs, but for two hours, stopping only to rehydrate with more tequila. Did I have a lot to drink? Yeah, but I can still remember what that place smelled like, what kind of shoes she was wearing, and I can describe the horseshoe necklace that she was wearing, just like Carrie from Sex in the City. Stunning.
So there we are, me in my cowboy hat, and she in her necklace, dancing the night away in Las Vegas, when suddenly, the unexpected happens. What happened you may ask? I'll tell you what happened. Some drunk idiot (not me this time) decided to start some neanderthal-style shoving match with some other chicklet-lobed morlock. What resulted from that little altercation was me getting tossed over a table and slamming my head into the wall right next to the stage. Luckily, my dance partner was unharmed. When I did collect myself and get to my feet, I was all set to start throwing... I'm from NY and we're supposed to be assertive, ya know. All of a sudden, something came over me and I just stood there with my dance partner. OK... tradgedy averted, and back to the dance floor we go. To this day, I can still hear Beyonce's "Naughty Girl" resonating off the wall of the hotel that's standing next to us. Anyway, shortly thereafter, we decide it's time to go... but we can't figure out where. The logical thing at the time was to walk down the strip and go in someplace... it's Vegas for Chrissakes! At that point, friends and neighbors, we walked into an absolute dive. I have no idea what the name of it was... something like... geez, I have no idea, but I do remember that it was dark, smoky, and that some dude arbitrarily decided to start showing us pics of his kids... again, made sense at the time.
Because in my mind I'm now a Backstreet Boy as far as dancing goes, we order a couple drinks and hit the dance floor... oh my dear lord. This girl can actually dance... but again, I'm in N'Sync now, so I can too. Anyway, a few hundred Budweisers later, we head back to the hotel... it's getting close to 4AM, and I'm on a plane headed back to NY in about two hours. The smart move would have been to head back up to my room, pack my stuff, and head to the airport, but in the state of mind I was in, that wasn't the logical move... again, it might have been the tequila talking.
We walk into the hotel, sit down at the bar, I feed the video poker machine a couple twentys and order a couple drinks. The entire time we're playing, we're talking a little, and probably the dumbest idea ever pops into my mind... "wanna get married?" She laughs. "Come on, it's Vegas!" She laughs again, and reluctantly declines my offer. Probably for the best, considering I'm leaving in about an hour. By the way, she won $20 on video poker. Now, bear in mind, I haven't even kissed this girl, and I'm asking her to marry me. Call it the tequila talking or whatever, but I would have married her that night.
We're now done with poker, and decide that I should probably head out. I'm still pissed that I didn't meet her until my last night there. Regardless, we head upstairs, grab my stuff, and down to the lobby I go. She accompanied me down in the elevator, and I'm still wearing my cowboy hat... absolutely NO time to change before I left. As we stepped off the elevator into the lobby and the sunlight, I couldn't help thinking that there was a reason we went to Harrah's that night.
We said our goodbyes, hugged, and she kissed me... just outstanding. She had the softest lips ever, and I can't help but wonder what if. What if we never went to Harrah's? What if I didn't drink enough tequila to give me the guts to go up to a random girl? What if I didn't get tossed over a table and whack my head on the wall of the stage? What if she said she'd marry me?
It turns out that I did wind up missing my flight, and got to spend 6 hours on standby in the lovely Las Vegas airport... then a flight to Chicago, with a 6 hour layover, and then sitting on the runway in Chicago for 3 hours, and finally home to sunny Ra-Cha-Cha at 1:30AM... just a little tired, and unfortunately, the tequila has lost it's effect. Would I do it all over again... whack my head, act like I can dance, miss my flight, and spend an entire day on planes and sleeping in airports with a hangover that would make Dean Martin vomit? In a New York minute.
I can't remember many nights that can stand up to that one. It was virtually perfect. I hope she knows that, and how important she was to me. I just hope that someday when she's surfing the web, somehow she finds this and it makes her smile, if only half as much as it made me smile writing it.
Work and nap time
So here we are... my next-to-last day at my current company, although they don't know it yet. I'm giving my notice tomorrow because I accepted a job with another company at double the base salary and a company car. It's not that I don't like what I'm doing now, it's really just a matter of dollars and cents. I almost feel guilty, because for the last couple of days I've been basically just going into my 8AM meeting, going to breakfast with some guys from my office, then going home, taking a nap, and watching TV for about 8 hours. See, when you're in outside sales, you can do stuff like that and get away with it. If I was going to stay with this company for a while, however, it would be a different story... but I'm not, so it isn't.
I also wasn't real thrilled to be in there today because all we did was sit down, have the managers say, "have a great day" in that oh-so-enthusiastic tone, and have the various idiots scurry for the copy machine to make it look like they're working. Pretty sad... again this is outside sales. What that means is that you GO OUTSIDE AND SELL STUFF!!! There are 3 or 4 clowns in my office that come in every day just pumped up beyond belief and more enthused than Paris Hilton with night vision, and haven't sold a single thing. These people have been there for 4 months and haven't made 1 sale. I've been there for a month, and I've sold 2 contracts. Tell me that you're honestly, truly, sincerely enthused when you work for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week for 4 months and have virtually every person you talk to say, "no." I find that pretty difficult to believe. Psychologists will tell you that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. If that's the case, I know a place in Rochester that is just begging for a psychological intervention. It's kind of funny... there are about 30 reps in my office, which are divided into 3 teams, each with their own manager. They're all pretty good guys, and they definitely know the business, but it is so painfully obvious that they're trying WAY too hard to be positive. They'll come up in front of the entire office and start cheering and waving their hands, and each one looks about as comfortable doing that as Stevie Wonder playing pool. Some people just can't fake it, and it's painfully obvious. Again, it's not that they're incompetent or don't know the business, but it's pretty transparent.
Anyway, that's it for now... have to clean my meager apartment and turn on the TV... I think I'm late for my nap.
I also wasn't real thrilled to be in there today because all we did was sit down, have the managers say, "have a great day" in that oh-so-enthusiastic tone, and have the various idiots scurry for the copy machine to make it look like they're working. Pretty sad... again this is outside sales. What that means is that you GO OUTSIDE AND SELL STUFF!!! There are 3 or 4 clowns in my office that come in every day just pumped up beyond belief and more enthused than Paris Hilton with night vision, and haven't sold a single thing. These people have been there for 4 months and haven't made 1 sale. I've been there for a month, and I've sold 2 contracts. Tell me that you're honestly, truly, sincerely enthused when you work for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week for 4 months and have virtually every person you talk to say, "no." I find that pretty difficult to believe. Psychologists will tell you that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. If that's the case, I know a place in Rochester that is just begging for a psychological intervention. It's kind of funny... there are about 30 reps in my office, which are divided into 3 teams, each with their own manager. They're all pretty good guys, and they definitely know the business, but it is so painfully obvious that they're trying WAY too hard to be positive. They'll come up in front of the entire office and start cheering and waving their hands, and each one looks about as comfortable doing that as Stevie Wonder playing pool. Some people just can't fake it, and it's painfully obvious. Again, it's not that they're incompetent or don't know the business, but it's pretty transparent.
Anyway, that's it for now... have to clean my meager apartment and turn on the TV... I think I'm late for my nap.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Know what you're hitting before you swing.
I used to work for a fundraising company, and they sent me a TON of sample crap. Well, yesterday, I decided to move all the boxes with the aforementioned sample crap outside to the trash. (Most fundraising crap is, in fact, crap.) During this arduous process, I tripped over my home gym... annoying as this was, I got pissed, so here's what I did. I looked for the closest thing to take out my frustration on, and punched a cardboard box as hard as I could. Now, I was under the impression that it was empty. If you can't figure it out, it wasn't. Turns out it was full of about 70lbs. of fundraising contracts. A trip to the emergency room later, I get to find out that I didn't fracture it, but apparently bruised it really bad according to the x-ray. So now, I get to wear this stupid soft cast for the next week or so... although it is a fashion statement. Yes, I do have my moments of idiocy.
Such a mess...
Why is it that I seem to be able to slide into a relationship SO easily, but getting out is arguably the most difficult thing on the planet? I really don't think that I'm that great a catch, but I have been viamently disagreed with a few times... well, several times. Of course, I'm speaking in generalities. Quite honestly, I wish my entire love life could be like Vegas. Now I don't mean that "love's a gamble" and all that lover's lament crap. I mean that in Vegas (the greatest place in the entire universe, by the way), everyone is there for the same reason; to have a good time. No one's looking to find a long-term thing, no one's looking for commitment, no one's looking for someone that would be a good provider (well, maybe for a couple of hours), yada, yada, yada. Regardless, the point I'm trying to make here is that I wish that in each relationship that I get myself into, that there were no complications... that both parties are here to have fun, but in a couple of days we're getting back on the plane and headed back to the solace of our cozy little corner apartments. No jealousy, no promises, and no regrets.
Now, granted, if I were in Vegas and hit a slot for a couple mil I might take a little time off from playing the slots at all. Same thing with the whole relationship train wreck; if I could just find one that would be the female equivalent of hitting a really big slot, I would, in fact settle down. I know it's trite, comparing the whole dating paradigm to a Vegas trip, but this is my blog and I can be stupid about some things if I want to.
Anyway, that's my take on that.
Now, granted, if I were in Vegas and hit a slot for a couple mil I might take a little time off from playing the slots at all. Same thing with the whole relationship train wreck; if I could just find one that would be the female equivalent of hitting a really big slot, I would, in fact settle down. I know it's trite, comparing the whole dating paradigm to a Vegas trip, but this is my blog and I can be stupid about some things if I want to.
Anyway, that's my take on that.
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